Page 55 of Bratva Bride
My chest felt too small for my heart, like the organ had suddenly expanded beyond its boundaries. This man—this careful, anxious, brilliant man—had looked at the disaster of me and decided to build paradise around it.
"Okay," I whispered. "Yes. Please."
His smile transformed his face, rare and brilliant and absolutely devastating.
"Then we leave in eighteen hours," he said. "Think you can manage that?"
I nodded, already imagining. Blue water and purple walls and Ivan reading to me without worrying about who might judge us. Two weeks of being exactly as little or big as I needed, with no one watching except the man who'd planned it all because he'd noticed my journal covers were purple.
"Thank you," I said, inadequate words for an inadequate situation.
"Always, kotyonok." He pressed a kiss to my forehead, gentle and protective and claiming all at once. "Always."
ThegulfstreamG650squattedon Teterboro's tarmac like a palace that had learned to fly, all cream and gold in the morning sun. I stood at the car's open door, unable to move, while Ivan retrieved our luggage with the casual efficiency of someone for whom private jets were just another Tuesday. But his eyes kept finding me, checking for signs of overwhelm, ready to adjust plans if I needed it.
"Mr. Volkov!" The pilot emerged from the aircraft—sixty-something, silver hair military-short, the kind of weathered face that had seen enough to be surprised by nothing. His Russian accent wrapped around the words like old leather, comfortable and worn. "Everything is prepared as requested."
"Sergei, this is my wife, Anya." Ivan's hand found the small of my back, grounding me. "Anya, Sergei has been flying my family for fifteen years. Former Russian Air Force. You couldn't be safer."
Sergei's eyes crinkled with what might have been approval. "Mrs. Volkova. Is honor to fly you today. How do you take your coffee? I make it fresh once we reach altitude."
"Three creams, one sugar," Ivan answered for me when my voice wouldn't cooperate. "And perhaps some of those almond cookies from that place in Paris?"
"Already on board," Sergei said with satisfaction. "Also the honey cakes from Moscow that Mr. Dmitry always demands. Young Mrs. Volkova might enjoy."
Young Mrs. Volkova. Like I was precious cargo requiring special handling. Which, based on the way both men were looking at me, might be exactly right.
The jet's interior made my brain stutter to a stop. Cream leather seats that looked softer than clouds. Walnut paneling that belonged in museums. Crystal decanters that caught morning light and threw rainbows across surfaces that probably cost more than my father's entire penthouse. This wasn'ttransportation—this was a flying living room designed by someone who'd never heard the word "budget."
"The bedroom's in the back," Ivan said quietly, noting my wide-eyed assessment. "Full bed, blackout curtains. The seats here recline completely flat if you prefer. Kitchen's stocked with your safe foods. And—" He reached into an overhead compartment, pulling out something that made my chest tight. "I brought backup."
Noise-canceling headphones. The expensive kind I'd researched but could never justify buying. A cream blanket that looked like cashmere. A tablet loaded with what I could see were Disney movies and nature documentaries. He'd thought of everything, planned for every possible anxiety, created contingencies for his contingencies.
"Seatbelts for takeoff," Sergei called from the cockpit. "Five minutes."
I chose a window seat, needing to see even if seeing might make things worse. Ivan settled beside me, close enough that our arms touched. The seatbelt felt too tight across my chest, or maybe that was just my lungs forgetting how to expand properly.
"Talk to me about the plane," I said, the words coming out rushed and desperate. "The physics. How it works. Why it doesn't just fall."
Ivan's hand covered mine where it gripped the armrest, thumb finding my pulse point.
"Bernoulli's principle," he said, voice taking on that professor tone he used when explaining complex systems. "The wing's curved on top, flat on bottom. Air moving over the top has to travel farther, moves faster. Faster movement means lower pressure. Higher pressure below, lower pressure above. That difference creates lift."
The engines roared to life, vibration traveling through my bones. My free hand found Peanut in my bag, clutching him tight enough that his stuffing redistributed.
"Four engines," Ivan continued, steady as stone while the plane began to move. "Each producing 16,900 pounds of thrust. Complete redundancy. Could fly on just one if needed, though we won't need to. Sergei's never had an incident in forty years of flying."
The acceleration pressed me back into leather that was, in fact, softer than clouds. The ground started moving faster outside my window. My stomach relocated to somewhere near my throat.
"Takeoff speed is approximately 150 miles per hour for this weight." His thumb maintained that four-count pressure on my pulse. "We'll climb at about 2,500 feet per minute initially. Your ears might pop—that's just pressure equalizing. Completely normal."
The nose lifted, and suddenly we were defying gravity through physics I understood intellectually but couldn't quite believe in emotionally. The ground fell away like it had finally given up trying to hold us. My breathing went shallow, rapid, heading toward panic.
"Look at me," Ivan said gently, and when I did, his gray eyes were calm as winter lakes. "You're safe. I'm here. We're going somewhere beautiful. Breathe with me."
By 10,000 feet, my death grip on the armrest had loosened. By 20,000, I could look out the window without my chest seizing. By the time Sergei announced we'd reached cruising altitude, I'd remembered how to exist in my body again.
"I have something for you," Ivan said, and his voice carried that particular note of nervous excitement I'd started recognizing. He reached into his carry-on, pulling out a gift bag in soft blue tissue paper.
