Page 22 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Oh, honey,” she croons, her eyes flitting towards Aleks. “I don’t blame you. If I were twenty years younger…”

Welp, that escalated quickly. I have precisely nothing to say back. Flushing with embarrassment, I lower my eyes and head towards my seat next to Aleks.

“I poured you a drink,” he says as I sit, pushing a fresh glass of wine towards me.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for it immediately. I knock back one sip that tastes good, so numbers two and three go down just as quick. A few more of those and I’m feeling drowsy enough to conk out.

Wine always makes me sleepy. But it doesn’t help that my body feels so sated already. Every muscle has the kind of comforting ache that accompanies a really good workout.

“You look tired,” Aleks observes.

“Maybe a little bit.”

He leans over, voice low, and rumbles, “Two orgasms will do that to a girl.”

My entire body floods with heat again. I drop my face in my hands. “Lord have mercy.”

“Careful,” he warns me. “You blush anymore and you might stay that color forever.”

My only response is to groan in shame again.

Aleks smirks. “Why don’t you sleep?” he suggests. “There’s a couple more hours until we land.”

No part of me actually wants to waste an hour next to him by drooling in La La Land. But in the end, that’s exactly what I do. I succumb to a dream-filled sleep.

Every dream is of him.

* * *

I wake up with a start when someone touches my arm.

“Pardon, ma’am—”

I squint up at the woman bending towards me. Her face looks familiar, but it takes me another few seconds to recognize her as the flight attendant who showed me to first class.

“We’ve landed,” she explains. “It’s time to disembark.”

“Oh." I jerk upright and discover that the plane is empty. I’m the last one aboard.

I turn to find Aleks, but he's gone. I do a double-take, but sure enough, he’s nowhere to be found. Men like him can’t exactly hide in an airplane.

Which means he just… got up and left? Without so much as a goodbye?

“Did you, uh… did you happen to see the gentleman who was sitting next to me?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am,” she confirms. “He was the first one off the plane.”

“Oh. Right.”

She raises her eyebrows, clearly wondering why I’m still buckled into my seat. I unlock the clasp, step into the aisle, and get ready to go—but I can’t let it end like that. Not with a bang but with a whimper.

Biting my lip, I turn to her again. I hate myself for asking the question even before I say it aloud.

“By any chance, did he leave a message for me?”

She smiles again. This one is laced with pure pity. “No, ma’am. He didn’t."

And just like that, I’m a realist again.

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