before he caught sight of her. She slouched in her window seat, chewing gum while sheflipped through a magazine. She wore the evidence of her flight. Her hair was tangled as usual, and that high color burned again underneath her normally pale skin, glowing like a flame lit from within. Her feminine scent bore a clean, sharp freshness, like she had captured a slice of the wild March wind and brought it with her.
The seat beside her was empty.
It was his seat.
Of course it was.
He looked around at the large, packed plane. It was filled with mostly human passengers, although he caught sight of one or two of the Elder Races dotted throughout the cabin. No other visible Wyr. There wasn’t another empty seat anywhere in sight.
Of course there wasn’t.
He looked down at the person who occupied the aisle seat. A young teenage boy, maybe thirteen years old, sat hunched over an electronic game.
“Hi,” Quentin said to him.
The boy grunted but didn’t look up.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars if I can have the aisle seat,” Quentin said.
That brought the boy’s head up. As he opened his mouth, a woman from across the aisle snapped, “You’ll do no such thing. Robert, ignore that man. Never take money from strangers.”
“But mom,” the kid said as he blinked up at Quentin. “It’s a hundred dollars and it’s just an aisle seat.”
“Get over here! Change places with me.” Quentin rubbed the bridge of his nose, watching as the boy got up. Resignedly, he shoved his pack into an overhead compartment, slipped out of his jacket and stuffed it underneath the seat in front of his, then he slid into the middle seat, buckled himself in and crossed his arms.
He was over six feet tall. Aryal was just a few inches shorter than he was. Together they were packed in like sardines, their arms, hips and thighs touching. Her heat and energy washed over him, sharp like vodka straight from the freezer but hot like mulled whiskey.
“Before you say a word to me, shut up,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “If I have to look at you, I’m going to punch you.”
God, yes. Adrenaline flooded his system. He was ready and itching for the fight, but there was nowhere to take it. If they started to brawl here, they might blow out the side of the plane and take everyone else aboard down with them.
On his right side, the mother of the teenage boy heaved herself into the aisle seat and glared at him. He said, “It was just a hundred dollars, and just the aisle seat.”
“Don’t talk to my boy again,” Mom told him.
Jesus. He let his head fall back against the seat with a
thunk.
He had to fly nine fucking hours like this. It was a goddamn pressure cooker.
Something was bound to explode. If something didn’t let up soon, he thought it might be him.
The flight attendants did their show-and-tell while the plane taxied into position and accelerated down the runway, lifting into the air with a mechanical roar. Cranky Mom on his right played Sudoku with a pencil. On his left, Aryal finished flipping through her magazine and dropped it onto her lap. He glanced sideways at it. Somehow she had found the time to buy a copy
of Rolling Stone.
Aryal mimicked his position, crossing her arms and tucking her elbows tight against her side, while she leaned as far away from him as she could get, hunching against the interior wall of the plane and glowering out the window.
The relief at the inches of space she managed to put between their torsos was marginal compared to the upsurge of irritation Quentin felt. She had no fucking tact. None whatsoever. Her body language screamed that she would do almost anything to get away from him—anything except deplane.
Besides, she could lean sideways all she liked, but the seats were so goddamn miniscule, their thighs still touched. He looked down at the length of her legs alongside his. Her bone structure and musculature were slimmer than his, undeniably feminine while also strong and
The seat beside her was empty.
It was his seat.
Of course it was.
He looked around at the large, packed plane. It was filled with mostly human passengers, although he caught sight of one or two of the Elder Races dotted throughout the cabin. No other visible Wyr. There wasn’t another empty seat anywhere in sight.
Of course there wasn’t.
He looked down at the person who occupied the aisle seat. A young teenage boy, maybe thirteen years old, sat hunched over an electronic game.
“Hi,” Quentin said to him.
The boy grunted but didn’t look up.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars if I can have the aisle seat,” Quentin said.
That brought the boy’s head up. As he opened his mouth, a woman from across the aisle snapped, “You’ll do no such thing. Robert, ignore that man. Never take money from strangers.”
“But mom,” the kid said as he blinked up at Quentin. “It’s a hundred dollars and it’s just an aisle seat.”
“Get over here! Change places with me.” Quentin rubbed the bridge of his nose, watching as the boy got up. Resignedly, he shoved his pack into an overhead compartment, slipped out of his jacket and stuffed it underneath the seat in front of his, then he slid into the middle seat, buckled himself in and crossed his arms.
He was over six feet tall. Aryal was just a few inches shorter than he was. Together they were packed in like sardines, their arms, hips and thighs touching. Her heat and energy washed over him, sharp like vodka straight from the freezer but hot like mulled whiskey.
“Before you say a word to me, shut up,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth. “If I have to look at you, I’m going to punch you.”
God, yes. Adrenaline flooded his system. He was ready and itching for the fight, but there was nowhere to take it. If they started to brawl here, they might blow out the side of the plane and take everyone else aboard down with them.
On his right side, the mother of the teenage boy heaved herself into the aisle seat and glared at him. He said, “It was just a hundred dollars, and just the aisle seat.”
“Don’t talk to my boy again,” Mom told him.
Jesus. He let his head fall back against the seat with a
thunk.
He had to fly nine fucking hours like this. It was a goddamn pressure cooker.
Something was bound to explode. If something didn’t let up soon, he thought it might be him.
The flight attendants did their show-and-tell while the plane taxied into position and accelerated down the runway, lifting into the air with a mechanical roar. Cranky Mom on his right played Sudoku with a pencil. On his left, Aryal finished flipping through her magazine and dropped it onto her lap. He glanced sideways at it. Somehow she had found the time to buy a copy
of Rolling Stone.
Aryal mimicked his position, crossing her arms and tucking her elbows tight against her side, while she leaned as far away from him as she could get, hunching against the interior wall of the plane and glowering out the window.
The relief at the inches of space she managed to put between their torsos was marginal compared to the upsurge of irritation Quentin felt. She had no fucking tact. None whatsoever. Her body language screamed that she would do almost anything to get away from him—anything except deplane.
Besides, she could lean sideways all she liked, but the seats were so goddamn miniscule, their thighs still touched. He looked down at the length of her legs alongside his. Her bone structure and musculature were slimmer than his, undeniably feminine while also strong and
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