Three things happen at the same time, and my brain needs a fraction of a second longer to take them all in, as if reality itself had decided to speed up at the exact moment I no longer had the resources to keep pace.
Ivar is the first to pull back.
He leans against the back of his chair with a calculated slowness, the corner of his mouth lifting into a brief, humorless grin—something animal and satisfied, like the expression of a predator that bites only once, just to make sure the prey understands what comes next. His gaze no longer pins me directly, but I know he hasn't lost sight of me; he's simply decided that, for now, the game is over.
At the same time, almost imperceptibly, Gaston betrays his vigilance.
Though his body remains motionless and his steady breathing could fool anyone, the corner of his mouth twitches upward, barely visible—a small, reflexive gesture that says more than any words could. He heard everything. Every sentence. Every calmly delivered threat. And he agrees. Not morally, not emotionally—professionally. For him, everything is already clear.
Then the rear door of the plane opens.
The sound slices through the tension like a blade cutting dense air, and Duca reappears, bringing with him the smell of frayed nerves, exhaustion, and poorly masked anger. He curses in Italian, the words dropping heavy and dirty, as if they'd been forcibly packed into his chest and only now released. His jaw is clenched, his steps deliberate, and his presence once again fills the space, dominating it without effort.
Though the atmosphere remains thick, almost electric, something inside me breaks and rearranges itself the moment he draws near.
Calm arrives suddenly, unexpectedly, like an invisible hand pressing against an open wound and making the pain disappear. Duca stops beside me and, without speaking at first, holds out his hand—a simple, familiar gesture, as though he hadn't just left me alone between two men who could destroy me without ever raising their voices.
"Come on, let's sleep," he finally says, his voice low, exhausted down to the marrow of his bones. "I'm dead tired."
He closes his fingers around mine, and the contact is enough.
"We've got a good few hours of sleep before Russia."
He doesn't ask whether I want to.
I follow him without resisting—not because I trust him, but because the alternative—to stay here, in the same space as the other two—is unthinkable. My reasoning doesn't cling to the idea of safety, but to the least terrible option, and in this moment, however absurd it may sound, Duca is the only one in whose presence I can breathe without feeling that every inhale might be my last.
He's a stranger, a man who will most likely be the cause of my death sooner or later, yet my steps trail after his instinctively, guided by a primitive need for temporary protection, by the fragile illusion that as long as I stay close to him, danger remains at least… orderly.
We move down the narrow corridor of the plane, the sounds from the cabin fading gradually, until Duca opens the door to the private bedroom and leads me inside.
The room is surprisingly spacious for an aircraft, designed not just for rest, but for complete isolation. The light is warm and diffused, filtered through discreet panels that mute any trace of the outside world, and the walls—lined with soft, dark materials—absorb sound as if they were built specifically for secrets. The bed, wide and perfectly made, dominates the space, its pristine white linens stark against the surrounding shadows, making me think of a temporary refuge rather than a safe place.
Everything is orderly, minimalist, stripped of personal objects, as though no one is meant to stay here long enough to leave a mark. The air carries a faint scent of leather and heated metal, and the silence is so dense I can hear my own heartbeat—irregular, betraying the exhaustion and tension that still keep me upright.
He closes the door behind us, and the dull, final sound makes me understand that for the next few hours, my world has shrunk to this room and the man already inside it.
Duca takes off his jacket without hurry, then his shirt, then his trousers—his movements economical, devoid of any performative intent, as though fatigue is the only thing still governing him. When he's left in his underwear, I realize it isn't just a beautiful body I'm looking at, but a sense of certainty born of having nothing to prove; he moves like a man accustomed to being watched, to other people's desire, to danger. He is beautiful.
He stretches out on the bed with a short sigh, letting his weight sink into the mattress, and in that moment I understand that his guard truly drops—not theatrically, not deliberately, but from a deep exhaustion that can't be faked.
I remain where I am, frozen in place, my hands clenched at my sides, painfully aware of myself—of my stiff breathing, of the space between us that suddenly feels too small and too vast at the same time.
He sees me.
A short laugh slips from his lips, tired and almost gentle, and for a moment the tension in the room fractures.
"Relax," he tells me. "I said we'd sleep, and that's exactly what we'll do."
He rests his head on the pillow, his gaze staying on me—alert, but without the pressure that's stalked me all night.
"Don't misunderstand me," he continues. "In the end, you'll be mine…"
The words should frighten me, but the tone isn't possessive—it's certain, as if he's stating a fact that doesn't require urgency.
"But I've waited too long for this to ruin the moment now, when we're both exhausted and the people outside are all ears."
He turns his head slightly toward the wall, then looks back at me, a trace of a smile transforming his expression completely.
"You are mine, yes—but you'll be fully mine when we actually have time to savor each other."
A pause.
"So get comfortable. I won't touch you."
One eyebrow arches faintly.
"Unless you want me to. And insist."
Then he smiles—not broadly, but like a fox who knows exactly how far he can push things without scaring the prey.
He has the most beautiful face I've ever seen, with firm features that seem carved from silence and danger, shockingly blue eyes that appear to absorb the light around them, and olive skin that contrasts painfully with the white of the sheets. His beauty isn't delicate, nor meant to be admired; it's the kind that warns you closeness comes at a price.
He is beautiful in his entirety.
And precisely because of that—dangerous.
I take a deep breath and step toward the bed—not because I'm convinced, but because exhaustion weighs on my eyelids, and in this narrow space, suspended between sky and earth, beside him, sleep feels like the only form of armistice left.
I sit down next to him with a hesitation I can't quite hide, and before I manage to find my position, his arm closes around me—steady, warm, as if my place had been decided long ago. He pulls me close without haste, and for a moment I stay rigid, then give in, not because I want to, but because fatigue defeats me.
He inhales slowly, deeply, as if he's breathing me in, and his smile presses against my cheek before I can see it.
"You were more talkative the last times we met," he murmurs.
"Back then I wasn't on my way to Russia," I say quietly. "And I didn't have two men from your team who could make me disappear without a sound."
He laughs, barely audible.
"Ivar scared you."
"Yes."
His arm tightens just a little.
"He's good at that."
"I know."
A pause settles in—the kind that doesn't ask to be filled.
I gather my courage from a place that aches and ask, without turning toward him, without changing my tone, as if I were asking something trivial:
"What's going to happen to me?"
He doesn't answer right away. He adjusts his breathing to match mine, as though he wants to bring me into his rhythm before giving me any answer at all.
"That depends," he says at last. "Only on you."
My shoulders tense.
"That's not an answer."
"It is," he murmurs. "Just not one that's meant to reassure you."
He brings his lips close to my temple, without touching me.
"It depends on how quickly you learn to trust me."
"And if I can't?"
"You will," he says calmly. "Because now, whether you want it or not, you're part of my world."
I say nothing.
"I know I was selfish," he continues, his voice still low, exhausted, but certain. "I know I took you without asking. Without explanations. Without time."
His arm tightens slightly.
"But if I had asked, you would've said no."
"Yes."
A barely noticeable smile.
"Exactly."
A pause follows.
"In time, you'll realize it was for your own good," he says. "Not because I'm good. But because the alternative was worse."
"You're asking me to believe you."
"No," he answers. "I'm asking you to endure long enough to see for yourself."
He rests his chin lightly on the top of my head.
"I won't force you. Not now. And not because I couldn't."
I inhale.
"Then why?"
"Because I want you to be mine when you choose it."
He says it without haste, without pressure, like a fact already settled somewhere in time.
Then he turns my head with two fingers—the gesture confident and unexpectedly gentle—and brushes the tip of my nose with a brief kiss, almost tender, like a concession to exhaustion rather than desire. Then he kisses my eyes, one by one, my cheeks, my chin, with the same small, sweet kisses. He closes his eyes as he moves down toward my lips, and when he kisses me, I feel his smile against my mouth—present, controlled, as if he had known all along that I wouldn't be able to hide from my own reaction.
He sighs softly, his breath warming my skin; the sound slips from my chest before I can stop it—a short, betraying moan, born of exhaustion and of a tension that no longer knows where to go.
"Sleep, little love," he adds. "Tomorrow my world will feel much more real."
I close my eyes not because I'm at ease, but because I no longer have the strength to stay awake, and the fact that his breathing remains steady behind me—heavy and real—is the only thing that keeps me anchored, like a makeshift anchor in a night that could swallow me whole.