Page 20

T he private jet taxis down the runway, the engines humming softly, a smooth contrast to the restlessness inside me.

I have my hand on Aella’s thigh, my thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against the soft fabric of her silk pants.

She inhales deeply, and I feel it before I even hear it.

The slow, measured breath, the subtle shifting of her body, like she’s settling in, adjusting, preparing.

Her scent drifts up to me, and fuck me, I hum deep in my chest.

Fresh watermelon and sugar.

Always .

Always so tempting.

Positively mouthwatering.

I move slightly in my seat, the ache of wanting her again already creeping up my spine.

Before I can act on it, a voice interrupts, “Good morning, Mr. Ramirez, can I bring you or Miss Fury a coffee?”

I grit my teeth.

I know this woman.

Not personally, but she’s one of several dozen employees working for the fleet of private planes Volkov Industries owns and uses.

She’s doubtlessly seen me, my siblings, my cousins, and the whole damn lot of Volkov and Fury offspring coming and going on these jets.

So, I know she didn’t mean anything by it.

But I don’t care.

Because she’s wrong.

“That’s Mrs. Ramirez now,” I correct her.

My tone is sharp, clipped, unapologetically possessive.

The flight attendant blinks, then quickly recovers, her smile polite, professional.

“Oh! Apologies, sir. And may I offer my congratulations?”

I barely acknowledge her, already turning toward Aella instead.

“Aella, would you like a coffee?”

She blinks up at me, momentarily caught off guard by the shift in attention, then quickly regains herself.

“Oh, um, thank you,” she says to the attendant, always so damn polite.

“And, yes. Can I please have an iced Americano with oat milk and cinnamon?”

The flight attendant nods. “Of course. For you, sir?”

“Just coffee. Black.”

“Very good.”

She leaves us to prepare our drinks, and in the quiet that follows, it hits me.

I must have sounded like a damn barbarian.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair, already regretting the unnecessary edge in my voice.

“Um, sorry about that,” I mumble, my voice lower now, quieter.

Aella tilts her head, a small crease forming between her brows.

“About what?”

I inhale, trying to ease some of the tension from my body with the movement.

My hand still rests on her thigh, fingers still absently tracing patterns on the soft fabric covering her.

“Correcting the attendant. I should have left it alone.”

She stares at me, like she’s trying to figure me out, like she’s waiting for some punchline she missed.

Then she shrugs.

And smiles.

“That’s alright.”

She leans in, her voice lower, just for me.

“It’s kinda hot when you claim me publicly.”

My heart starts to pound.

A slow, thick, heavy beat pulsing through my blood, coiling low in my gut.

This woman is so mine.

I turn toward her fully, my fingers tightening slightly on her thigh, my mind already spinning with a dozen ways to claim her properly right here, right now.

Fuck the coffee.

I want her saying my name again.

No—I want her screaming it.

Breathless. Wrecked.

That’s how I want her. Just as crazy, deep in love as I am.

“Here you are,” the flight attendant returns with our coffees and the pilot announces our imminent take off.

“Thank you,” Aella says to the woman who is scurrying out of the cabin, readying for the flight.

“I ever tell you how perfect you are?”

She glances at me and frowns.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Agree to disagree.”

The rest of the flight, we spend talking about everything and nothing.

Aella is so damn smart and sweet, and the way she lights up when she speaks about the things she loves?

I could listen to her forever.

I know school was tough for her, that she had to fight for every achievement, every grade.

And fuck—I can’t even express how proud I am of her.

After I learned about her dyslexia, I went down a rabbit hole, learning everything I could find.

I was shocked, to put it lightly, at how little our education system does to help kids like her.

To think she struggled alone for years before being diagnosed?

Drives me fucking crazy.

Sometimes I want to go back in time, find those teachers, and beat the ever-loving shit out of them for not noticing.

For making her feel less than.

For failing her.

But I don’t bring any of that up.

I don’t want her to know just how unhinged I am about her.

Not yet, at least.

Instead, I just listen.

She talks about the app she’s been developing, and once again, pride surges inside me.

The way she’s so open with me about her work?

It’s an honor.

I know this is a sensitive subject for her.

And whether she realizes it or not, that she’s talking to me about it means she trusts me.

And that means everything to me.

I smile and laugh more during the hours' long flight than I have in years.

Talking to her is— it’s nice.

More than that.

It feels right.

Like I was made for this.

To be with her.

To listen to her.

To love her.

And I know that’s true, so I’m not worrying about anything when we land at one of the private airports Volkov Industries uses.

I step off the jet, my attention completely on Aella, which is probably why I forget that Viper Enterprises also uses this airport.

And it’s why I don’t expect the fat fucking fist that crashes into my jaw.

Everything that happens next is a blur between the adrenaline and the noise. I move to retaliate, freezing in place, then I hear my wife’s voice.

“Daddy!” Aella yells.

And I immediately still.

“Angel, no!” another female voice snaps.

I blink up from my new position on the ground, my jaw throbbing, my ego sore as hell. But I am holding on to my natural rage response because I finally get what’s going on.

Shit.

I wasn’t ready, and that makes me angry. But I can’t blame him.

It was a good shot. He caught me off guard.

But fuck me—my new father-in-law is staring daggers at me.

He is pissed.

Royally pissed.

Angel fucking Fury glares down at me, his stance pure menace, his fist clenched at his side like he’s considering throwing another punch.

“You little fucking prick!” he snarls. “I oughta break your neck.”

Now, I’m not little. But I respect this man. So I do what my instinct tells me.

I shut the fuck up.

If I am any kind of man, I’ll take what’s coming to me. And for Aella, if that means letting her father kick my ass then that’s fine.

I’ll give him this one for free.

But he only gets one.

I stand slowly and wait for the next hit. But before he can lunge at me again, Aella throws herself between us.

Her small hands press against his chest, her eyes wide, frantic.

“Oh my God! Daddy, stop it!”

I frown and step forward, my body immediately moving on instinct. I tuck my wife behind me, shielding her from whatever the hell is coming next.

Angel’s nostrils flare.

“What the fuck? You think I’d hit my own daughter?”

I meet his gaze head-on, ignoring the dull ache in my jaw.

“No, sir,” I say, rolling my neck, testing the damage. “But I don’t want her getting caught between me and danger ever.”

Something flickers in his expression.

Approval? Maybe.

Or at the very least— respect.

Before he can respond, the sound of a car speeding toward us pulls both our attention.

In a fluid motion, Angel and I both step in front of our women, bodies tensing and bracing for whatever is coming.

Then I grin.

Because I recognize that car.

And the man behind the wheel.

“Guess it’s reunion time,” I murmur.

“Who is that?” Aella whispers, gripping onto the front of my jacket, her small hands clutching me tight.

“Looks like my pops is here,” I say, and now I’m smiling.

She trembles beside me and that smile goes away fast. Early spring in the tri-state area is unpredictable as hell.

Today, it’s overcast and chilly, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering in my blood from Vegas or maybe Angel’s little welcome-home punch.

I glance down at Aella, noticing the way she hugs herself, the way her thin sweater does nothing to protect her from the cold.

I frown.

“You cold?”

Her big green eyes flick up to mine, sheepish.

“Oh, um, a little,” she shrugs.

I don’t even think about it.

I just pull off my suit jacket and drape it over her shoulders, adjusting it until it fits just right.

Her pretty green eyes sparkle, and she bites her bottom lip, looking up at me with something soft and warm and utterly fucking beautiful.

Damn.

She’s cute.

So fucking adorable wearing my clothes.

It takes everything in me not to drag her against me and kiss her senseless right here, in front of her murderous father and my own very amused dad.

But I restrain myself.

Barely.