Page 72 of Heartless Stepbrother

The seats were plush, made of leather that cupped the body too easily, too intimately. He slid into the one by the window, stretching one leg out casually, as if the jet were his living room and I were merely intruding in it. His arm draped over the armrest, fingers relaxed, claiming space.

He tilted his head toward the seat beside him.

“Sit.”

A command. Soft, but a command.

My skin prickled. My spine stiffened. But I lowered myself slowly, carefully, letting my body fold into the seat next to him. The leather was cool, then warm under my palms. My pulse thrummed in the hollow of my throat.

I clipped my seatbelt immediately, needing the barrier more than the safety. The metal clicked sharply in the hush of the cabin.

Riley didn’t buckle his. Of course he didn’t. He turned slightly, one knee brushing mine, light, accidental only in theory.

His eyes dragged over my profile with a gaze that felt like fingers.

“You tense up every time you’re near me,” he murmured, voice low enough that the engines had to lean in to hear it. “It’s adorable.”

My breath snagged. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His voice dipped, a velvet taunt. “Observe? Breathe? Sit beside you on my plane?”

“It’s not your plane,” I snapped softly.

His smile sharpened. “Isn’t it?”

Before I could answer, the flight attendant moved down the aisle with that silent glide private crews perfected. She checked our belts. Her gaze lingered half a second too long on Riley, as if she expected him to comply just because she asked.

He didn’t.

She didn’t push.

“Please prepare for departure,” she said lightly, then vanished behind the galley curtain like a ghost returning to her haunt.

A moment later, the cabin lights dimmed slightly, the engines surged, and the pressure in the air shifted, a subtle, unmistakable warning that we were seconds from leaving the ground.

My fingers tightened around the armrests. My ribs locked. Heat climbed my throat.

Riley noticed instantly.

He angled his head, studying my hands as if deciphering a language only he had the right to read. “Nervous flyer?”

“No,” I whispered.

It wasn’t a lie.

But somehow it felt like one.

Maybe I was afraid of flying trapped beside him.

The jet began to roll forward, slow at first, then faster, wheels thumping rhythmically against the tarmac. The rising speed pressed me back into the seat. My breath came shallow and uneven, my pulse pounding in my wrists, my legs, everywhere.

Riley’s fingers brushed my knee.

Barely.

A question disguised as comfort. Or comfort disguised as a threat.

“Easy,” he murmured.