Page 57 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

fifty-three

Soren

I want to hide from him the rest of the way to wherever we’re going, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that his rejection hurts this much.

It’s bad enough that I can’t hide the arousal I don’t want to feel for him.

Thankfully, when I finally step out of the room and make my way back to our seat, he’s absorbed in something on his computer. He’s set it up on the table in front of him, leaning into it so that he can look closely at whatever is on the screen.

Declan doesn’t even look up when I take my seat. In fact, he doesn’t look up until the silky flight attendant, Elize, places a hand on his shoulder.

He jumps, slamming his laptop shut in one swift motion, and turns to look angrily at the woman who just interrupted whatever he was doing. I sort of wonder if he was looking at porn, given the way he overreacted at her intrusion, but he doesn’t look embarrassed, just pissed.

“We’re about to land.” She tells him, smiling. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He’s running out of time to fuck her, if that’s on the agenda. I suppose it isn’t, because he sighs a frustrated sound and leans back in his chair.

“No, thank you.”

He’s tense—every bit as tense and frustrated as me. He needs the release just as badly as I do. The only difference is, he has someone willing to give it to him and he’s turning it down.

Elize shuffles off without asking me if I need anything, which is just as well since I don’t want to be bothered anyway.

Declan closes his eyes, rubs his fingers into his temples.

For all my research, I don’t actually know much about him.

In all of the pictures I saw of him, smirking like the quintessential millionaire playboy, I never saw this side of him. I don’t know exactly what it is—tired? Drained?

I don’t like it, whatever it is. Something about his quiet is unsettling, making my stomach twist itself in knots despite the fact that I’m not the problem. I know that as well as I know my name. If I was the problem, he wouldn’t hesitate to let me know.

No, whatever is bothering him is something more substantial than a grieving widow trying to drag his reputation through the mud.

“I can give you something better to stare at.” He finally breaks his silence, though I don’t know how he knows I’ve been watching him since he hasn’t opened his eyes in a few moments. I almost thought he was asleep.

My cheeks warm at the innuendo, but when I don’t answer, he turns to face me, one eye popping open to look critically at me. “What?”

It’s what I was going to ask him, but I press my lips together instead, mulling over my own answer.

“It’s just… you look tired.”

“Jet lag.” He says, closing his eyes again. There’s an air of finality in his tone, like he doesn’t want anything else to come from the conversation.

I know when someone tells me I look tired, it usually means they’re trying to tell me I look like crap—bags under the eyes, dark circles, uneven skin tone. I doubt Declan cares what I think about how he looks, especially because despite his weary expression, he is still very much gorgeous.

It’s unfair that someone so cruel could look so good after a sleepless night. In fact, when was the last time he slept anyway?

I open my mouth out of habit, no clue what I’m actually going to say, when I feel the sudden loss of gravity like a blanket being pulled off my shoulders in the cold.

For one heart-pounding moment, I think we’re falling—I’d swear we were falling.

Thank God I emptied my bladder a little while ago, because I nearly pee my pants before the plane levels out a bit. I don’t realize I’m clutching the arms of the chair, my nails digging into the leather, until my tension eases.

Declan doesn’t look tired anymore. He’s sitting up, watching me intently. A little smirk, never far from his lips, hangs in the corner of his mouth.

“I thought you said it wasn’t the flying that bothered you so much as the claustrophobia?”

“It isn’t.” I confirm, brushing a strand of hair off my face. “But apparently falling through the sky is a non-starter for me too.”

His eyes dart past me, to the window shade that’s still open. “We’re still far from landing. You may want to brace yourself.”

“I’m fine.” I tell him.

But I’m not fine. My mouth has just snapped shut when the sensation begins anew, a weightless jerking behind the navel. I squeeze my eyes shut, but this time lasts longer.

“Oh my God,” I cry, convinced that after everything, this is how I die. On a private plane over a foreign country with a man I hate laughing at me from across the aisle.

If the plane doesn’t crash in the jungle and burst into flames, I’ll definitely die of a heart attack.

But Declan isn’t laughing at me from across the aisle. I feel his warm body sidle over mine—it’s so jarring that my eyes fly open to find him hovering over me, his lips inches from mine.

A tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t dare let go of the armrest long enough to wipe it away. I just let it trail down my face until it spills over my lip. There, Declan wipes it away with a touch so gentle, I have to wonder if I’m imagining this.

I open my mouth to say something, but I realize we’ve leveled out.

“He came in a little too hot.” Declan concedes. “He has to drop altitude fast, so we don’t miss our landing.”

I nod, so that he knows I’m listening to him.

“Okay,” I breathe, more for my own benefit than his. “You should sit down.”

“I’ll be fine.” Declan laughs.

“If we nosedive, you’ll crush me to death.”

“Ah,” he chuckles again. The sound eases my tension a little. “So, you’re worried about yourself, not me?”

I start to refute that, but we dip again.

My heart slams in my chest and falters, waiting for the plane to level out before it agrees to start working again.

“Focus on me.”

Declan’s voice is soft—so soft it barely even rises above the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.

I don’t have time to think about what he said, because his heavy weight presses down on me, his hands cover mine, and his forehead rests against mine.

I don’t have to tell myself to follow his instruction, because now he is all that I can focus on.

He smells like laundry and bourbon, some kind of manly soap and spearmint. It all mixes together in an intoxicating potion, mellowed by his warmth, the pressure of him over me, the fact that his mouth is right there.

He pulls away too soon, before I even get a chance to open my eyes and try to commit his face to memory.

“Good job, Ren.”