Page 24 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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It’s my second time on a plane, though definitely my first time flying private.

So far, it’s pretty much the opposite of my experience in coach class.

I make my way across the tarmac and up a short flight of steps where a pretty flight attendant greets me at the door and motions for me to sit anywhere.

There’s a white leather chair by a window, and I sink onto its plush bucket seat, swivel toward the aisle, look at Braxton, and say, “How long is the flight?”

“Quite long. But exactly how long, depends on the winds.” He claims the seat across from mine.

The flight attendant returns with a hot towel and a tray of champagne. I take the towel, run it over my face and hands, but decline the drink, asking for water instead. Braxton tips his flute toward me and takes a swill.

“Why would the wind make a difference?” I feel a little embarrassed to ask, but I really am curious.

He twists toward me. “When it comes to travel, the winds are everything. They’re either driving against you and slowing you down or pushing from behind and speeding you along.”

I nod, feeling even more ridiculous than before. If I’d taken the time to think it through, I could’ve figured that out on my own. For the millionth time, I wonder why, out of all the kids in my school—or hell, in the country—Arthur Blackstone chose me.

Braxton drains his champagne, looks at me, and says, “Wake me when we get there.” Then, moving down the hall, he disappears behind a closed door.

“There’s another bedroom if you’d like to rest,” the flight attendant tells me. But even though I’m admittedly tired, there’s no way I can sleep. I don’t want to risk missing a thing.

I spend most of the flight checking out the plane (the bathroom is way nicer than mine at home); watching movies (there are hundreds to choose from); looking out the window (clouds, clouds, and more clouds); eating pretty much everything the flight attendant offers (cookies, warm nuts, a cheeseburger, and an ice-cream sundae—why not?); and staring at my phone as I research anything I can find on Arthur Blackstone (pretty much everything I already know and nothing I don’t) and Gray Wolf Academy (not a single result—or at least nothing that fits, which makes no sense. What boarding school doesn’t even have a website?).

Just after we land and are taxiing down the runway, Braxton appears, eyes squinted from sleep.

“Why’s the academy a secret?” I ask.

He rubs a slow hand over his face, as though wiping away the remains of a dream.

“It’s totally off the grid,” I add. “There isn’t even one mention of it on the internet.”

He moves into the lounge (according to the flight attendant, that’s what they call the section of the plane with the large screen TV, couches, and bucket seats), retrieves a sweater from his bag, and pulls it over his head.

“It’s cold out there.” He looks me over, settling on my legs for a moment before flushing slightly and averting his gaze. “Don’t you have anything warmer?”

“It’s not like I was allowed to pack,” I remind him.

“Right. Sorry.” He reaches back into his bag and pitches me a pair of sweatpants and the knit cap he wore earlier. When I start to pitch them right back, he says, “Trust me, you’re going to need those.”

“Trustyou?” I shoot him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious.” I toss the pants aside and crumple the hat into a ball I shove in the pocket of my hoodie. “Also, you still haven’t answered my question.”

He shrugs. “Clearly it’s not a secret, Natasha. We’re headed there now.”

I start to tell him I prefer to go by Nat. But before I can put a voice to the words, the plane comes to a stop, the door springs open, and a flurry of biting-cold wind blows through the cabin.

Ugh, okay. Fine.

I tug on the sweatpants, pull the hat onto my head, sling my bag over my shoulder, and follow Braxton down the stairs and into a chauffeur-driven car idling on the tarmac.