Page 33 of Forged

“No,” I say, brushing a fingertip over her knee. “Only with you.”

I expectthe driver to take us to Austin-Bergstrom; instead, the car veers east.

The skyline thins behind us as we head out of the city, glass giving way to open stretches of road. I watch it pass through the tinted window, saying nothing, cataloging everything the way I always do when something shifts off script.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Lars glances at me, his hand reaching over to link with mine. “Austin Executive.”

That earns my full attention.

I know the airport. It’s smaller and private, with corporate jets, charter flights, and people who don’t like lines or easily obtainable records.

Interesting.

The car rolls through the gates without slowing. No security check, just a nod from a man in a reflective vest who evidently already knows who Lars is.

My stomach tightens; this is the first time it has occurred to me that I’ve accepted a lot about him at face value.

The car pulls up directly onto the tarmac, coming to a stop near a waiting aircraft. The jet isn’t enormous, but it’s unmistakably expensive with a sleek white body, a narrow red stripe along the side, and stairs already lowered. Engines quiet but ready.

I step out of the car slowly, heels clicking against concrete, and take in the scene. The wind curls through the open space and the smell of exhaust is heavy. The pilot stands off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.

“Lars,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “How often do you do this?”

He smiles. “Fly to Vegas on a whim?”

“Yes,” I answer. “On a private jet.”

“Not too often. But when I travel, I don’t like dealing with lines or delays,” he replies, and offers me his hand, and I take it. The contact is grounding, but my mind is already spinning. Security, he’d said. That could mean a dozen things. This narrows the field.

We climb the stairs together. Inside, the jet opens into quiet luxury—cream-colored seats arranged in pairs, polished wood accents, soft lighting recessed into the ceiling. I run my fingers along the back of a seat as I pass. Italian leather and custom, if I had to guess.

I settle into one of the forward seats as Lars moves effortlessly through the space, greeting the pilot by name, exchanging a few low words I don’t catch. He slides into the seat across from me, unbuttons his jacket, and finally looks at me like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Ask,” he says.

I arch a brow. “Ask what?”

“Whatever’s spinning behind those eyes.”

The door seals and engines hum to life beneath us, a low vibration that travels up through the floor and into my bones. The cabin goes quiet as an attendant prepares the cabin to leave the ground.

I consider deflecting, but I decide to investigate.

“You said you work in security,” I say. “That’s vague.”

“Yes. I might have been vague.”

“This,” I gesture around us, “isn’t exactly mall cop energy.”

He chuckles. “No, it isn’t.”

The plane begins to move. Slow at first, then faster, runway lights streak past the window.

I study him while he watches me. “What kind of security, Lars?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately.