Page 64 of These Tears

‘There is no if,’ he says darkly. But not like a promise, more like certainty. ‘I’ll let you quiet yours. And you’ll let me loose mine.’

My mouth parts, fear bleeding slow and sticky into my gut.

‘What does that mean?’ I ask, hating how weak my voice sounds.

He lifts his brows, almost gently, as if trying to soften it. ‘You’ll know when they possess me.’

Then his eyes flutter closed, dark lashes fanning over chiselled cheekbones.

His face remains tilted towards me.

A tremor starts beneath my ribs and travels outwards. The tiny hairs along my arms lift although the cabin isn’t cold.

He never asked for my agreement, just spoke it into the space between us like a contract already signed.

I study him, slack with sleep or an imitation of it.

The silence takes over long enough for him to fall asleep again.

My hands lift the camera.

But then I clock the lavatory near the rear galley. There might be crew back there, behind the curtain.

I glance at Elias.

His breathing is slowing, his head resting, his eyes closed.

For a reckless second, hope sparks too bright. The only problem is that my kidnapper has trapped me against the window.

I lower the camera with cautious fingers, as if it were made of glass and might fall apart in my hands.

My heart thunders behind my ears, and I count the slow undulations of his chest. His mouth has softened in sleep, stripping some of the menace from his face – it’s not enough to make me forget his threat, but it is enough to make climbing over him feel disturbingly intimate rather than merely suicidal.

I unfasten my seat belt one fraction at a time.

My pulse slams into my throat as I brace one hand against the seat in front of me, rise slowly and turn.

There’s barely enough room.

Bollocks.

Nothing says daring escape quite like straddling your unconscious abductor at thirty thousand feet.

Holding myself above him, I try not to notice my every muscle trembling, waiting for his eyes to snap open.

His hand rests beside his thigh, close enough that one twitch would catch me within a beat.

I ease one leg past his knee, planting my foot on the aisle. In that held breath, I’m suspended above his lap with the other still trapped beside the window.

If he wakes now, there will be no convincing explanations for this position.

I wait for his hand to shoot out or his eyes to open. But his head remains against the headrest, mouth relaxed.

Shifting my weight, I drag the second leg after me and finally straighten in the aisle.

The pathway seems impossibly narrow, the distance to the lavatory both nothing and endless. Excitement rushes beneath the terror, almost dizzying, because I’m actually moving. And he’s still in his seat the way I left him.

Keeping my steps light, I hurry towards the far end, my heart kicking with each stolen pace. But when I reach it, the fragile burst of hope falters.