46. Chapter 46

46

Clara

U gh. I wake up to a soft hum that reminds me I’m not on Earth anymore—or at least not the Earth I grew up on.

My throat’s dry, my body’s sore in places that shouldn’t even be sore, and there’s a metallic tang of sex and regret clinging to the edges of my memory. Last night flashes in fragments—Leonid’s hands, his mouth, the way he moved like he owned me. Like he’d carved his name somewhere deep inside, just to make sure I didn’t forget.

And then the bastard pulled a gun on me.

No dramatic flourishes or action movie bullshit. Just cold steel aimed at my face because I had the audacity to say no.

“Get ready. You’re coming with me.”

Because apparently, in his world, a gun to the head counts as afterplay. Most women want to cuddle after sex—I get death threats. Same thing, right?

Fuck.

I fumble for the water bottle on the small table beside the bed and gulp it down, wincing at the chill in the cabin air. That’s when I notice my surroundings—or remember them, really.

The bedding ruins me for normal sheets forever.

Thanks for that, bastard.

Switzerland. Fucking Zermatt.

Leonid’s clipped voice from this morning echoes in my head, calm and matter-of-fact, like he wasn’t kidnapping me across continents.

“We’re flying to Zermatt.”

No explanation, no discussion. Just a command wrapped in a geographic fact.

And because my life is a joke now, I’m surrounded by muted golds and deep navy like some floating five-star hotel suite—except this one cruises at 40,000 feet and comes with its own armed entourage.

My eyes drift over the room as I lower the bottle, and I catch myself staring. To my right, a built-in shelving unit gleams under soft ambient lighting. Crystal decanters of whiskey sit untouched next to a row of books I’m sure Leonid hasn’t read. There’s a chaise lounge near the window that practically screams, “I’m worth more than your dignity,” and a touchscreen panel mounted discreetly into the wall, probably controlling everything from the lights to the jet’s defensive countermeasures.

My eyes wander instinctively toward the other bed. The covers are pulled up tight, forming a small, rounded bulge near the center. Elijah. He’s still curled up, sound asleep, just like he always does—knees tucked close, face buried in the pillow. My chest softens, the tension in my shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

I hold my breath, afraid even the sound of it might wake him. How many days has it been now? Too many. Not enough to get my bearings. Time has become shapeless, just like everything else since Leonid stormed back into my life.

My fingers twitch toward the blanket, but I pull back. Let him rest. He deserves at least that much.

I glance at the window instead, trying to steady my thoughts.

“Jesus ,” I breathe, staring out the window. “This is beautiful. Impossibly fucking beautiful.”

Clouds drift lazily beneath us, faint shadows of mountains stretching toward the horizon. The Swiss Alps. Beautiful, impossible, and so far removed from the life I knew that it makes my stomach twist.

The view throws me off balance—it makes it hard to remember I’m supposed to be pissed off right now.

Fuck.

I can’t tell what time it is now, like everything else in Leonid’s little world. Like I don’t know how long we are going to be Leonid’s captives.

I glance at the bed again, at the lump that hasn’t moved since I woke up. He’s safe, at least. Warm. One of us should get some peace in this flying prison.

But then, from somewhere beyond the door, I hear it—a burst of giggles, light and unmistakable.

“Maksim! You cheat!”

My head snaps toward the sound.

What. The. Fuck?

I turn back to the bed. The lump under the covers doesn’t move, but now my chest tightens with doubt.

That’s not Elijah.

I yank back the covers. A fucking throw pillow. Of course.

The plush carpet floor is soft against my feet as I step into the main cabin. Whoever designed this Chanel sleepwear clearly never considered “kidnapped on a private jet” scenarios in their design planning. My nipples could cut glass right now.

“No, no—you gotta time the jump better!” Maksim’s voice carries through the cabin. “See that platform? Wait for it… wait… No, you’re jumping straight into lava—and now you’re dead again.”

I freeze in the doorway. Elijah is sitting next to Maksim, who has one arm slung casually around his little shoulders while showing him a game on a Nintendo Switch. Elijah’s face is scrunched in concentration, his fingers furiously tapping the buttons as Maksim narrates.

“Maksim, it’s too hard!” Elijah whines.

“Life’s hard, kid. Welcome to Level Three.”

And then there’s Leonid.

He’s sitting opposite them, one leg crossed over the other, radiating grumpiness so thick it’s almost visible. His jaw is clenched, his dark eyes fixed on the window as though he’s plotting to murder the clouds. Or maybe Maksim. Or maybe me.

“Elijah seems cozy,” I mutter as I approach, gesturing to the scene.

Leonid doesn’t look at me. “He’s fine,” he says flatly, his voice low and controlled.

Maksim grins up at me, all teeth and mischief. “You should join us, devushka. The kid’s a natural. Better reflexes than Leonid.”

“Better attitude, too,” I mutter, earning a sharp glare from Leonid. Maksim chuckles, clearly enjoying himself.

I sink into one of the leather chairs, the chill still biting at my legs. Elijah looks up from his game long enough to wave at me.

“Mommy, look! I’m beating him!”

Maksim raises his hands in mock defeat. “He’s ruthless, this one. Might take over the Bratva before his fifth birthday.”

Leonid’s jaw tightens even further, his hands clenching into fists on the armrests. I glance at him, half-expecting him to snap, but he doesn’t.

Something shifts in the cabin’s atmosphere. Literally. The jet dips slightly, making my stomach do that weird floating thing.

A crisp voice comes over the intercom, speaking rapid-fire Russian. Before I can even pretend to understand, Leonid cuts in: “We’re landing.”

“Thanks for the translation service,” I say, but he’s already moving, phone forgotten as he stands. His eyes rake over my barely covered body, and suddenly, I’m very aware of how much skin this sleepwear shows.

“Sit down and buckle up,” he orders. “Unless you want to explain that outfit to Swiss Customs.”

“What?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. “Never seen a woman freeze to death in Chanel before?”

He shrugs off his suit jacket in one fluid motion and drapes it over my shoulders before I can protest. The warmth of him still lingers in the fabric, along with something that makes my head spin—cedar and leather and pure male. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

His hands settle on my shoulders, steering me into the seat beside him. When he reaches across to grab my seatbelt, his cologne hits me again, and— fuck —my brain short-circuits for a second.

Maksim snorts from across the cabin, though he wisely keeps his head down, pretending to be fascinated by Elijah’s game. My son scrambles into his own seat, Nintendo Switch still glued to his hands like it’s a vital organ.

“At least someone in your family knows how to follow instructions,” Leonid mutters, clicking my belt into place.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t get his attitude from me,” I shoot back.

Leonid’s mouth twitches. “Obviously.”

I roll my eyes and burrow deeper into his jacket, definitely not inhaling the scent of him like some lovesick teenager. He settles next to me, all coiled power and expensive cologne, his fingers drumming a restless beat on the armrest.

When he finally turns to look at me, his eyes are dark with something that isn’t just annoyance.

“Tell me something, Clara.” His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. “I expected Stephan Lombardi to come charging in by now.”

My pulse jumps. Stephan. My father’s right-hand man. My mentor. The one person who should’ve torn everything apart looking for me by now.

“What’s it to you?” I keep my voice steady, but Leonid’s already caught the flash of uncertainty in my eyes.

His mouth curves into something that might be a smile on anyone else. On him, it’s a weapon.

“Strange, isn’t it? Your father’s most trusted man…” He lets the words hang there, heavy with implication. “And yet here we are, flying over the Alps and not a single rescue attempt.”

His question slams into me like a goddamn freight train.

Where the fuck is Stephan?

That fucking question that’s been eating away at me like a goddamn parasite is now thrust in my face by Leonid.