Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I am.
Don’t cower.
He wipes his mouth before sliding off the bed. He’s finally cooperating.
I let him pass. “Can I help with your toiletries?”
He ignores me and nears the dresser, squeezing beside Maximoff. We all watch him collect gray sweatpants from a drawer. He tugs them over his waist, and then he grabs his leather wallet.
“You’re not leaving without us,” Charlie says hotly.
Beckett lets out a pained laugh. “You’re one to talk, Charlie. How many times have you ditched this family?”
Charlie looks to me, needing an assist.
I hike over to Beckett and tear the wallet out of his hand.
He tilts his head. “How am I supposed to fly without my license, sis? I need that.”
“So you do plan to come with us?” I question.
He stays quiet. Fuming.
Maximoff treks past us towards the bathroom. “I’ll get his toiletries.”
Thank you.
I unzip my purse.
Beckett pinches his eyes. When he drops his hand, he zeroes in on Thatcher and Farrow who block the doorway. I can tell he’s hurt and confused. “You plan to have your boyfriend drag me onto a plane? Is that it?”
I slowly shake my head. “No.”
He frowns. “You can’t force me—”
I snap a fuzzy blue handcuff on his wrist, and the other end, I lock onto mine. “Congratulations, you’re now very much attached to me.”
Beckett looks slightly impressed but mostly resigned and upset. He sighs. “Jane…”
I smile a sympathetic smile. “Time to go to Scotland and be with family.”
15
JANE COBALT
By the time we board, my brother is still shirtless, just in sweatpants, and sufficiently handcuffed to me. With disheveled brown hair and his arm tattoos in view, he looks more unkempt than usual and more like the “bad boy of ballet” the media often portrays him as.
Beckett holds up his wrist, displaying the fuzzy handcuff that links me to him. “You can take this off now,” he says pointedly, but annoyance clings to the words. “I’m obviously not going anywhere.”
“The plane hasn’t taken off yet,” I note.
Our parent’s private jet is slowly filling with SFO and the two Epsilon bodyguards: Tony and O’Malley. Plus, Jack Highland, Maximoff, Charlie, Luna, Sulli, and Sulli’s boyfriend Will Rochester. They became an “official” couple last night, but only privately.
Sulli said she’d rather eat fertilizer than publicize her relationship. That it’s easier for the world to believe she’s with Akara. Just like the world thinks the rest of SFO are dating their clients, and I saw that most clearly when we were heading to the airport.
Paparazzi and fans were yelling at the top of their lungs.
“OSCAR, CHARLIE, WE LOVE YOU! Oslie for life!!”
“DONNELLY, BECKETT—KISS, KISS, KISS!”
“LunaQuinn! LunaQuinn! LunaQuinn!”
“KITSULLI IS OTP!”
Each one is a completely fictional pairing, and thankfully Omega was able to ignore the chants and maintain their duties. Their steadfast nature is a saving grace. I just hope my siblings and cousins can withstand the rumors.
In the rear of the plane, I lower onto a cream, plush double-seat. Giving us enough privacy to speak alone.
Beckett is forced to sink down beside me. “Where’d you buy these?” He touches the handcuff. “A sex shop?”
“Yes,” I answer, unabashed. “The girl working there was very sweet too.” I might’ve also purchased a new vibrator, Thatcher in attendance with me, but I don’t need to mention this. Clearly, Jane.
Beckett leans back with a sigh. “They are softer than tactical ones.”
I smile. “Precisely.”
Charlie wanted to use metal handcuffs. He thought Beckett would enjoy the fuzzy ones too much, but I couldn’t bear to physically hurt him. We’re already puncturing his emotions enough as it is.
Beckett stares ahead in deeper thought, and my lips gradually fall to a line. He takes a tight breath before turning to me. “So you really believe I’ll run down the aisle past your six-foot-seven boyfriend and bum-rush the only exit that has more than three massive bodyguards climbing on board?”
“Yes.”
He gives me the umpteenth what the fuck face, brows scrunched tight. “Jane,” he whisper-hisses and yanks my wrist toward his chest. “I’m not a fucking addict.”
I want to believe him, so terribly. I want to.
“So maybe you wouldn’t bum-rush the exit.” My voice lowers. “Maybe I believe you in that instance. But the only reason you wouldn’t go for the door is because you’d be afraid one of those massive bodyguards could accidentally break your leg or your arm stopping you, and then you’d be out of ballet. Tell me I’m wrong about that.”
He doesn’t deny a thing. He just leans back, staring ahead again, away from me. And so softly, under his breath, he says, “I hate you, you know.”
My stomach sinks. He keeps unsheathing the same sword and plunging it straight in my gut. Knowing those words wreak an agonizing amount of damage on me.
Am I doing the right thing?
Maybe he doesn’t have a problem.
What if I’m keeping him from his career, his life’s goal for no reason at all? Ballet has been his sport, his art, his love and passion for over seventeen years.