“Hey,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “Cassius, look at me,” I say more firmly. He opens his eyes. “Breathe. Big deep breaths. Let it out slowly. You’re safe, okay? I wouldn’t put you in danger.”
“We’re really high in the sky,” he says, his words merging together.
I smile. “Yeah, we are. And honestly, it’s kind of cool.”
“Flying is meant for birds.”
“And planes.”
“Birds.”
I huff a laugh, but nothing is funny.
“What can I do to help you relax?” I ask. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes. Alcohol. Please. Lots of it. Now—all of it.”
“Okay,” I say, holding back my chuckle.
I go to the small kitchen in the back of the plane. As my fingers wrap around the refrigerator handle, I wonder why I’m doing this.
Not taking him with me but handling his anxiety. Making him feel better. Getting him a drink. I hired him to be my slave, yet… this has somehow evolved into something so much different. And it’s more than what I should typically do.
When did that happen?
How?
It wasn’t the kiss. Either of them. It started before that. Small changes over the weeks. Small allowances that I gave him. Allowing him to speak when he shouldn’t. Not correcting himwhen he did something wrong. At some point, I started to prefer his company over his obedience, and it’s only right now that I’m admitting it to myself—even though he is the one who brought it up the other day. He’s noticed it… why have I ignored it? Well, not ignored it. I’m aware, I’ve just… not thought about it much.
I tug open the fridge and grab an iced tea—the same one he thoroughly enjoyed that first day in my office— a handful of shooters.
I sit beside him, putting the iced tea in his cup holder and cracking open one of the tiny bottles.
“Here.” I hand it over. He doesn’t open his eyes while trying to grab it, so I gently take his wrist and guide it to the bottle. He brings it to his mouth, and I watch as his beautiful lips part. Lips that I can’t stop thinking about. Not only kissing but many other things that I shouldn’t be thinking about. He pours all the contents into his mouth then swallows hard, hissing afterward.
“God that’s gross,” he mutters.
“Do you want another?”
“Hell yes.”
I huff a laugh and hand him another. As he drinks that one, I twist off the cap of the iced tea and give him that next. He takes a few swigs, then settles it into the cup holder.
“I should get you a snack so there is something in your stomach.”
“Nothing to soak up the alcohol,” he complains.
I look through the cabinets and choose a bag of chips and pretzels. I offer them both and he takes the chips.
“Thank you,” he says.
He devours them like he hasn’t eaten a thing in his entire life. I take one of the shooters for myself and snack on the pretzels.
“What sort of movies do you like to watch?”
“Dunno,” he says, settling his head against the rest and closing his eyes again. His grasp on the chair has lessened and his breathing is slower.
The remote is in a slot on the small console table between us. I turn the TV on. It’s mounted on the wall ahead of us.