When The World Stopped Watching (The First Temptation #2)

“Santiago was behind us. Finally. And the woman beside me? Alive. Breathing. Mine.”

Rhys

The car moved like a ghost through the early morning hush—silent streets, shadows soft against the glass. I watched the way the city bled past us, neon scars fading into the dark, and felt the shift deep in my bones.

Santiago was behind us. Finally. And the woman beside me? Alive. Breathing. Mine.

Jasmine leaned into the crook of my arm, cheek pressed against the dark wool of my coat like it was the only pillow in the world she trusted. She looked like sin wrapped in silk and bruises, her fingers curled lightly over mine, her other hand resting on the curve of her belly like it was instinct—like she was already guarding the smallest piece of our future.

I let my hand linger there too, just a moment longer. Thumb circling. Like I was whispering lullabies through skin. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The tension that had lived between her shoulder blades for days was easing, breath by breath. I felt it. Every tremor, every rise and fall of that stubborn, beautiful chest. And I knew, in that silence that had always spoken louder than any god damn words ever could—she was coming home to me.

I kissed her then. Gentle. Grounding. A tether made of heat and promise, the kind that bends time around its edges and carves eternity into the skin.

“First thing we do when we land?” I breathed against her lips. “We lock the doors. Pull the curtains. And forget the rest of the world even exists.”

She hummed softly, already halfway to dreaming.

“You’ll shower while I make your favourite dinner. Then I’ll carry you, wrapped in a towel, into our bedroom. No makeup. No clothes. Just you—glowing, soft, and mine. And when you’re warm and full and safe—then I’ll make you beg.”

My hand found hers again, fingers lacing tight.

“No more hospitals. No more flashing lights. Just you, curled into me while the rain hits our windows, and I tell you over and over that you’re home. That you’re mine. That we fucking made it.”

I turned toward the window. The lights were sparser now. Fewer glass towers. More space between lampposts. The city was fading.

“Santiago’s behind us now, Jasmine. What’s ahead? It’s everything. It’s wedding gowns and heartbeat scans and early mornings with chaos and you dancing barefoot in our kitchen while I forget what the hell I was supposed to be doing.”

I glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed but I knew she heard me. She always heard me. Some part of her always listening, even when the rest of her floated.

“You ready to go home, Mrs. Llewellyn?”

A smile tugged at her lips. Fragile. Real.

“I’m more than ready, love.”

Oh, baby...I exhaled, reverent. Possessive.

“That’s my girl.”

And just like that, I felt it—the exact second the story changed. The war was behind us. And the kingdom? It was finally waiting to be built.

My arm wrapped around her as the city blurred past the windows—Santiago fading behind us like a chapter we were done pretending hadn’t tried to kill us. I could still taste the fight in the air, the ghosts of sirens, the metallic scent of blood and sweat that hadn’t touched her skin but still clung to mine like war paint. And yet, here she was. Breathing. Holding my hand like it was the only real thing left in the god damn world.

I turned to her, cupping her cheek in my palm, my thumb brushing just beneath her eye—right where the last shadow of that place lingered. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. And I whispered it like a vow shaped in smoke and steel.

“It tried to break you,” I said. “But all it did was sharpen you.”

Then I kissed her. Her forehead first—slow, reverent, holy. Then her lips—soft, but claiming. Like I was reminding her that while the city had taken its shots, I was the one who still held her.

“I’ll handle the plane,” I murmured as I reached for my phone. “You handle staying wrapped up in me the whole flight.”

One message. That’s all it took. The jet was already fuelled. I didn’t give a damn about clearance or protocol—those words didn’t apply when the woman I loved needed to get the fuck out. The car turned toward the private hangar like it understood who it was driving.

“You’re going to be nauseous,” I said, already calculating every detail. “So I’ve got ginger chews. Cold compresses. Your favourite hoodie. And a blanket from home that smells like us.”

I reached over, tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Then my voice dropped—lower, quieter. Closer to the truth than anything else that had survived the last week.

“If you get sick, I’ll hold your hair. If you cry, I’ll hold your heart. If you panic...” My hand tightened gently on hers. “I’ll kiss you until the only thing you remember is how fucking loved you are.”

The airport lights rose into view ahead of us, sharp and clinical against the dark—but they didn’t matter. Not tonight. Not when everything real was already inside this car.

“We leave this city as survivors, Jasmine,” I said, my hand resting low on her thigh, thumb pressing in like I could anchor her with skin alone. “But we land as royalty.”

Her fingers twitched, then laced tighter with mine. I looked down at our hands—hers trembling just slightly, mine already steady. That’s how we worked. Where she broke, I held. Where I bled, she poured light. She gripped me like I was the last step between her and falling—but she didn’t have to fall anymore.

“And when we walk through that door back home,” I murmured, “I want your first step to be barefoot on the wood floors. No shoes. No ghosts. No Santiago. Just you and me, and a legacy that starts with your name etched next to mine.”

She smiled then. Small. Soft. Real.

“I’m ready,” she said.

And I felt those words in every god damn bone in my body. I leaned in, kissed the crown of her head, and whispered the only reply that mattered.

“Then it’s done. You’ve got me. All of me. Every damn step from here on out.”

The car rolled to a smooth stop outside the hangar. The jet sat waiting like a chariot forged from silence and steel, its sleek frame glowing beneath the floodlights. I stepped out first, air crisp on my skin, Santiago nothing but a ghost behind me now. Then I turned back—offering her my hand like a promise made flesh.

“Come on, mon amour,” I said, voice low, thick with reverence. “Let me take you home.”

She took it. Of course she did.

One step at a time, I guided her up the narrow staircase—my hand never leaving hers, my body shielding hers from every breath of wind, every stray light. And when she blinked, slow and tired, I was already speaking at her ear.

“You rest now, Jasmine Llewellyn,” I whispered as I helped her settle into the wide leather seat. I pulled the blanket over her like I was tucking in something sacred, brushing one last kiss to her temple.

“Because when you wake up...” I said, voice barely above breath, “you’ll be in our world again.”

And this time, no one gets to take it from us.

The moment her breath hitched, I felt it—like something sacred pulling too tight in the centre of my chest. No one else on this plane would have noticed, not the slight tremble in her hand, not the way her fingers clutched at the sapphire like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. But I noticed. I always fucking notice. Because that ring? It’s not just metal. It’s not just a symbol. It’s mine. She’s mine. And she was scared.

I slid into the seat beside her, slow and intentional, like I was stepping into a battlefield already mapped into my bones. My hand found hers, and I didn’t try to stop the shaking—I wasn’t here to silence her fear. I was here to hold it. To own it. To show her that fear has no power when it’s in my hands.

“Eyes on me, baby.” My voice dropped into that space only she lives in—low, firm, laced with reverence and the kind of authority that made kingdoms bow. “Not the window. Not the runway. Just me.”

My thumb traced over the band on her finger—slow, claiming, like I was spelling out the truth she already knew: that she’d never face anything alone again.

“You feel that?” I breathed, voice curling into her like smoke. “That’s not a piece of jewellery. That’s me. That’s my word, forged into sapphire and steel. Wherever you go—I go. When you shake, I steady. When your heart races, I slow it. You breathe because I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The engines howled like beasts beneath us, the plane rumbling with life—but her heartbeat was louder to me. And when I leaned in, my lips at her ear, the world narrowed to a single truth.

“This plane can rattle. The wind can throw its tantrum. But you? You are not falling, Jasmine. I never let what’s mine fall.”

My hand found her thigh beneath the tray table, warm and grounding, thumb stroking slow circles through the fabric. Not possessive. Protective. A promise in motion.

“We’re going up now,” I whispered, eyes locked to hers. “And I’ll be damned if we don’t come back down exactly the same way—together.”

Her laugh was soft, shaky, but it was there, and fuck if that didn’t undo me. She squeezed my hand, clinging like she didn’t even know she was doing it.

“Of course Rhys Llewellyn thinks he has enough power to tell the plane not to fall out of the sky,” she muttered, trying to hide the quake behind a smirk.

I turned to her with that grin I knew drove her crazy—the one that dripped arrogance and something darker, something deeper. My grip on her hand tightened, firm but worshipful.

“Correction,” I murmured, heat lacing every word. “Rhys Llewellyn doesn’t think he has that power. He knows it.”

I angled her face toward mine with a single finger under her chin, just enough that her gaze couldn’t drift back to the window. Couldn’t drift away from me.

“Let the pilots fly. Let the weather try. Let gravity scream. But baby, the only law this jet listens to? Is me keeping you whole. And you really think the universe is dumb enough to take down the plane that carries my woman and my child?”

My eyes flicked to her stomach—soft and steady beneath the curve of her sweater—and something primal uncoiled in my chest. My entire world in two heartbeats. One body. One throne.

“No, baby. This plane wouldn’t dare.”

She laughed again—softer this time—and I felt her exhale. Like maybe, just maybe, the fear didn’t have claws anymore. Like I’d gutted the thing just by being near her.

“When we land?” I added, smirking. “You can mock my god complex all you want. But for now? Let Daddy fly the universe.”

I watched her settle, her shoulders losing some of their tension, her lashes fluttering closed for half a second. And I swear to god, in that moment, I loved her more than I thought a human heart could bear.

I slipped off my jacket, folded it, and tucked it behind her head like it was stitched from the very sky itself. The things I’d do to keep her comfortable weren’t just gestures—they were war strategies disguised as affection.

“Alright, mon cœur,” I murmured, brushing a curl behind her ear. “You just won your battle with the sky. Now let me handle everything else.”

From the carry-on—meticulously packed by my assistant with every scenario in mind—I pulled out the ginger chews, the cold compress, and her favourite water bottle. The one that still had her lipstick mark smudged near the top. I unwrapped the chew with one hand and brought it to her lips.

“Open, Kitten,” I whispered, teasing her with a smirk. “Time to tame that revolution in your stomach before I have to start staging a god damn coup.”

I pressed the cool compress to the back of her neck, fingers trailing along her nape in slow, grounding strokes. Gentle. Certain.

“You’re not alone up here,” I breathed. “Not now. Not ever.”

Because this flight? This moment? It wasn’t just about getting her home.

It was about showing her that she already was.

I watched her skin blanch under the sickly cabin lights, that stubborn sheen of sweat kissing her brow, and my body reacted before my mind did. Protective didn’t even cover it—it was instinct, bone-deep and blood-born. She twisted the ring again, a nervous habit that had become scripture, and when her stomach gave another vicious twist, I knew the sarcasm was her last shield before the unravel.

“You’re pale,” I murmured, brow tightening as I cupped her jaw in my palm. “Still the most gorgeous thing on this plane, but if you puke on me, I’m going to have to dramatically take off my shirt and cause a scandal. Which, granted, would be hilarious. But let’s not traumatize the crew unless it’s strictly necessary.”

She hiccupped—an involuntary jolt that made her wince—and still, still, she found a way to claw a smile into her mouth.

“Traumatize the crew?” she groaned, her voice thick and coated with bile. “No, they wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off you. And THEN we’d crash.”

And just like that—fuck. There she was. My pale, feral, glorious disaster of a goddess. Half-dying, probably seconds away from throwing up into a bag, and still armed with wit sharp enough to slit a man’s throat from across the room. I couldn’t stop the laugh that broke out of me—low, proud, fucking feral with admiration.

God, I loved her.

My hand moved to the back of her neck, pressing the cold compress there with a precision that said, I’ve done this before. Because I had. With her. In darker moments. On darker days. And every single time, I held her just like this—like a lifeline with a pulse.

“Careful, Mrs. Llewellyn,” I purred, my lips brushing her temple as I leaned in. “Say another word like that, and I will take off my shirt. Not for the crew. For you. Just to give you something else to focus on while your stomach turns into Cirque du fucking Soleil.”

I kissed her knuckles—softer this time. A benediction more than a tease.

“You’re doing so damn well, Jasmine,” I murmured, thumb tracing along her cheekbone, slow and grounding. “Brave doesn’t mean fearless. Brave means you’re sitting here, pale and shaking, and still refusing to let the fear win. And we’re not crashing, baby. Not on my watch. Not on my jet. Not while you’re carrying my fucking legacy in that beautiful, rebellious body of yours.”

She hiccupped again, a pathetic, traitorous little sound that made her groan. I reached for the sick bag—neatly folded, tucked in the side panel, practically mocking her.

“Yes, Kitten,” I murmured with something like reverence as I unfolded the bag and placed it in her lap, “even this part of the journey is sacred. You’re carrying our future. If it wants to purge Santiago from your body one last time, I’m here for every wretched moment. Every heave. Every complaint. Every curse you throw at me while I rub your back. And I’ll still think you’re the most stunning, dangerous, irresistible woman on earth. Even if you throw up in my lap.”

She whimpered something muffled, soft, humiliated. “I am not ruining another one of your damned designer suits.”

I laughed—real and full, the kind that broke tension and rewired air.

“Two suits, one night,” I murmured, letting my fingers trail up her ribs with worship, “and you still think I regret a second of it? You drenched me in saltwater, scraped my ego across an ice rink, and collapsed in my arms like even gravity obeyed you. I ruined ten thousand dollars in fabric that night, Jasmine. And I’d do it again, and again, and again if it meant hearing you laugh like that in my arms one more time.”

My hand slid to her belly, reverent and steady. Warm and grounding.

“You think I give a damn about fabric when the most precious thing I’ve ever worn is your name against my chest... and your future curled up inside you?” I leaned in closer, my voice a soft threat to every insecurity in her head. “You ruin me daily, Mrs. Llewellyn. Don’t you dare stop now.”

Then, a crooked smirk as I added, “But for the record, I did pack a change of clothes. So puke if you have to. Cry if you need to. Strip me if it helps. Hell, rip the suit off and make me fly this plane shirtless and barefoot if it gets your stomach to settle. I’ll even serve drinks from the cockpit while you nap.”

Her eyes blinked up at me, glassy and swimming. “Baby,” she whispered, “I know that usually I fall for your charm and smooth lines, but it’s hard to feel sexy when I just want to throw up.”

Fuck. That broke me.

I slid closer until our legs touched, cupping her face in both hands, pressing our foreheads together like I was trying to meld us back into one soul.

“Hey,” I whispered, and my voice cracked with the rawness of it. “You don’t need to feel sexy right now. You just need to breathe. You don’t have to flirt. You don’t have to smile. You’re allowed to just exist. And I’ll still look at you like you hold galaxies behind your ribs. You’re creating life, Jasmine. You’re exhausted. You’re hurting. And I’m still in awe of you. And for the record? I didn’t fall for your charm. I fell for your fight. For your fire. For the way you flinch and keep going anyway. For the way you whisper ‘I’m fine’ when I can see every bone in your body screaming. You don’t need to be sexy. You just need to feel safe.”

I tucked her into my side, threading her fingers with mine, anchoring her there.

“And you are. Right here. With me.”

She didn’t need to ask. The second her eyes met mine—heavy-lidded and glassy, mouth slightly parted, desperation blooming like a fever beneath the veil of her nausea—I knew exactly what she needed. Distraction. Escape. A door cracked open just wide enough to let the future bleed in and flush the present out.

“Can we talk about the wedding?” she whispered, voice thin and frayed.

I didn’t hesitate. My hand wrapped tighter around hers like a lifeline I’d never let go of.

“You want distraction?” I murmured, leaning in until my breath brushed her lips, until she could taste the vow in my voice. “Then let’s build our forever.”

I shifted in the seat to face her fully, arm draped along the backrest, legs angled toward her like the rest of the plane could cease to exist. She was the world. The jet was just geography.

“Alright, Jasmine Llewellyn—future queen of everything I own—tell me...”

And then came the smirk. That low, lazy, dangerous curl of my lips that always made her forget the rest of the world was even happening.

“What colour are the bridesmaid dresses?” I asked, voice like dark silk. “Because I have two very conflicting images in my head. One where they’re soft and floral—rosewater and ivory, the kind of delicate palette that whispers elegance and old money... And the other?” I let my gaze drag over her, slow and indulgent. “Something darker. Wilder. Freesia-purple and midnight blue. The kind of palette that walks down the aisle like it knows the night bends for no one but the bride. So, princess... who are you walking down that path of white rose petals as?”

She inhaled slowly, her voice steadier than her body. “Dark blue. The flowers are soft and sweet, but I want the contrast colour to impact. Make the white all brighter.”

My gaze didn’t waver. Not for a second.

“Dark blue,” I repeated, my voice dropping into that low, rough register I knew she felt in her spine. “Then it’ll be midnight wrapped around the stars... and you—this radiant thing in lace and silk—shattering the dark just by walking through it.”

My thumb traced her knuckles, slow and reverent.

“You’re right. The flowers can be soft. The setting can be dreamy. But the energy?” I chuckled, warm and dangerous. “The energy is ours. Tension. Contrast. Passion under velvet.”

She looked at me then—really looked—and swallowed hard, like the moment was bigger than her body could hold. “What do you want?” she asked, voice tight, quiet.

“I want a night no one forgets,” I said, no hesitation. “Not perfect. Not curated. Not polished for photos. Real. Sacred. Visceral. I want to see you barefoot at some point, because I know you’ll kick your heels off before the dancing starts. I want to kiss you before the vows are even spoken, because I won’t be able to wait. I want to see that sapphire glinting on your hand as you grip my collar when we sneak away from the crowd and finally let the tension snap. And selfishly? I want you to call me husband at least once before we leave the venue. What I want, Jasmine... is to remember it. Every second. Not for the aesthetic—but for the way you’ll look at me. For the way your voice will break when you say ‘I do.’ For the way my name will sound on your lips... when you finally take it.”

She smiled—soft, shaky, still recovering—but radiant.

“I’ll call you husband a thousand times over,” she whispered, “because I like the way the word tastes on my tongue. It’ll be a night we’ll never forget, I promise you.”

My voice dropped, laced with that dark reverence only she ever earned.

“Say it again,” I whispered. “Say husband like it belongs to you. Like it lives in your mouth now and no one else gets to hear it without earning the right to breathe next to you.”

I leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“Say it again, Jasmine. And I’ll make sure that night isn’t just unforgettable—it’ll be the standard every god damn fairytale will burn trying to match. And after the dancing... after the cake... after the laughter and speeches and tears and the sound of your dress sweeping through rose petals? You’ll fall asleep in my arms, and I’ll whisper husband into your hair until you’re dreaming of everything we’ve yet to build.”

She kissed my temple, fingers threading into mine like ivy growing wild.

“Just wait, my love,” she said softly. “That’s going to be special for the wedding... and every day after that, I promise.”

She leaned into me then, sighing into the curve of my neck, her breath curling around my skin like a vow.

“Say something beautiful in French,” she murmured.

I didn’t hesitate. I shifted closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, every syllable a weapon and a lullaby, a spell and a truth all at once.

“Je te porterai dans mes bras, dans mes rêves, et dans ma vie—jusqu’à mon dernier souffle.”

I will carry you in my arms, in my dreams, and in my life—until my last breath.

She melted into me, the sharpness of her nausea dulled by the warmth of my voice, the weight of the promise wrapping her like silk. I held her tighter.

“I’ll carry you through pain,” I whispered. “Through joy. Through storms. Through silence. I’ll carry you, Jasmine, even when you don’t ask. Especially when you can’t. You’re not just loved. You’re held. In every language. Every moment.”

Her breath slowed against my chest, lashes fluttering shut, her body melting into mine like it always belonged there.

I held her like a man anchoring the only piece of heaven he’d ever touched.

And when she slipped under—safe, warm, finally at peace—I brushed her hair back from her brow and kissed her temple.

"Dors bien, mon trésor. Je veille sur toi."

Sleep well, my treasure. I’m watching over you.

And I did. Through turbulence. Through time zones. Through every ache in her soul. I watched her like a king guards his crown. Like a wolf watching the last flicker of firelight in a cold world.

And I didn’t blink.