Crowned in Shadow

I’ve been staring at a woman eating chips for twenty minutes, and honestly, she’s probably debating whether to alert airport security. But here’s the thing: I’m terrified of flying, and the rhythmic crunch of her snacking has become the only thing tethering me to sanity. It’s like accidental ASMR for the deeply unhinged.

I’m camped at the airport bar because every flight has been delayed. The storm outside is biblical. Thick gray clouds rolling in like something out of a disaster movie, lightning splitting the sky in jagged white fractures. Thunder follows, loud enough to rattle the floor-to-ceiling windows rattle in their frames.

I down another shot of whiskey. The burn slides down my throat and settles hot in my stomach, but it does absolutely nothing for my pulse, which is currently attempting to break the land-speed record. I really don’t want to get on this flight. Let’s be real… I don’t want to get on any flight. But I promised Ivy.

She called last week, her voice bright with that brand of optimism that makes you want to believe her even when you know better. Come live with me in the mountains. It’ll be good for you. A fresh start. She has a cottage on their property. Her husband needs an assistant. It’s better than what I have now: a studio apartment held together by duct tape and spite, and a soul-crushing job where my primary skill is fetching coffee for people who don’t remember my name.

Yeah, it’ll totally be worth it. Assuming I don’t die of a panic attack before boarding.

Another crack of thunder splits the air, and I white-knuckle the edge of the bar. I signal for another shot. The bartender pours without comment, which either means he’s seen worse or he’s given up on humanity. Both are valid.

I’m mid-sip when cold air brushes my face. They must have finally cranked up the AC. Thank God. But there’s something else now. A scent cutting through the stale airport air. Pine, cedar, and dark earth, like walking into a forest after rain. It smells so impossibly good that I forget to panic for a second, which is a minor miracle.

I look up to find the source.

And there he is.

Standing across the bar like he materialized out of thin air. Tall. Absurdly tall, with dark hair that looks like he styled it by running his hands through it and deciding that was good enough. Eyes the color of burnt sugar, and shoulders broad enough to make me forget how words work. He’s muscular in a way that suggests contained violence, like he could break someone in half but would be polite about it.

He’s devastating.

My eyes drag over him, cataloging every detail. The way his shirt fits. The line of his jaw. The easy confidence in the way he carries himself, like he’s never doubted a single thing in his life.

Snap out of it, Isla. Drooling in public is a one-way ticket to a wellness check.

But I can’t stop. My brain has fully abandoned ship. I’m imagining things I have no business imagining in an airport bar at eleven in the morning. Things involving his hands. His mouth. The way he’d look at me if I—

Mortification hits as I realize exactly where my thoughts have gone. I drop my gaze, trying desperately to get my overactive hormones under control.

That’s enough whiskey for you. You’re acting like a dog in heat.

He tilts his head.

Almost like he can hear me.

Can you hear me, handsome stranger?

His gaze lifts and locks onto mine.

The air punches out of my lungs.

His eyes are dark and hungry, a slow smile spreading across his face like he knows. Like he heard every filthy thought that just ran through my head.

But that’s impossible.

Right?

His smile deepens with knowing amusement.

Embarrassment crashes over me so hard I nearly fall off my stool. My hands start shaking, and suddenly there’s only one thought in my head: I need to leave. Right now.

The boarding announcement crackles overhead like a divine intervention.

I bolt.

I grab my bag and weave through the crowd toward my gate without looking back, my pulse spiking as anxiety builds with every step. The whiskey is doing its job—barely—keeping my legs functional and the panic at a low simmer instead of a full boil.

The boarding bridge is a nightmare. Dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a sickly white. Bodies press in from all sides, shuffling forward in a slow, suffocating march. There’s nowhere to go but forward. The air is stale and too warm, and my lungs begin to constrict.

Breathe. Just breathe. You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again. Probably.

I’m doing everything in my power not to spiral when I see him.

He moves through the crowd with impossible ease, his broad shoulders parting the press of bodies like water. He doesn’t push or force his way through. People just… move. Like they sense him and step aside without thinking.

Oh gosh. He’s on my flight.

My insides seem to fall away.

I force myself forward, one foot in front of the other, until I finally reach my seat. Row twenty-two. Window. I collapse into it, legs trembling, hands gripping the armrests like they’re the only things keeping me tethered to reality.

I scan the cabin for him, but he’s nowhere in sight. Passengers shove bags into overhead bins and settle into their seats, and when the chaos finally clears, the seat beside me is still empty.

Thank you, God. I’ll take the small mercies.

I close my eyes and will myself under. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to fly—knock myself out before the panic can take hold. The engines roar to life, and the plane begins to taxi. As we lift, terror claws its way up my chest.

But the whiskey is finally working. My thoughts blur. My body goes heavy. And then—

Nothing.

Heat.

That’s the first thing I register. My body feels like it’s on fire.

That’s the last time I drink whiskey to calm my nerves.

But something else is wrong. I’m too tired to open my eyes, but I can feel it, something moving beneath my cheek. Solid and warm. My fingers curl into soft fabric, and pressure rests against one side of my body. It feels so good that I instinctively pull closer, chasing the warmth like I’ve found the perfect spot in bed where everything just fits.

I take a deep breath and freeze.

Pine. Cedar. Dark earth.

That scent.

My eyes snap open to find dark eyes staring back at me.

It’s him.

The man from the bar.

He’s sitting in the seat beside me—the seat that was empty—and I’ve curled into him like a blanket. My cheek is pressed against his chest, my fingers twisted in his shirt, one leg hooked over his thigh.

Oh, god.

Up close, he’s even more lethal. Every feature is sharper. The line of his jaw could cut glass, and his mouth is curved into a small, knowing smile.

“Good morning.”

His voice is deep, sensual, and rolling through me in waves.

“I—I’m sorry.” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” His smile widens, amusement glinting in his eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”

His thumb shifts against my waist, sending a sharp thrill through me.

“I’m sorry?” My mind is still whirling from the cocktail of sleep and alcohol.

I untangle myself from his arm and scramble back into my seat, trying desperately to salvage what little dignity I have left. Which is approximately zero, considering I just cuddled a stranger like he was a body pillow.

“I didn’t think anyone was sitting in that seat.”

“No one was.” He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“So, you just… took it?”

“Yes.” His voice lowers. “When it’s mine to take.”

The words hang in the air between us.

Is he talking about the seat? Or me?

I should tell him exactly where he can shove that possessive bullshit, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me. It pulls me in even as every instinct screams at me to turn away.

The plane jolts.

My stomach drops. The image of plummeting to my death floods my mind, and an embarrassing squeal escapes me.

“Nervous flyer?” His tone is light, teasing.

“Yes.”

“I can hold you again if it’ll make you feel better.”

“While I appreciate the offer, I’m perfectly capable of panicking in my own seat.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that does absolutely nothing to help my situation.

The plane lurches harder. My vision goes white with panic. I try desperately to breathe through it, but my lungs have apparently decided to take a vacation and have stopped working altogether.

It’s okay, Isla. Don’t panic. Flying is statistically safer than driving. Although you can’t plummet to your death in a car, so there’s that.

The plane drops.

A stomach-turning, why-haven’t-the-oxygen-masks-fallen-yet kind of drop.

I scream, and thankfully, I’m not the only one.

Then his hands are on my waist, lifting me, effortlessly, from my seat onto his lap.

“Are you crazy? Put me dow—”

“Shh.” His voice is soothing, certain. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

He presses me firmly against him. His body heat seeps into my skin, and the terror in my chest begins to loosen. I sink into him without meaning to.

The plane steadies, and I realize, slowly and with growing horror, that I’m straddling a stranger. I can feel every inch of him beneath me, including the unmistakable press of him against the inside of my thigh—hard and insistent.

My thighs tighten involuntarily against his hips. Heat floods through me, liquid and immediate. His hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into my skin through my shirt. A sound escapes me, barely audible, but I see his eyes darken instantly.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice rough.

What am I doing?

My hips shift. Just slightly, just enough. The groan that rumbles through his chest is almost my undoing.

“I—I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” I try to push myself off him, mortification washing over me.

“Isla.”

My skin prickles with cold.

“How do you know my name?”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, and suddenly the warmth between us is gone.

“I know a great many things.”