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 ting tethering me to sanity. It’s like accidental ASMR for the deeply unhinged.

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

I down another shot of whiskey. The burn slides down my throat and pools 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, 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 hits 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 and cedar and dark earth, like walking into a forest after rain. It smells so impossibly good that I’ve actually forgotten to panic; which is a minor miracle.

I look up to find the source.

And there he is.

Standing across the bar like he materalized out of thin air. Tall, absurdly tall. Dartk hair that looks like it was styled by running his hands through it and deciding that was good enough. Eyes the color of burnt sugar. 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 across his body, cataloging every detail. The way his shirt fits. The line of his jaw. The way he holds himself, confident, easy, 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—

My face is burning. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, flooding my cheeks. I’m probably the color of a stop sign.

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. Locks onto mine.

The air punches out of my lungs.

His eyes are dark and hungry, and there’s a slow smile curving his mouth, like he knows. Like he heard every filthy thought that just ran through my head. But that’s impossible. I didn’t say it out loud.

Right?

The smile deepens with knowing amusement.

Embarrassment crashes over me so hard I nearly fall off my stool. My hands are shaking. My face is on fire. I need to leave. I need to leave right now.

The boarding announcement crackles overhead like a divine intervention.

I bolt.

I don’t look back. I just grab my bag and move, weaving through the crowd toward my gate, heart hammering, anxiety building with every step. The whiskey is doing its job, barely, keeping my legs functional, keeping 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. My lungs are starting 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.

Moving through the crowd with impossible ease. His broad shoulders part the press of bodies like water. He’s not pushing, he isn’t trying to force his way through. People just… move. Like they sense him and step aside without thinking.

Oh gosh. He’s on my flight.

My stomach drops.

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 thing keeping me tethered to reality.

I scan the cabin, searching for him, but I don’t see him. The aisle fills with passengers shoving bags into overhead bins, settling into seats, and when the chaos finally clears, the seat beside me is still empty.

Relief floods through me.

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. The plane begins to taxi. My stomach drops as we lift, and I feel the terror rising in my chest like a living thing.

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. It’s solid and warm. My fingers curl into soft fabric. There’s a pressure against one side of my body, and it feels so good my body instinctively pulls closer, chasing the warmth like finding 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 and 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 pressed against his chest. My fingers twisted in his shirt, and my leg hooked over his thigh.

Oh, god.

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

“Good morning.”

His voice is heat itself. Deep and sensual, rolling through me in waves.

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

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

His thumb shifts against my waist, sending shivers racing down my spine.

“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.”

“On one was.” His voice is rich with satisfaction.

“So, you just… took it?”

“Yes,” his voice dips. “When it’s mine to take.”

The words hand in the air between us.

Is he talking about the seat? Or me?

I want to say something. I want to tell him he doesn’t own me or the seat, that he can’t just claim things, people, like that. 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, to force air into my lungs, 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, melting the animalistic terror in my chest. My muscles go liquid. I sink into him without meaning to, my body making the decision for me.

The plane steadies, and I realize, slowly and with growing horror, that I’m straddling a stranger. That 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. My breath hitches. 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, my face burning.

“Isla.”

My skin prickles with cold.

“How do you know my name?”

The smile that moves across his face is slow and knowing, filling my blood with ice.

“I know a great many things.”