Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
As the plane cruises higher, I’m mesmerized by the transition between untamed landscape and the structured chaos of civilization. Roads carve through forests. Buildings cluster like flocks of resting birds. Gleaming threads of rivers wind through it all.
I trace the curve of her ankle. “Makes me feel small.”
“Small but not powerless. Part of something bigger.”
The scenery is vibrant, like her eyes, pulsing with life and movement in a way that both thrills and terrifies me.
“We need to learn a lot quickly,” I say, thinking aloud. “Driving, using phones, getting IDs.”
“And therapy.” She lowers her feet and reaches for my hands, her fears momentarily forgotten as she considers our needs. “We’ve all been through so much. We can’t ignore how it’s impacted us. That includes Monty, too.”
If Monty is dangerous to her, he won’t live long enough for therapy. I don’t care that he’s my brother. I’ll kill him myself.
Tanya returns with our drinks. “Vodka and bourbon.” She folds down a table between our laps and sets the glasses on it. “Lunch will be served shortly. May I take your coats?”
We shed our outerwear, and I nod my thanks, not used to this level of service.
Frankie unlatches her seat belt.
“What are you doing?” I reach for my belt, ready to go to her.
She moves with a fluid grace that belies her nerves, slipping around the table to where I sit. Crawling onto my lap, she folds into me with the intimacy of a hundred nights curled together for warmth.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against my chest, unable to ignore the sharpness of her bones beneath her skin.
Knowing she’ll have access to proper nutrition and regular meals fills me with immense relief. I imagine her health returning, her figure filling out to its natural, womanly state.
I want to see her not just surviving but thriving, laughing, and lively, her soul as nourished as her body. To see her more freely, without the shadow of hunger darkening her eyes, fuels a deep, burning hope inside me.
You’re going to get better, Frankie. I’ll make sure of it. We’ll have food, shelter, warmth, happiness, and each other. Everything we need.
She peers up, choosing me as her view instead of the sprawling scenery beyond the window. Her presence in my arms, so light yet so profoundly significant, reaffirms my need to watch her flourish, to reclaim the vitality that the harsh life of Hoss stripped away.
Slowly, her breathing grows shallow and even. As I indulge in the sweet scent of her hair against my nose, her eyes drift shut.
Within minutes, she’s asleep.
Careful not to disturb her, I take a sip of the vodka, the clear liquid cool against my lips.
As it glides down, I instinctively critique its profile, comparing it to the batches I distilled under conditions far less ideal than any commercial distillery.
This vodka, likely expensive and well-regarded, hits my palate with an initial smoothness that’s promising, but it quickly reveals its shortcomings.
Swirling the liquid in my glass, I watch it catch the light. It lacks the depth that comes from the meticulous filtering process I used with mine. I always allowed the spirit to mellow through natural charcoal—sourced from peat, wood, and other organic materials—stripping away the harsh notes while enhancing the vodka’s character.
I set the glass down, cataloging the adjustments I would make, the personal touches that would elevate this vodka from merely good to memorable. It’s not just about distilling. It’s about crafting a story in each bottle, a story of survival, of ice, wilderness, and hardship. A story this vodka, for all its refinement, doesn’t tell.
After a while, the faint aroma of heating food drifts through the cabin, stirring something primal within me. My stomach rumbles.
What would they serve on a flight like this? Gourmet meals or something simpler? Certainly not the stark survival fare we’ve been hunting and scraping out of cans all winter.
My mouth waters at the prospect of enjoying a meal I didn’t have to kill or gather myself.
I glance around, detecting movement in the alcove toward the front. It must be a small kitchen area. The scent grows stronger, a blend of savory and unknown spices that are entirely new to my senses.
Leo must smell it, too, because within minutes, he slips out of the cockpit. But he only has eyes for the sleeping woman on my lap.
He approaches quietly as if the very act of walking could disturb her peace, his eyes scanning her features, searching for any hint of pain or fear.
That tenderness in his gaze is new, a softness that didn’t surface until he met Frankie.
Whenever I look at her, I know my face does that melty thing, too.
As he edges nearer, her eyelids flutter open, and a gentle smile spreads across her lips.
“Hi.” Her drowsy voice, barely a whisper, fills the space with warmth.