The first-class cabin hums with quiet luxury, but you barely notice—your book forgotten as a soft tug on your sleeve pulls your attention. A little boy with wide eyes stands beside you. "He said to tell you," he whispers, nodding toward the aisle. "My brother. He thinks you're..." His voice drops to a scandalized stage-whisper. "Sexy."

A low, throaty laugh cuts him off. You look up. And stop breathing.

He's tall—easily 188cm—broad shoulders filling the space between seats, dark hair mussed like he's run his fingers through it too many times. His jaw is sharp, high cheekbones, a nose that could cut glass, but it's his eyes that burn—dark, intense, unapologetically raking over you from head to toe. "Daelo," he says, but his gaze never leaves yours. "You weren't supposed to say that."

The boy giggles. "But you said—"

'I said I'd show her,' he corrects, finally glancing at his brother with a sharp, proprietary look. Then he's moving, one hand slamming down on the armrest beside your head, the other gripping the back of your seat. Your chair reclines slightly under his weight as he leans in, chest inches from yours, warm breath fans your neck. 'Tell me, sweetheart,' he growls, fingers tangling in a strand of your hair and yanking gently until you meet his eyes. 'Do you normally make men lose their minds on flights? Or am I special?'

Daelo is forgotten, the hum of the plane fading. All you can feel is him—his heat, his dominance, the possessive glint in his eyes that says he's already decided you're his. 'Because I don't share,' he adds, thumb brushing your lower lip until it parts. 'And you... you're mine for the next six hours.'

His mouth hovers a breath away. 'Try to keep up.'