Page 74 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“About me,” she says, glancing at me sideways. “About what I do in my free time.”
There’s a challenge in her voice that intrigues me. “Enlighten me.”
“I’m going skydiving,” she announces, her smile widening at my obvious shock.
“Skydiving,” I repeat, certain I must have misheard. “As in jumping out of a plane to your possible death?”
“The very same.”
I stop walking, staring at her in disbelief. “That’s incredibly dangerous. You really could die.”
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine in a way I haven’t heard since finding her again. “That’s kind of the point, Erik. The risk is what makes it thrilling.”
“But why take unnecessary risks?” I ask, genuinely perplexed. “Haven’t you had enough danger in your life?”
She turns to face me fully, something fierce and alive burning in her eyes. “That’s exactly why I do it. Because for twenty years, I wasn’t allowed to take any risks at all. Every moment of my life was controlled, every choice made for me.” She steps closer, challenging me with her proximity. “Now, I choose the danger. I decide when and how to face it. That’s freedom.”
I stare at her, suddenly seeing her in a new light. This isn’t reckless behavior—it’s reclamation. A way of asserting control over fear itself.
“Besides,” she continues, the gleam in her eye turning mischievous, “I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“I am not a coward,” I protest immediately.
“Prove it,” she taunts, already turning away to continue toward the bus stop. “Jump with me.”
I hurry to catch up with her, torn between admiration for her boldness and genuine concern for her safety. “I have responsibilities. People who depend on me. I can’t just throw myself out of an airplane for the thrill of it.”
“Sounds like something a coward would say,” she replies lightly.
Her casual dismissal of my concern ignites a strange emotion in me—pride, perhaps, or a desire to prove myself worthy of her respect. “Fine,” I say before I can change my mind. “I’ll jump with you.”
She stops walking, turning to stare at me with genuine surprise. “Really? You’ll actually do it?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” I try to sound nonchalant, but the thought of willingly throwing myself from a flying aircraft makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.
Her smile—open, unguarded, genuinely pleased—makes the impending terror almost worth it.
Two hours later, I’m strapped into a harness that seems woefully inadequate for the task ahead, watching as Fiona is fitted with similar gear by an instructor who keeps using phrases like “terminal velocity” and “free fall” with disturbing enthusiasm.
The small plane that will take us to our jumping altitude waits on the runway, its propellers already beginning to turn. Around us, other jumpers—some clearly experienced, others visibly nervous first-timers like me—check equipment and exchange excited chatter.
Fiona, for her part, seems completely at ease. There’s a lightness to her movements, an eagerness that transforms her entire being. This, I realize, is Fiona truly in her element—free, fearless, alive in a way I’ve never seen her before.
“You don’t have to do this if you’re scared,” she says, noticing my expression as we walk out onto the tarmac. “I won’t hold it against you.”
I take her hand impulsively, bringing it to my lips in a gesture that feels both archaic and perfectly right. “I’ll jump out of an airplane for you, Fiona,” I say, surprising myself with the intensity of the words. “It’s not the craziest thing I’ve done for you.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, the barrier she has built between us seems to waver. Then she laughs, pulling her hand away. “Your funeral,” she says flippantly, but there’s a flush creeping up her neck that tells me I’ve affected her more than she wants to admit.
The flight up is a blur of noise and anticipation. Fiona sits across from me, occasionally catching my eye with a knowing smile. The other jumpers joke nervously and offer each other last-minute advice.
“Alright, people,” the jump master announces as we reach our target altitude. “It’s showtime.”
The side door of the plane slides open, and the roar of wind fills the cabin. My heart pounds against my ribs as I watch the first pair of jumpers move to the edge, the instructor shouting final instructions before they tumble into the blue void.
“Now, remember,” my instructor shouts in my ear as we start to approach the open door, “arms out, legs bent, chin up. I’ll tap your shoulder when it’s time to pull the cord!”
I nod, too focused on controlling my breathing to form words. This is madness. Complete and utter madness.
