Page 3 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

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Today was the wrong day to start thinking positively. Because now, I’m positive this plane is going to crash.

I was sleeping. Or resting, at least. Trying to close my eyes and calm the twist of anxiety in my gut. It was almost working, too, which is obviously when the turbulence started.

Take-off and landings are always the worst part. Once the plane is in the air, I can usually relax. But now, the screen in front of me is flickering along with the cabin lights as the plane shakes and trembles.

“Of course, the one time I fly first class is the one that crashes,” I mutter to myself. Elise is in the row behind me, so there’s no hand to hold. I just white-knuckle the armrests and squeeze my eyes closed.

When we were boarding, the flight attendant saw Elise and I were about to be seated directly in the middle of a rowdy bachelor party and upgraded us to two empty seats in first class.

“Thanks so much,” I’d said, embarrassingly close to tears of gratitude. “I’m on a work trip and things aren’t going the way I thought they would. I just… I really needed this.”

Elise was so embarrassed by my emotions that she pretended she didn’t know me.

But the flight attendant patted my back and whispered in my ear, “Us ladies have to stick together.”

Everyone around me in first class looks like they belong. The woman next to me has on a velvet sweatsuit with a satin eye mask. Everything from her fur slippers to her noise-canceling headphones screams luxury.

The man sitting diagonally across the aisle is snarling something in Russian in flagrant disregard of the“No cell phones”rule the rest of us peasants have to obey. I don’t see anything beyond a broad shoulder and stubbled square jaw, but I’m glad I’m not in the shoes of whatever poor soul is on the other end of his rebuke.

If the plane splits apartLost-style and the first two rows are forced to fend for ourselves on some desert island, then it’ll be Elise, me, Velvet Tracksuit Woman, and Russian Guy.

Suddenly, I’m not sure if the attendant did me a favor or not. Russian Guy doesn’t look like he plays well with others.

Just as the seatbelt light dings on, my stomach flips dangerously. I’m immediately positive I’m going to throw up.

My eyes fly open and I reach for a vomit bag, but there is nothing. The seat back in front of me is empty. No in-flight magazine, no blanket wrapped in plastic, and definitely no vomit bag.

Can I hold it in?Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

But then my stomach contracts and my mind is no longer first-in-command. It isn’t even second. My stomach is in charge and my feet are taking orders without question.

Before I can stop myself, I stand up and rush towards the bathroom.

“Miss, you have to sit down,” the flight attendant from before scolds. “The seatbelt light is on and—”

I ignore her and charge ahead. She undoes her seatbelt like she means to stand up and block me from getting into the bathroom.

So much for “us ladies need to stick together.”

I barrel into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, drop to my knees, and rip open the little plastic lid.

And as soon as I do, the feeling in my stomach fades away.

“What the hell?” I gasp, almost annoyed at myself for not throwing up. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. Roger was right about that much.

There’s a pounding on the bathroom door. “Miss, you cannot be in there. This door should have been locked. You need to come out.”

The plane is still shaking, but not as badly as it was a few moments ago. My heart is pounding and there’s sweat on the back of my neck… but no vomit.

I close the lid and stand up, then wash my hands before I finally open the door. The flight attendant is glaring at me.

“You need to sit down, ma’am. Now.”

I nod pitifully and start picking my way down the aisle towards my seat. “I’m sorry. I’m a nervous flier and the turbulence and… I thought I was going to be sick.”

“When the seatbelt light is on, you need to stay in your seat and—”

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