Page 442 of Bad Prince
A thought strikes me.
I look at him slowly.
“I don’t even have my passport.”
He goes very still.
Then, devastatingly, one side of his mouth lifts.
“As if that would stop me from taking you anywhere I wanted.”
The line hits me right in the center of my chest.
Possessive in that low, effortless Tristan way that makes everything in me sit up and listen.
My pulse kicks.
I try for sarcasm and miss by a mile. “That’s slightly alarming.”
His eyes darken.
“Good.”
Then he reaches for me, and all the laughter drains out of the moment.
Because suddenly he’s close again.
Close enough to smell like clean skin and leather and whatever expensive male temptation means in molecular form.
Close enough that every inch of my body starts paying attention.
“Ready?” he asks quietly.
The question lands differently than the blindfold did.
Softer.
Deeper.
Because beneath the teasing and secrecy and private-plane madness, that’s what this is.
Trust him—and I do.
God help me, I do.
So I nod.
His expression shifts—not triumphant, not smug. Just something warm and intent that makes me feel seen all the way through.
“Good girl.”
The silk slides over my eyes.
The world goes dark.
I hear myself laugh once under my breath because apparently I have become the kind of woman who lets a beautiful man blindfold her at the end of a mystery flight and does not immediately start making terrible choices.
“Still here?”
