Page 110 of Reign
At first, I assumed I was reading it wrong because I’ve had almost no sleep and even less patience lately. Then I assume the pilot has rerouted around weather, traffic, or some security concern my team decided not to wake me for.
Then, when the map keeps insisting we are headed toward what looks suspiciously like the middle of nowhere, I sit all the way upright and read the line twice more just to make sure I’m not losing my fucking mind.
I’m not.
This is not Russia.
The flicker of unease starts low and moves fast. Not fear exactly. I’ve spent too many years around men with guns and agendas to mistake every wrong turn for panic. But the feeling is close enough to set my nerves on edge.
I reach for my phone, realize the signal’s already too patchy to be useful, and glance toward the cockpit with growing irritation.
My security detail is on the support jet behind us, which was supposed to be unnecessary because I was explicitly informed, “the Pakhan’s invitation covers the landing.”
If Nikolaj has decided to make a game out of this, I’m going to kill him beautifully.
A flight attendant appears before I can ring for one, no doubt having sensed the shift in my expression and valuing her own safety. She’s one of my regular crew, competent enough to know the difference between an inconvenienced king and a king whose temper has started doing arithmetic.
“Sir,” she says carefully, stepping just inside the cabin. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes.” I tap on the route map with two fingers. “Unless Russia has moved dramatically overnight, where exactly are we going?”
She blinks once, clearly having expected a champagne or blanket request, not geographical outrage. Then she glances toward the monitor, and some faint tension leaves her shoulders.
“Oh,” she says. “The updated flight plan was forwarded before departure.”
“By who?”
She hesitates for exactly the wrong amount of time. “By Nikolaj Dragovich’s office, sir.”
That does not help. If anything, it makes everything worse, because now the confusion has a face and the face is blond, filthy-mouthed, and insane enough to absolutely reroute a private jet without explanation just to see what expression I make when I notice.
I lean back slowly in the seat and stare at the map again as if it might rearrange itself into something sensible if I look hard enough.
“Nikolaj sent this,” I say.
“Yes, sir.”
“And no one thought to mention that to me before takeoff.”
Her professionalism sharpens around the edges. “The instructions indicated you were aware.”
Of course they did. I laugh humorlessly and drag a hand down my face. “Marvelous.”
The attendant, to her credit, does not react to my laughter beyond the smallest easing of her shoulders.
“He submitted authorization through the secure channel,” she adds. “All codes were valid.”
“Of course they were,” I say.
“Would you like me to confirm with the cockpit, sir?”
“No.” I wave her off before she can flee or apologize further. “Go. And send me another bourbon. If I’m being kidnapped by a Russian, I’d prefer to be hydrated.”
That startles the faintest smile out of her before she disappears again. Good. Someone in this situation should have a sense of humor.
Left alone, I turn my attention back to the window, because annoyance does absolutely nothing to solve the mystery, and at least the view is honest.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter where we’re going so long as Nikolaj is the one waiting there. That should be enough reassurance. It almost is. The rest of me is still too busy imagining the man smirking while he signs off on this route change with some unbearable line about how I needed a surprise or how my life has lacked chaos lately.
