Page 71 of These Tears

The thought opens like a wound.

How far does this plan reach?

How much had he done or known before he walked up behind me?

He glances up at the overhead monitor, scanning until his gaze locks on something.

My brows furrow as I follow his eyes, struggling to focus on the destination displayed beside the gate: HARSTAD/NARVIK – EVE.

Where the fuck is Harstad Narvik?

My fingers move instinctively to my coat pocket, searching for my phone, but they find only fabric before memory catches up.

He’d taken it from me.

His eyes meet mine. The light is washed out by the cloud cover, yet even so, it spills through the glass ceiling. But they don’t need the sunlight – his eyes. They glow like sea-kissed glass. Luminous. Otherworldly.

I’m already tracing the edge of the bag where I know the shutter sleeps.

Firm fingers curl around my wrist as though he’s marking territory. Then his gaze sweeps the surroundings, his shoulders squaring.

He spots something. I’m being pulled again, dragged between tired passengers, past a kiosk playing tinny music and a rack of overpriced scarves.

My cheeks are still warm, the events in the lavatory still vivid before my eyes and writhing under my skin.

He’d warned me, hadn’t he? Said he had a temper.

And I hadn’t even done the basic fucking research. His file had been right there. I merely skimmed the warnings, read some of them twice, and still walked into that place thinking about the human behind bars instead of what the paperwork said about him.

Professor Laurie’s voice haunts me from my first year of university, biting as ever. The reprimand about my poor research skills or lack of interest.

I groan loud enough that Elias turns his head to look me over. When I don’t supply an explanation, his expression folds into that signature calm of his.

‘We’ll have breakfast in a minute,’ he says.

His assumption is misplaced, but not entirely false. At the mention of it, my stomach does flip at the sight of warm croissants, and the scent of filter coffee that hisses out from a nearby restaurant.

Catching on my interest, he drags me to the closest till and orders without asking what I want. A sandwich for me. Two for him. I bet he could eat a small horse and still be hungry.

‘I’d prefer a croissant,’ I protest when he hands me the paper-wrapped bun stuffed with ham and enough vegetables to make it taste medicinal.

‘Turkey ham is good protein. It’ll keep you going for a while. You’ll need your strength for the trip.’

I’m restless as we take a seat further from people.

What the hell kind of trip are we making?

But I don’t ask any more. And he doesn’t say.

Anxiety creeps back in, eager to take hold. I bite into the sandwich as I shut my eyes tight, hoping to push away the ideas that surge to mind.

We’re pressed against the window that overlooks the tarmac. Planes glint ominously like mechanical beasts at rest, waiting to open their jaws and swallow me.

Just the sound of plastic water bottles cracking open resounds between us as we eat.

He hasn’t really looked at me once since the lavatory – save for a fleeting glance or two. Each more clinical than the other. As though he’s taking stock of damage done and how much more I could take.

I can’t say I mind this silent reprieve. I haven’t processed things. Haven’t counted the legal or ethical lines he’d crossed since Heathrow. Haven’t decided which ones matter more.