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“Took you long enough,” she called down from the cockpit. “I was starting to think I’d have to come rescue you from the passport guy.”

“He wasn’t worth the effort,” Brock said, his hand warm on Elena’s lower back as he guided her up the stairs. The cabin felt different now—no longer the beginning of an adventure but a vehicle carrying them deeper into the unknown. Elena took her seat by the window, exhausted.

The adrenaline from the last few hours was draining away, leaving her hollowed out and shaky, her body remembering that it had been awake for nearly twenty hours. Brock settled beside her, his presence solid and reassuring in the dimmed cabin.

Across the aisle, Nate was already pulling Eden close, murmuring something that made her smile—soft and private, a moment that made Elena’s chest ache with longing. Mira’s voice came through the intercom.

“Tower’s cleared us for takeoff. Flight time to Cancun is one hour forty-five minutes. We’re looking at a 12:47 a.m. local arrival, so get comfortable.”

The jet taxied to the runway, and within minutes they were airborne, Miami’s lights falling away beneath them like scattered diamonds. The Gulf of Mexico stretched out below, dark and endless, reflecting nothing but stars. Elena stared out the window at the blackness, her reflection ghostly in the glass. She looked pale, drawn, the shadows under her eyes pronounced even in the dim cabin lighting.

“You should try to sleep,” Brock said, his voice pitched low enough that it didn’t carry across the aisle. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

“I can’t.” The admission felt like weakness, but she was too tired to pretend.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Marguerite. In that chair. Terrified.”

“Then don’t close your eyes.” He lifted the armrest between them, the movement slow and deliberate, giving her time to refuse.

“Just rest.” His arm opened in invitation, and Elena found herself leaning into him before she’d consciously made the decision. Her head found the hollow of his shoulder like it had been designed to fit there, and she felt his sharp intake of breath, the way his body went very still for a moment before his arm came around her, drawing her closer.

He was warm and solid, all muscle and strength, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart through his shirt. Smell the lingering scent of his soap mixed with something that was uniquely him—clean and male and inexplicably comforting.

“That’s better,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hair. The touch sent shivers cascading down her spine despite the warmth of the cabin. “Just breathe, Elena. In and out. We’ve got time.”

His free hand found hers, and he brought their joined hands to rest on his thigh. The casual intimacy of it—the way he held her like she was precious, like he had every right to touch her, to comfort her.

Across the aisle, Eden had her head on Nate’s shoulder, both of them already dozing. Through her lashes, Elena could see Nate’s hand move in slow, soothing strokes through his wife’s hair, an unconscious tenderness that spoke of deep love and deeper trust. She wanted that. God help her, she wanted it so badly she could taste it—that security, that certainty of being known completely and loved anyway.

Elena tried to relax, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. Her heart was beating too fast, hyperaware of everywhere Brock’s body touched hers—his arm around her shoulders, her cheek against his chest, their thighs pressed close, their fingers intertwined.

“What if something goes wrong?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Then we adapt.” His voice was steady, certain, the voice of a man who’d faced death and come out the other side.

“What if I freeze? What if I see them and I just—” Her voice broke, the fear bubbling up despite her best efforts to contain it. Brock’s arms tightened around her, drawing her impossibly closer until she was nearly in his lap.

“You won’t. I know you, Elena. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You survived them once. You rebuilt your entire life. You’re not that terrified girl anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that girl wouldn’t be on this jet.” His hand came up to cup her face, tilting it toward him. In the dim cabin lighting, his eyes were dark, intense, focused on her like she was the only thing that existed. “That girl would still be hiding, hoping if she stayed small enough and quiet enough, the monsters wouldn’t find her.” His thumb traced her cheekbone, the touch so gentle it made her eyes burn. “You’re flying toward them. That takes courage most people will never have.”

She turned her face into his chest, unable to hold his gaze, overwhelmed by the faith she saw there. She breathed him in—that scent of soap and man and safety that was becoming dangerously familiar.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her cheek, and she felt the words as much as heard them. His hand stroked down her back in long, slow movements that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with comfort.

“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to hurt you while I’m here.”

The endearment wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and protective. She’d never let anyone call her baby before—had flinched away from any term of affection that suggested vulnerability. But from Brock, in his deep voice roughened by fatigue and emotion, it sounded right. It sounded like a promise.

She didn’t mean to sleep. Didn’t think she could, not with her mind racing and her body thrumming with awareness of him. But the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the security of his presence, the hypnotic stroke of his hand on her back—it all conspired to pull her under despite the fear churning in her gut. The last thing she felt before sleep claimed her was Brock’s lips pressing softly to her forehead, lingering there like a benediction.

“We’re ten minutes out from Cancun International. Welcome to paradise, people.”