Bound by my blood

Chapter eleven

Alexandria's POV

My fingers dig into the armrests, gripping so tightly that my nails threaten to pierce the leather. My arms tremble with the effort, but I refuse to let go. If I just hold on tight enough, maybe I can keep myself grounded. Maybe I can pretend I'm not in a metal coffin being hurled into the sky.

I squeeze my eyes shut and press myself as far back into the seat as possible, as if that will make me disappear.

Then it happens.

The plane lurches forward, its wheels leaving the ground, and a horrible drop in my stomach makes me gasp.

We're ascending.

Higher.

Higher.

38,000 feet in the air.

My breaths grow short and shallow, panic slamming into me like a tidal wave.

What if we crash?

I picture it in my mind so vividly that my body reacts as if it's real—the deafening screech of metal, the oxygen masks dropping uselessly, the weightless free fall before we slam into the ground, nothing but fire and debris left in our wake.

I clutch the seat harder. My knuckles are so white they burn.

People always laugh when I tell them I have aviophobia, but how can anyone enjoy this? How can anyone feel comfortable being this high up, completely powerless to what happens next?

It's not like a car.

If something goes wrong on the road, you can pull over. Get out. Call for help.

Here?

There's nothing.

No escape.

Just falling.

I shudder violently as nausea rises in my throat. My chest feels like it's being squeezed by an invisible fist, so tight I can barely breathe. I force myself to take deep breaths, dragging in the stale, recycled air of the cabin. It does nothing.

The sleeping pills will kick in soon.

They have to.

I just need to hold on until then.

From the other cabin, laughter echoes. Deep, rich male voices. Vincenzo, his father, and Angelo.

They're having a great time.

Unlike me, they're completely at ease, probably sipping whiskey in their leather recliners while making crude jokes I wouldn't understand.

And they're not alone.

The two perfectly gorgeous blonde flight attendants are in there too, tending to them like they exist for no other reason.

I don't even want to think about what else they might be doing.

I shouldn't care.

I tell myself it doesn't bother me, but the way my stomach knots tells a different story.

Who even needs two private hostesses?

They were beautiful—perfectly beautiful. The kind of women who belonged on magazine covers, not cramped airplane cabins.

Tall, leggy, blue-eyed. Men's fantasies brought to life.

And then there was me.

I was attractive in my own way, I supposed. But I wasn't them.

I never fit the perfect mold. Never had men fawning over me the way they did for girls like that. The ones with golden hair and delicate features.

Even in school, I was never the one boys whispered about in the hallways. They always went for the pretty girls. The blonde, blue-eyed girls.