Chapter 286. Sanctuary Aloft

The jet was a ghost.

It bore no tail number, no corporate livery, just a matte grey finish that seemed to drink the weak light from the airfield. Inside, it was a study in functional luxury, but of a different sort than Anton’s usual fleet. The leather was butter-soft but scuffed in places; the cabin held the faint, clean scent of ozone and aviation fuel, not perfume. This was a vehicle for disappearing, not for show.

As the engines whined to life with a vibration that thrummed through the soles of their shoes, Anton guided Sabatine to a wide seat at the rear of the cabin. “Strap in,” he said, his voice still edged with the residual urgency of their escape. “We’ll be climbing fast.”

Sabatine obeyed, his movements precise, automatic. But his eyes never left Anton, tracking him as he moved forward to speak in low tones with the pilot—a grim-faced woman with close-cropped silver hair who nodded once, her gaze sweeping over Sabatine with assessing professional neutrality before returning to her controls. Anton had a network, Sabatine realized, that even he, the investigator, had only glimpsed. Not everything was bought. Some things were owed.

The jet began to roll, the London airfield lights blurring past the windows into streaks of gold. With a surge of power that pressed them back into their seats, they were airborne, the city below shrinking rapidly into a grid of glowing jewels before being swallowed by a blanket of cloud.

Only then, as the plane levelled off and the harsh ping of the seatbelt sign faded, did the silence in the cabin become something more than operational. It became immense. The adrenaline that had sustained them through the gala, the escape, the frantic drive, began to recede like a tide, leaving behind a raw, trembling shore of exhaustion and aftermath.

Anton returned from the cockpit, shedding his tailored tuxedo jacket. He tossed it over a chair, his movements uncharacteristically graceless with fatigue. He stood for a moment, looking at Sabatine as if he’d just now, truly, seen him in the light. The impeccable black suit was rumpled, a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and in his storm-grey eyes, the fierce resolve was giving way to a profound, bone-deep weariness.

“Are you hurt?” Anton asked, the question blunt, stripped bare.

Sabatine shook his head, then reconsidered. “Not in any way that leaves a mark.”

Anton understood. He crossed the cabin in two strides, kneeling before Sabatine’s seat. His hands came up, not in a grand gesture, but to carefully, methodically, undo the tight knot of Sabatine’s tie. He pulled the silk free, his fingers brushing the column of Sabatine’s throat.

“They tried to break you tonight,” Anton murmured, his voice low. “To make you into a pawn in their story.”

“They nearly succeeded.” Sabatine’s own voice was hoarse. “If you hadn’t…”

“Don’t.” Anton’s fingers stilled. “Don’t think about the ‘if.’ We’re here. We’re away.”

He finished with the tie and moved to the buttons of Sabatine’s shirt, undoing the top two. It was an act of such intimate, practical care that Sabatine’s breath caught. This was not the calculated billionaire or the desperate man orchestrating an escape. This was someone tending to a partner. The simplicity of it undid him more completely than any kiss could have.

“Where are we going, Anton?” Sabatine asked, watching his face. “Geneva is two hours. This feels… longer.”

Anton sat back on his heels, his gaze holding Sabatine’s. “We’re not going to Geneva. Not yet.”

Sabatine stiffened. “The prototype—Evelyn, Marcus—they’re there. Every hour we delay—”

“In an hour they grow more confident, yes,” Anton finished. He reached up and took Sabatine’s hand, his thumb rubbing circles over the knuckles. “It’s also an hour they waste looking for us in all the wrong places. The trail I left is hot and points toward Prague. Evelyn will believe you’re running to old contacts in Eastern European intelligence. She’ll divert resources.”

“And us?”

“We’re going somewhere she would never conceive of. Somewhere Anton Rogers, the paranoid workaholic, has no reason to be.” He offered a ghost of a smile. “We’re going on a honeymoon.”

Sabatine blinked. “What?”

“I own an island. A very small one, north of the Shetlands. It has a house, a generator, a satellite uplink, and absolutely nothing else. No staff. No neighbours. No digital footprint connected to me or any of my known holdings.” He brought Sabatine’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. “We have been running at a breakneck pace since the moment we met, Sabe. We’ve been digging, suspecting, fighting attraction, fighting betrayal. We are about to walk into the lion’s den in Geneva. I need… we need… one night. One night where we are not the billionaire and the bodyguard. Not the hunter and the hunted. Just Anton and Sabatine. A sanctuary. To breathe.”

The raw vulnerability in the plan, the sheer romantic folly of it coming from this most disciplined of men, struck Sabatine with the force of a physical blow. He saw it then—the desperate need behind Anton’s controlled facade. Not just for safety, but for a pause in the war to be human. To be together without the weight of the world crashing through the windows.

The last of Sabatine’s resistance melted. The mission planner in him screamed about timelines and tactical advantages, but the man—the tired, guilt-ridden, yearning man—surrendered. “One night,” he agreed, his voice thick.

Anton’s shoulders slumped in visible relief. He rose, pulling Sabatine up with him. “Come. You’re dead on your feet.”

He led him to the rear of the cabin, where a door concealed a compact but surprisingly comfortable sleeping quarters. A large bed was built into the bulkhead, made up with simple, thick linens. The roar of the engines was a distant, soothing hum here.

“Sleep,” Anton said, pushing him gently to sit on the edge of the bed. “We have a few hours yet.”

“Anton,” Sabatine said, catching his wrist. “What about you?”

“I’ll be on the comms with Rico, laying more false trails. I need to be a chess player for a little while longer.” He tried to pull away, but Sabatine held fast.

“Later.” The word was not a request, but a quiet command. “The board will keep. Sit with me. Just for a minute.”

For a heartbeat, Anton hesitated, the weight of his empire and their pursuers pressing on him. Then, with a sigh that seemed to release the tension of a decade, he sat. He toed off his own shoes, then leaned back against the headboard, opening his arm. Sabatine didn’t need a second invitation. He shifted, laying his head on Anton’s chest, his body curling instinctively into the shelter of Anton’s side. A strong arm came around him, holding him close.

The feel of it—the steady, strong heartbeat under his ear, the solid warmth of the body beside him, the gentle pressure of that embrace—was a revelation. It was safety of a kind Sabatine had forgotten existed. It wasn’t the safety of locked doors and encrypted files; it was the safety of harbour in a storm. He let out a shuddering breath, and felt something tight and frozen within him begin, for the first time in years, to truly thaw.

He could feel the precise moment Anton’s own vigilance began to soften. The hand that had been resting on Sabatine’s shoulder began to move, slowly, in a languid caress up and down his arm. No words passed between them. The silence here was different from the cabin’s—it was warm, lively, filled with the synchronicity of their breathing and the profound communication of touch.

Sabatine listened to the double rhythm—the jet’s engines, Anton’s heart. One carrying them forward, the other anchoring him. He focused on the steady thump-thump beneath his cheek, a metronome counting away the distance from their enemies, measuring the fragile, newfound peace.

He was vaguely aware of Anton shifting slightly, reaching to pull a soft woollen blanket over them both. The weight was comforting. Anton’s fingers carded gently through his hair, the touch so tender it made Sabatine’s throat ache.

“Sleep, my love,” Anton whispered into his hair, the endearment slipping out as naturally as a breath. “I have you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Sabatine, who had spent years sleeping with one eye open, who carried the screams of his failures into every nightmare, believed him. The last vestiges of the investigator, the soldier, the fugitive, dissolved. The tension seeped from his muscles, leaving a heaviness that was pure, trusting exhaustion.

He fell asleep.

Not the fitful, alert doze of a man on a mission, but a deep, plunging, dreamless sleep. His body went completely lax against Anton’s, his breathing evening out into long, slow draughts. The harsh lines of worry and concentration smoothed from his face, making him look younger, unburdened.

Anton held him, watching the transformation in wonder. He felt the exact moment Sabatine surrendered to true rest, and it felt like the greatest victory of his life—more profound than any boardroom coup, any billion-dollar deal. He had given this man, who trusted nothing and no one, the gift of peace. It was a power no amount of money could ever buy.

He didn’t move. He ignored the faint ping from the cabin that signaled a secure message on the sat-link. Rico could wait. The world could wait. For these precious, stolen hours en route to a hidden island, his only duty, his only desire, was to be this man’s pillow, his shield, his sanctuary.

He pressed his lips to the top of Sabatine’s head, breathing in the scent of him—soap, night air, and something uniquely, essentially Sabe. The fierce protectiveness that had driven him to burn down his own walls tightened in his chest, a sweet, painful ache. This was what vulnerability truly was, he realized. Not weakness, but a terrifying, magnificent opening of the self. It was the conscious choice to hold something precious, knowing you could be shattered by its loss, and choosing to hold it anyway.

Outside the small window, the first hint of dawn began to bleed indigo and rose into the endless black of the North Atlantic sky. They were flying into the light, leaving the darkness of the gala and its treachery behind. Below them was only the ocean, vast and uncaring. Ahead was a tiny speck of land that belonged only to them.

Anton closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to memorize this feeling: the weight and warmth of Sabatine in his arms, the profound quiet of trust, the silent roar of their flight towards a temporary, necessary paradise. The chessboard awaited. The battle in Geneva loomed. But here, now, in this metal cocoon suspended between heavens, they were not pieces in someone else’s game.

They were the kings of their own stolen country. And for this one night, that was everything.

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