Page 43 of Vengeance of the Gods

“Vega.”

She hated that his voice made her open her eyes and look up, her body a traitor to what her brain wanted.

He’s hiding something from you, she reminded herself. “I can’t do this with you right now, Bridger. Please, I… We need to get out of here.”

“You need to take a couple deep breaths,” he told her, standing too close.

“I’m f⁠—”

His fingers were on her chin, tilting her head back. “People are watching us. Stop acting like you hate me for one fucking second.”

Vega couldn’t look anywhere but at Bridger. “If you touch me again, I’ll personally cut every finger on your hand off one by one.” She took a deep breath, grabbed him by the wrist with their brand, and pulled his hand off. Vega made it look sweet, but there was nothing kind about the way she looked at Bridger. “No more planes.”

Bridger was unreadable—the perfect poker face for the commander of Tolevarre. “No more fucking planes,” he agreed wholeheartedly.

They walked silently side by side, doing their best to look like a totally normal, unassuming couple. News stations played on every TV they passed. Travelers watched the current weather report for the entire US, all with various looks of displeasure on their faces.

Vega skidded to a stop at the numerous thick white blobs scattered across the country.

“This is the storm of a lifetime here in Cheyenne, Wyoming. We’re used to snow, but not this amount of snow overnight.” The newscaster swept her hands behind her, dragging everyone’s attention to the whiteout conditions. “We expect another two-plus feet in the next twenty-four hours.”

The clip cut and moved to New York City, where another in-field reporter showed Times Square covered in a fresh blanket of snow. The next cut to Colorado, where there was so much snow, ski resorts were planning to close until the mountains were deemed safe.

“Of fucking course,” Vega groaned, running a hand down her face.

The storm pushing through Wyoming was predicted to break up and scatter amongst the Midwest, barreling straight through their route to California. Screens blinked with red and yellow, announcing delayed or cancelled flights throughout the country. People stared on their phones, frantically trying to find new travel accommodations.

Every rental car booth had signs up that read No Cars Available, and their staff argued with irate customers. As if the poor girl running the counter could control the weather…

“It doesn’t sound like anyone’s going anywhere, so where do you think you’re going?” Bridger asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of the coat he’d stolen in Rome.

They were met with the frigid winter air as the sliding doors to the airport opened. “You ask too many questions,” Vega groaned but explained anyway. “Not every flight has been grounded. If someone is leaving the country, headed in the right direction, they’re getting out. At least for a few more hours, and if they’re leaving the country, it means their car will be left parked and unused until they return.” Vega shivered when another gust of wind blew down the tunnel lined with cars, taxes, and buses.

A full bus waited by the curb, its window taped with a sign identifying it as the shuttle for parking lots C and D, but since Vega and Bridger didn’t have any luggage, the driver waved them on. With the crowded bus, they were forced to stand close to each other in the corner, fighting for their lives as the driver hit every pothole from the terminal to the lot.

“Lot C!” the man called, rolling to a stop by a hut full of people waiting with their luggage.

A man on the phone dressed in a designer business suit caught her attention.

Vega tapped Bridger’s side, nodding towards the opening door and the people getting out. “This is us.” She moved to the exit door, not bothering to check if Bridger was following or not.

Vega eagerly rushed for the exit, stumbling down the last step like she had expected another one to be there.

“No, I’m in Atlanta for the week, and then I’ll be in Dallas the followi—shit.”

Vega flailed her arms and knocked the phone from the businessman with the nice suit and delicious cologne’s hand.

The man reached for her, gently grabbing her forearms like he could help either of them from the situation Vega intentionally put them in.

Letting out a pathetic peep, Vega’s ass hit the salted concrete below.

“Are you okay?” he asked, crouching down to help her to her feet.

Vega painted on an embarrassed expression, inhaling sharply when she put weight on her left foot. “I’m okay, I think I just twisted my ankle.”

Bridger leaned down, picking up the phone Vega had knocked from his hand. He extended it out for the man to take, his glare looking definitely less than friendly.

“I’m so sorry. I thought there was another step.” Vega gave the man her best apologetic smile.