“Where the gods keep office”

Tarmo has always known exactly when to look. The belly’s glow doesn’t help.

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Tarmo sits in one of the plush chairs, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond, adrift in private oceans. Karim hasn’t bothered challenging the master of the plane in his own territory. Fair enough, I think, wryly amused by their silent negotiations.

I let the towel fall, lifting a leg to step into my slip—exactly as Tarmo snaps out of his reverie. For a moment, he isn’t the stoic magnate, but startlingly gentle.

“Let me help you,” he says, voice low, almost reverent.

He drops gracefully to his knees, positioning the slip so I can step in without flailing, then draws it up, careful and precise. As the fabric settles over me, my belly floods with light—soft gold glowing through my skin, clear even beneath the sheer silk.

Tarmo gasps, frozen in awe.

I roll my eyes, caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

Menu complete. Can’t I just get dressed like a normal woman?

His eyes lock onto mine, blue and searching, lips parted as if a confession hovers there. But instead, he bows his head, moving his mouth toward my glowing belly, his lips brushing just above my navel.

I shake my head, humour sparking even as desire sands away my resistance.

And now I get horny—perfect. If I’m not careful, this plane will land with nothing left in its water tanks.

I stroke Tarmo’s hair. “Let me put on my bra with the pads, will you? Unless you want this floor soaked, too.”

He looks up, pulled from reverence back to normal, and nods, almost apologetic. “Yes, please—go ahead.”

I dress fully, feeling each layer settle me, anchor me in the map I’ve chosen. When I meet Tarmo’s eyes—still raw, still searching—I speak my truth without ornament.

“I need you to know, Tarmo—I would have let you in, if we were somewhere else. But Karim has sacrificed too much for me. He’s shown such love. I owe him, at the very least, a little respect. No matter how ancient the tides pulling us together, I won’t tread on his heart with him so close. Give me a little room, though, and I turn into a sentimental tap dancer—right across his emotional landscape. Oy, I’m ruthless and flexible.”

Tarmo blinks, clearly taken aback by my irreverence. For a heartbeat, the strategist in him short-circuits—his jaw slackens, not flexes. Then, unbidden, one corner of his mouth quirks up, a rare smile flickering through his usual composure.

He lets out a low, incredulous laugh. “Participant observation, right. With you, Elena, I should expect the anthropologist to dance on the data—not just collect it.” He shakes his head, almost admiring. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

Before I can finish getting dressed, he rises and enfolds me in his arms, hands cupping my belly. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, unguarded.

“You can’t possibly know how deep my love runs for you—my eternal companion.”

Every nerve tingles, ancient warning flaring. I stiffen just enough, then meet his gaze with steel.

“We’ve established that many times, Tarmo. But your true mistress has always been Lady Power. And as for me—I belong to myself.”

Something passes behind his eyes—pain, pride, acceptance, too many histories flickering at once. He nods slowly. But then, against his own resolve, he steps close and kisses me deeply, fiercely—not as a magnate, but as the man who almost lost me a hundred different ways.

When he finally finds his voice, it comes out hoarse but honest.

“I stepped away out of respect. You asked me to let you go, to trust your path. He’s your sentinel now, and I see that. I won’t become a villain in my own memory.” A rough laugh—the closest thing to an apology. “I respect you, Elena. I try.”

With that, he releases me. I hear my heart pounding. Enough drama for one afternoon.

I.Ph.

© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.