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He used to like flying. Used to enjoy the low hum of the engine, the chance to decompress and pick the dried blood out from under his fingernails as he indulged in a glass of crisp, chilled Stoli.
He even used to bend over a cute steward or two when the urge hit him. Now all the flight did was make his skin itch with desperation to be home. And that feeling was raw and new and strange still too. Disla wasn’t really sure when it had started, this sense of belonging that he’d never had as a child and certainly not as an adult. But he’d found it in that stupid, insipid little town. He’d found it with soft as velvet pink hair, holding a scalpel to his abdomen and pulling it open in a smooth bloody line until that had turned into soft words and aching kisses. Found it on the edge of the woods in the house he’d built for the world’s sexiest, most addictive doctor so they could spend every damned night in each other’s arms.
Home.
Home was Vernalis. Home was his arms, his sweet floral scent, his gentle voice, the heat between his thighs, being buried deep in his cunt and filling him as they both cried out.
His mind wandered to their kids, stern little grown-up Camilla who dogged her sire’s footsteps until she’d started begging to fill them and Dagga who danced even when others watched and told stories of how famous he would be overseas. He thought of his mate waiting for him, his belly having swollen again just this last month with their third. Vern had been texting him all week with baby names.
Except he still had the Business to run now that his отец was dead and he was in charge. If anything he was busier than ever with too many little creeps who thought they could challenge him just because he was younger than that old bastard, forgetting that most importantly, he still bore the name of Petrov. That should have been enough to warn them. Should have been enough for him to be able to stay home in the embrace of his husband, drinking sweet poison from those lovely lips. But no. He was here, stuck thousands of feet in the air and waiting with this damn crawling feeling all over his skin, counting the minutes until he could be back home again.
Disla needed a fix, if not of his husband, another drug would do.
“Oi, glass of tha top shelf,” he demanded as the omega slipped through the aisle.
Clean fingers and bloody cuff pointed to the side. “And my fags ‘nd lighter.” They passed into his hand with the steward frowning, poised to take both back.
“Mr. Petrov, you can’t smoke in h-”
“Tell me whata do in my own plane, bitch, ‘nd I’ll rip yer tongue out ‘n shove it up yer cunt.”
He was left alone after that, even when the Zippo clicked once, twice, and the small flame threw a spark enough to light up the cigarette between his lips. He’d laid off the hard shit when he and Vern had started making babies. Except sometimes he still got a hit straight off his doctor. But that void had him craving right now. Set his foot to tapping impatiently and his hand tossing back the chilled vodka.
It was lucky the Family had a private jet because Disla was up and out of his seat with his bag in hand the moment the wheels touched down with that upsetting skip and bump. The umbrella offered by the steward is snatched too without a single show of appreciation. He was in too much of a hurry. His fingers mashed out the texts in a rush.
‘just landed baby’
‘fuck missed u so much - see u soon’
He didn’t get an answer but that was pretty normal. His husband was probably working and had his phone on silent. Maybe left in his office. The umbrella popped open with a loud snick, blocking the sunlight that threatened to bear down on him. The car wasn’t there and Disla frowned.
“What the fu-”
His building tirade was cut short as his car, the sleek black one with dark-as-pitch tint over the windows pulled up instead of the usual non-descript one. His brow raised. And when the window rolled down to show that flawless face framed by bubblegum pink hair, his heart skipped a happy beat. Vern smirked at him and threw the car into park.
“Ya ain’t been drivin’ have ya? Hope ya didn’ scratch my fuckin’ paint or nuthin’-”
Those shining cherry-painted lips wholly unravelled him.
“Damn, yer a sight, baby girl.”
The car door popped open and he finally saw Vern in full glory. He was wearing that slinky pink number made of crushed velvet he’d gotten him some years back, before Cam. It sorta looked like a longer version of a teddy nightgown. The edge of it fell just a couple scant inches above the tops of his thigh-high boots. Those were soft white doeskin that clung to each leg like a second skin and left just that tantalizing warm peek of Vern’s thighs. Then there was the sparkle of gold and dotted pearl-white of jeweled flowers in that long, beautiful hair. But his favorite was always the glint of Vern’s wedding ring on his finger. Disla licked his lips and opened his free arm to invite his mate into him, to wrap around that narrow waist with a hum broken off only when their lips crashed together with tongue and teeth and desperate breaths. Fingers traced the barely-there curve of his mate’s growing belly. Again that foreign word rang loud through his head: Home. Vernalis was home.
“Let’s go home,” Vern crooned.
His smaller hand cupped Disla’s hip from the side, under his jacket. A perfect fit. And Disla smiled even wider, flashing his fangs. The next kiss is tender and yet still a starved thing that leaves his body humming, regretful to pull away. Like he always does, he opens the passenger door and gives his hand to help Vern settle into the smooth leather interior. Like hell he’s lettin’ his doc drive. Disla smiles.
“Yeah, babe. Home.”