Chapter 213: Altitude, Attitude, And Almost Peace

Cyrus’s lips twitched. "Your workaholic dragon realized his fox might do something reckless if left unsupervised."

Kane’s ears flattened indignantly. "I’m not that bad."

"You broke into my private room twice." Cyrus changed lanes with fluid precision. "Got kidnapped by my psychotic ex-assistant—"

"Okay, when you list it like that—"

"Chased a hooded figure through downtown without backup," Cyrus continued mercilessly. "Freed spirits from containment while actively bleeding out. Should I go on?"

Kane crossed his arms. "You’re being dramatic."

"I’m being accurate." Cyrus stopped at a red light, gaze sliding sideways. "Besides, I have vacation days accumulated since 1847."

Kane choked on air. "You what?"

"Dragons rarely take holidays." Cyrus accelerated when the light changed. "We hoard wealth and bury ourselves in work until something forces us to stop."

His hand found Kane’s knee, squeezing gently.

"You’re my something."

Kane’s breath caught. The city lights blurred past as warmth bloomed in his chest, chasing away the last remnants of panic.

"Where are we going first?" His voice came out softer than intended.

Cyrus smiled. "Wherever you want."

Kane’s mind went blank at Cyrus’s question.

Wherever you want.

His bucket list lay discarded somewhere in storage, crossed out and meaningless. He’d been so focused on stopping Cyrus’s potential sacrifice that he hadn’t actually thought about what he wanted.

A billboard flashed past—some cologne ad featuring a model sprawled on pristine white sand, turquoise waves rolling behind him.

"Beach," Kane blurted. "I want to go to a beach."

Cyrus’s eyebrow lifted. "A beach."

"Yeah." Kane’s tail swished with growing enthusiasm. "Somewhere warm. With actual sand and water that doesn’t have synthetic monsters in it."

"I can arrange that." Cyrus’s lips curved. "Any particular ocean?"

"Somewhere far from Feilun." Kane leaned back in his seat. "Oh, and I requested extended leave too. Two months."

Cyrus’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You what?"

"I’m not stupid." Kane shot him a pointed look. "You were planning something. So I planned ahead."

The dragon’s expression shifted through several emotions before settling on reluctant approval. "When?"

"This morning. Commander Qi approved it."

Cyrus made an illegal U-turn, cutting across three lanes of traffic. Horns blared.

"What are you doing?" Kane yelped, grabbing the door handle.

"We’re going to the airport." Cyrus accelerated onto the highway. "If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly."

"Wait, airport?" Kane twisted in his seat. "What about luggage? Our passports? We can’t just leave the country on a whim."

Cyrus didn’t slow down. "Already handled."

"How—"

"Your passport is in my briefcase." Cyrus merged onto the airport expressway. "Everything else we can acquire at our destination."

Kane’s tail lashed against the leather seat. "What about clothes? Toiletries? My—"

"Do you doubt my ability to plan?" Cyrus’s crimson eyes flicked toward him briefly. "I’ve orchestrated international acquisitions worth billions. A beach vacation requires considerably less logistics."

"Fine." Kane settled back, watching the city lights blur past. "I trust you."

Something shifted in Cyrus’s expression—satisfaction mixed with something deeper.

The Lamborghini glided into the private terminal Kane recognized from their Athens trip. Same sleek building, same absence of chaos that defined normal airports.

Kane grabbed the dragon egg case—their only luggage—and followed Cyrus through the glass doors.

The same elegant concierge from their Athens trip greeted them with practiced professionalism. "Mr. Drakhal, welcome back."

Cyrus strode to the desk, voice low. "Prepare the jet—"

Kane caught "prepare the jet" but missed the rest, distracted by the dragon egg’s sudden warmth against his palm.

"Where are we going?" Kane shifted the case, trying to peek at whatever documents Cyrus was signing.

"It’s a surprise." Cyrus accepted his passport back, then extended his hand toward Kane. "Passport."

Kane fumbled it out with his free hand, watching the concierge process it with the same efficient discretion as before.

"Your aircraft will be ready in fifteen minutes," the concierge confirmed, fingers flying across her tablet. "Would you gentlemen care for refreshments while you wait?"

Cyrus guided Kane toward the leather seating area with a hand at the small of his back.

"You didn’t tell me where we’re going," Kane protested, adjusting his grip on the egg case.

"You said you wanted a beach. I selected one." Cyrus settled into a chair, crossing one leg over the other.

Kane’s tail swished invisibly beneath his glamour.

"But which beach? There are thousands of beaches. Are we going tropical? Mediterranean? Pacific?"

"You’ll find out when we land." Cyrus’s crimson eyes glinted with amusement.

Kane huffed, cradling the egg case protectively. "I hate surprises."

"No, you don’t."

"You’re right, I don’t." Kane slumped into the adjacent seat. "But I’m still annoyed."

A uniformed server materialized with refreshments—champagne for Kane, sparkling water for Cyrus.

Kane sipped the bubbles, watching movers through the terminal’s glass walls load pallets onto cargo trucks.

"Your aircraft is ready, Mr. Drakhal," the concierge announced.

Cyrus rose with fluid grace, extending his hand toward Kane. "Shall we?"

Kane grabbed the egg case and followed Cyrus across the tarmac. The same sleek white jet gleamed under the runway lights, its Veyr Corp logo catching the glow.

Inside, the familiar buttery leather seats and polished wood greeted them. The flight attendant—a different woman this time, but with the same professional demeanor—welcomed them aboard.

"Mr. Drakhal, Mr. Ashwood, your preferred cabin temperature has been set. May I offer refreshments before departure?"

"Just water," Kane said, settling into his seat with the egg case on his lap.

Cyrus declined with a subtle gesture, already absorbed in his phone.

The engines roared to life. Kane buckled his seatbelt, cradling the egg case protectively as the jet accelerated down the runway.

Through the window, Feilun’s lights blurred into streaks of gold and white—the city growing smaller until it disappeared entirely beneath clouds.

Kane’s chest loosened as the city vanished beneath them. Cyrus was here. Not planning some noble sacrifice in secret. Not pushing Kane away.

Just... together.

He leaned back, watching Cyrus scroll through his phone with that characteristic intensity he brought to everything.

A dull throb pulsed behind Kane’s eyes—nothing severe, just uncomfortable.

Kane rubbed his temple, willing the ache to fade. The pressurized cabin always did weird things to his fox senses during ascent.

"Headache?" Cyrus glanced up, phone forgotten.

"Just altitude." Kane waved it off. "I’m fine."