Born To Be More

Trouble follows

Raine

I have no idea what the hell is happening to me.

This is not me. Sure, I like a good f**k as much as the next girl—but no man has ever melted my panties the way Max does... and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

Well—technically, he has. Not that it counts when I was half-asleep, groping him under a blanket like a damn sleepwalking perv.

And now? Thanks to his stupid, smug mini-golf challenge, I have a bloody date. He totally set me up. I know it. That charming smile, the smooth banter, the way he says Angel like it’s my name and a sin all in one breath—ugh. I walked right into it, and I didn't even try to stop myself.

What’s worse is… I don’t want to stop myself.

He confuses the hell out of me. There’s something about him that feels familiar but impossible. I’m not stupid—I know attraction. I know lust. But this feels like something else. Like I’m circling a fire and somehow already burning.

And let’s tally up the humiliations, shall we?

First: I throw up.

Second: I practically have a wet dream on his shoulder, and feel him up while half-conscious.

Third: I damn near melted through the seat with how wet I was, and when I went to the bathroom? Yeah, I did what any self-respecting Kiwi girl would do in a crisis—I whipped off my soaked panties and dried them under the bloody hand dryer like a damn savage.

If my mother could see me now…

Now I’m sitting here, trying to stay awake out of pure self-preservation. If I fall asleep again and start moaning his name or drooling on his bicep, I may have to jump out the emergency exit.

But gods, he smells so good.

And when he touches me—God help me—my entire body listens.

Raine

He grabs my hand.

“The date starts now,” he says, like it’s a command.

And the most disturbing part? I don’t pull away.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I need to talk to Lacy. Immediately. This man has me feeling things—real things. Not just flirty “you’re hot, let’s bang” lust, but full-blown, “I want to pull your hair and bite your neck” kind of lust.

Kootchie is practically standing up in a power pose, screaming “YES, b***h. ABOUT TIME.”

I let him hold my hand. I shouldn’t, but I do. And the worst part? I like it. It’s… calming. Dangerous, but warm. So I don’t think about it too much, and let the moment carry me.

I must’ve drifted off again during the movie, because the next thing I know, I’m waking up to the soft hum of cabin activity and my head is resting on Max’s shoulder.

Shit.

I straighten up quickly, brushing a hand through my hair and preparing myself for whatever damage I might’ve done. Please tell me I didn’t drool on his jacket. Or worse—talk in my sleep again.

Max is still holding my hand. His fingers are wrapped around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, voice low and teasing.

I smile automatically, but roll my eyes internally. Beautiful? Yeah, right. After sleeping on a plane? That’s a damn lie. My breath probably smells like ass and airplane air. My hair? Probably looks like a nest. Sexy.

“You were well-behaved,” he adds with a knowing smile.

“Oh good,” I say, avoiding eye contact in case my morning breath knocks him out cold.

Just then, an announcement comes over the intercom, signaling the start of breakfast service.

“What would you like for breakfast, Rainey?”

I slide my hand out of his to sit up properly. He lets me go—but not before giving my fingers a soft squeeze that lingers way too long in my chest.

“We have a choice?” I blink. I sound like an amateur, but honestly—when did plane breakfasts come with options?

Max chuckles. “You always have choices.”

And the way he says it… yeah, he wasn’t just talking about breakfast.

He leans over and opens the menu on my screen, navigating like a pro, and pulls up the business class breakfast selection. I’m suddenly starving.

“Mmm, bacon, scrambled eggs, and coffee,” I say, clicking through the options. “Definitely coffee. Maybe two.”

Max laughs. “So you’re one of those—morning starts with caffeine or the world ends?”

“Yes. I’m not a morning person. Coffee is non-negotiable,” I say firmly.

“I’ll look forward to seeing that,” he says, voice dipping into something that slides along my skin like warm honey.

I narrow my eyes at him with a smirk. “That’s quite presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

He grins. “Nope. It’s a sure thing, Angel.”

Raine

Breakfast was actually delicious, and after two coffees, I finally felt like a functioning human again.

“Max, can you let me out, please? I need the bathroom.”

He stands, and I squeeze past him, walking toward the overhead lockers to grab my bag. I reach up to open the door—and I feel him behind me. Close. Too close. His body heat brushes across my back, and then—

I hear it.

A low growl.

I glance over my shoulder and catch him glaring—no, scowling—at the back of my dress.

“Max, are you okay?”

His jaw clenches. “Your dress is too short.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He scrubs a hand through his dark hair like he’s already regretting speaking.

“Angel, I meant… when you reach up like that, everyone behind you can see…” He trails off, jaw ticking again. “Well, more than I feel comfortable with.”

Oh no he did not.

“First of all, Max,” I say, turning to face him fully, “it’s what I feel comfortable with, not you. Secondly, it’s my body. And seeing as we only met yesterday, you have no right to tell me what is or isn’t appropriate to wear.”

I don’t wait for his reply—I storm off toward the bathrooms, fury bubbling just under the surface. And of course, there’s a damn line. No door to slam, no dramatic exit. Just me, vibrating with frustration, waiting to pee in silence.

I’m standing in line, still reeling.

What is up with him? I sigh and rub my temple. I’m starting a whole new life—new city, new job, new everything. The last thing I need is some possessive alpha male deciding what I should or shouldn’t wear.

The last guy? He liked having me on his arm because I made him look good. Pretty face, community ties—it all fed into the polished little political image he was building. What he really loved was telling me what to do.

A throat clears behind me.

“Good morning.”

I glance back. The man looks to be in his thirties—ripped jeans, black T-shirt, decent face. Not bad, but he’s no Max.

“Morning,” I reply politely, offering a tight smile and stepping forward as the line inches along.

“It’s a very good morning now.”

His eyes rake over me.

Ugh. Creep. Step away, sir.

“Where you heading?” he asks.

“New York,” I answer, just to be civil, already turning back around.

Come on, come on—hurry up, line.

“You should let me take you out for a drink sometime,” he says, voice turning sleazy.

“I’m just moving, actually. I really don’t know when I’ll be free.”

He steps closer.

“Don’t make up excuses,” he says, grabbing my arm. “I’ll show you a very good time. Promise.”

His eyes zero in on my chest, and my stomach drops.

“Please… let go of my arm, I—”

“Baby, you still waiting on the bathroom?”

Max.

He appears like a storm—calm, but dangerous. His arm snakes around my waist as he steps between me and the creep. The guy freezes.

Max’s eyes burn into him.

The man’s hand drops from my arm like he touched fire.

“Sorry, man,” the guy mumbles, and stumbles back down the aisle.

I let out a shaky breath. My body melts into Max's hold before I can stop it. God, he feels like safety and heat all at once.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Max pulls me tighter, his chin brushing the top of my head.

“I’m still mad at you,” I mumble against his chest.

“I know.” He chuckles softly, and the rumble vibrates through me. “I deserve it.”

I know I need to go, but my feet stay rooted. I don’t want to leave his arms.

But—right. Peeing. Still a priority.

I quickly use the bathroom, freshen up, and return to my seat, bracing myself for the part I hate most—landing. Max is already standing, waiting to let me in. “Thank you,” I say, brushing past him. His hand rests lightly on my lower back, and my heart gives a ridiculous flutter.

We buckle in. I pull the little customs declaration card from the seat pocket and start filling it out, trying to keep my hands steady. I know I’m being dramatic, but flying—especially landing—just does not sit right with me.

The plane begins to descend, tilting, shuddering. I glance out the window and see the streets of Los Angeles below, a tangled mess of spaghetti and lights. My stomach flips. Nope, not doing that. I squeeze the armrest, shut my eyes, and try to breathe through the nerves.

Warmth closes around my hand.

I peek through one eye. Max has taken my hand in his, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Immediately, my heartbeat begins to settle.

“Thank you,” I whisper, turning my head to look at him.

He’s looking at me, scruffier than yesterday, impossibly handsome.

“My pleasure, Angel,” he says, flashing me that lazy, devastating smile.

The wheels touch down with a bone-rattling jolt. The brakes kick in, throwing us slightly forward. I hold my breath. Max’s thumb strokes gently over my wrist, grounding me.

We landed. I made it. Part one of this insane journey is over.

Now I just have to survive the next leg—to New York—and somehow get my feet under me in a whole new world.

“Rainey, pass me your phone,” Max says as I’m gathering up the last of my things from the seat pocket.

“Sorry, what?” I blink up at him, momentarily thrown.

“You promised to swap digits with me, remember?” he says, smirking as he holds out his hand. “I’d like to call you about that dinner.”

“Oh. Right,” I reply, hesitating just a second before handing him my phone.

He taps his number in, then calls himself. Smooth. Now he’s got mine too.

He gives the phone back and I glance at the contact name he’s saved:

Max Wolf.

I bite back a smile and giggle. He’s ridiculous—and sexy as hell.

Max walks with me to customs. I’m oddly quiet, not sure what to say now that we’re actually about to part ways. I didn’t expect to feel anything when this flight ended. But… here I am, fighting the silly fear that I won’t see him again.

I stop just before the roped-off customs queue and turn to him. Without overthinking, I reach up and kiss his cheek.

His eyes widen, caught off guard.

“Thank you,” I say, softer than I intended. “For the company.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you soon, Angel.”

I nod and force myself to walk away.

Customs is painless, thank God. I follow the signs to the departures lounge for my connecting flight and immediately make a beeline for the nearest bathroom. First stop: toothbrush. Sweet heaven, yes. I brush my teeth like a madwoman, tame my hair into something halfway respectable, and feel almost human again.

Then I pull out the change of clothes Lucy insisted I pack in my carry-on. Thank God for that girl.

Off comes the dress and the still-drying panties. On goes a pair of dark blue ripped jeans, a fitted black cami, and my leather jacket. Instant armour. I feel more like myself already.

Right. Sorted.

I toss my things back into the bag, zip it up, and glance at the clock.

Four hours until I board the next flying death trap. Coffee sounds like the only thing that’ll get me through it.

I'm walking down the corridor toward the bar area of the lounge, eyes scanning for coffee or maybe something stronger, when suddenly—

Bang.

My back slams into the wall and my head snaps back, cracking hard against it.

“f**k—!” The pain blooms behind my eyes like a flash grenade, and my knees buckle.

Before I can even cry out, a hand clamps down over my mouth.

“Think you can just dismiss me, baby?” a sickeningly familiar voice breathes in my ear. “I’ll show you a good time, b***h. I guarantee you won’t want another man after I’ve had you.”

It’s him. The sleaze from the bathroom line.

Terror surges through me like fire, and I try to scream, to kick—anything—but he grabs my throat with his other hand, pressing in so close it might look intimate to a passerby.

His voice is low and vile. His other hand snakes under my top, grabbing my breast in a violent squeeze that makes bile rise in my throat.

“Argh—please don’t,” I choke out against his palm.

Then I hear it—a whisper inside my head.

“Come on, Raine. You’re strong. Disarm him. Don’t let him hurt you.”

The voice is soft, fierce. It pushes through the fear like a blade.

I remember the self-defense class Lacy dragged me to last year.

Foot. Balls. Nose. Scene.

Okay. I’ve got this.

I slam my heel down into his foot.

“f**k!” he snarls, his grip faltering just enough.

I drive my knee straight up into his balls.

He lets go, doubling over with a groan, and I don’t stop—I swing my elbow up into his nose with every ounce of rage I have. There’s a sickening crunch, and he stumbles back, swearing and clutching his face.

I bolt. I grab my bag off the floor and run.

“HELP!” I scream as I burst out into the lounge foyer. My chest is heaving, adrenaline ripping through me like a hurricane.

A staff member in a navy uniform rushes toward me. “Miss? Are you okay?”

“I—I was just attacked,” I gasp out, pointing behind me, my whole body trembling. “Down that hallway.”

Her face goes white. She immediately pulls out a walkie-talkie, calling for security. Then, gently, she loops an arm around me and guides me toward the bar, helping me sit down.

My hands are shaking. Tears sting my eyes, but I swallow them back.

You fought back, I tell myself. You did it. You’re safe—for now.

I’m still shaking when security arrives. I recognize the man they’re asking about.

It was him.

The creep from the plane this morning.

He must’ve followed me.

My chest tightens. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating.

They ask me to recount what happened, and I try to explain, but my voice is unsteady. They nod and walk off toward the exit.

That’s it?

No “stay here,” no “we’ll update you,” just gone.

I stare after them, stunned and pissed.

How dare he touch me.

The sickness rises again, twisting in my gut. I want to go home. I haven’t even made it to New York and already I want to be on a return flight. This wasn’t part of the plan. None of this was.

I pull out my phone with shaking hands and call Lacy. I need her voice right now.

Voicemail.

Of course.

Her cheerful little "Leave me a message, love ya!" tone hits me like a punch. I hang up before the beep.

I sit frozen, barely breathing, not even sure how much time has passed. Just trying to hold myself together.

Eventually, security returns—this time with airport police.

They form a half-circle around me, and one steps forward. “Ma’am, are you okay?” he asks gently.

I nod stiffly. “I will be. Did you—did you get him?”

“Yes, we did,” another officer confirms. “He’s in custody and will be transported to the local station for processing. You don’t need to worry. You’re safe now.”

Some of the tension in my chest loosens. I exhale shakily. “Thank God…”

He continues, “We’ll need to follow up with a formal statement.”

“I’m on a transfer flight to New York,” I say quickly, like they’re going to pull me off the plane or something. “I can only do it by phone.”

“We’re aware, Miss Marshall,” the officer adds, flipping through his notes. “The man—name withheld for now—was actually booked onto the same flight as you. Which he won’t be taking today.”

That sends a chill down my spine.

He was going to follow me all the way to New York.

“Jesus,” I whisper. “Okay. Yes. Please call me. I’ll help however I can.”

They thank me, take down the rest of my contact details, and offer me a contact number in case I need support or want to follow up. They’re professional and kind, but it’s all still too much.

Everything hits me at once—fear, disgust, rage, homesickness. The adrenaline’s crashing now, and all I want is to curl into a ball and vanish.

“Rainey, is everything okay here?”

It’s Max.

I turn at the sound of his voice, and the moment I see him, all the strength I’ve been clinging to crumbles.

“Max?” I whisper, my voice breaking—then the tears come fast and ugly.

He’s at my side in seconds, pulling me tightly into his arms. I press my face into his chest, soaking his shirt with my tears, and feel his hand cradle the back of my head like I’m something fragile and precious.

“Explain. Now,” he demands, voice hard as steel. The police officer looks at me for permission, and I nod, still clinging to Max like I might fall apart again.

The officer gives a concise explanation, and I feel Max’s body go rigid. His arms tighten around me like he’s holding himself back from storming out and tearing the guy’s throat out.

I wince. Just slightly.

His eyes drop to mine, suddenly dark, burning.

“Are you hurt, Angel?” he asks, voice low and tight.

“A little,” I admit, my voice a squeaky mess.

“Fuck.”

I take a shaky step back, wiping my face with trembling hands. His shirt is wet where I clung to him. I glance up sheepishly, embarrassed, but he doesn’t even look down—his eyes are on me, fierce and protective and raw.

Needing a second to compose myself, I turn toward the bar.

“Kahlua and Coke, please.”

The bartender gives me a sympathetic smile.

“On the house.”

Max is still speaking quietly with the police officers. He nods, says something I can’t hear, and then joins me at the bar. He orders a scotch and wraps an arm around my shoulders, steadying me like a human anchor.

“Do you need to see a doctor, Angel?” he asks gently.

I shake my head.

“No... I just want to get to my apartment.”

He studies me a moment, then leans in.

“Come on. Let’s sit over there. Those massage chairs will help relax your body, okay?”

I nod and let him guide me. Right now, I don’t care what anyone else thinks—I just need Max beside me. Because if he lets go, I might just fall apart all over again.