The jet was sleek, silver, and far too mortal for Victor's taste.
He owned half the sky if he wanted it and could have crossed oceans in less than a heartbeat, and yet, here they were, strapped into a private aircraft like ordinary men with luggage, a flight crew, and an absurdly polite stewardess who had no idea she was serving coffee to a god.
Elias leaned back against the plush leather seat, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. "You're telling me," he said slowly, "that we're taking an eight-hour flight… because you suddenly believe in the romance of air travel?"
Victor's mouth curved faintly, that familiar blend of patience and quiet provocation. "I believe," he said, "in atmosphere."
"Atmosphere," Elias repeated flatly. "You could literally manipulate the stratosphere."
"I could," Victor agreed. "But that wouldn't be nearly as safe."
