Chapter 65 Faust
SIXTY-FIVE
FAUST
The generators should be working.
I should be able to fucking see.
But nothing comes on, even the ice sounds dead. Dull. I’ve never heard Sky Arena this silent.
Still, I’ve spent my life on rinks. Near benches. Playing over ice.
I blink in the darkness, and I don’t speak. But just as I intend to jump over the low wall and sense which shadow is my girl, the door creaks open.
They’re spilling out.
“Let go of me.” My girl’s voice, low and tense but full of anger. Not fear.
So he wants to play on the ice?
I hear the sounds of Sylvan’s blades skating toward them, but I also hear Nolan’s words to his sister.
“I’ll never.” His tone is dead. Empty. He’s going to be both of those things very soon. “They’ll take you from me, and I can’t have that.” Still no emotion in his words.
“Nolan,” Neve gasps out. “You’re going to—”
Fall. I hear the blade clatter on the ice before she can speak the word. Fucking idiot. You can’t walk on a rink in your snow boots. I thought he was supposed to be smart?
But in the darkness, in the silence, he’s certainly more intelligent than this moment would make you believe.
And all those broken cameras, all those hidden angles?
How did he know to hunt her, how did he strike with no one seeing?
The truck’s engine from the night Jackson died, it was his, wasn’t it?
But he knew where to park. He knew how to hide.
And I have no doubt he slipped Jackson’s phone from the dead man’s truck.
Took Will’s, but knew he was going to visit his sister, to hurt her, and did nothing.
He wanted to be the savior, but Sylvan got there first.
I’ve thought about this too much. I am far too angry to let him live.
His arm is around her throat. The blade is by his hip.
If I charge for her, he could hurt her. If I don’t move, he’ll kill her.
Sylvan glides by, kicks at the knife.
The blade skitters away on the ice.
It’s useless now.
I see in Sylvan’s tight form he’s fucking pissed, but neither of us know how to get close without putting her in more danger.
I hear her anguished cry as he tightens his arm around her throat, and I know he’s not letting her go no matter what. They’re sunk down on the ice, but she isn’t pleading with me or Sylvan. She isn’t crying for either one of us.
She’s thinking fast.
She’s smart as hell.
She leans forward, then snaps her head back quickly, hitting him in the nose with her skull.
Pride surges under my skin.
My fucking girl.
He grunts and she twists in his grip, smartly coming to her knees instead of standing to her feet when she would only fall again.
A shadow moves from behind the net, then Sylvan charges them, and I come, too. We control our movements even with speed, and I regret not taking those figure skating lessons my mom bugged me about as a kid. Grace, she said it’d give me. Grace.
But I only need to hurt him.
There’s no fucking grace in that.
Sylvan hunkers low in a squat, reaches his arms out, and when he’s close enough, he catches Neve in his arms, and she wraps her legs around him as he holds her close, keeping his balance and skating away from Nolan.
Sylvan’s eyes lock with mine like they do right after he scores. Our connection. There from the start.
And this is a different kind of scoring, isn’t it? Because Nolan Devine is on his knees, trying and failing to stand, like a baby deer who hasn’t learned to control his limbs yet. And if the generator isn’t working for the rink, then the cameras sure as fuck aren’t working either.
“Faust.” Neve says my name. It has the note of a plea in it, but I don’t know what for. The blade is too far for Nolan to reach, so technically, whatever I do to him might not be self-defense.
But I could make it a fair fight, couldn’t I?
I head to the weapon, and when I look up to meet Nolan’s eyes, I kick it to him. It slides blade over handle along the ice, and he darts out his hand, slapping his palm over the handle.
Quicker than I gave him credit for.
I need to remember not to underestimate him.
He picks up the weapon, and I let him get to his feet. The movement is slow, his core hunched low, his ass to the boards.
I come closer, but I respect his space.
Neve says my name again, and it sounds like she’s fighting against Sylvan’s hold. She’ll never get free from him.
A smile curls my lips.
Then Nolan lunges for me.
The knife cuts through my practice jersey, but I don’t feel a thing thanks to my shoulder pads. Besides, his thrust was weak considering he has no stabilization.
He jerks back, trying to get away from me, but I don’t attack. Not yet. Instead I think of Neve, staring at food instead of eating it. The way she tries to suck in, constantly. How she always seems to be waiting for us to cut her down when we argue. Her defenses never lower.
Her walls are so fucking high, I’m not sure we’ve even begun to climb.
And maybe it was her dad, walking out and never looking back. Maybe it was her mom, giving up when raising them both stretched her too thin. But I know for a fact it was this motherfucker right here, baring his teeth, a knife in his hand, wobbly legs on the ice like a fish out of water.
And I don’t wait anymore.
I lunge for him, twisting his wrist when I circle my fingers around it, forcing him to drop the knife. He’s not getting that back.
Then I trip him, a call even the most devout fan couldn’t argue with a ref about.
And when he’s sprawled over the ice on his fucking spine, staring over at me and floundering with his limbs like he doesn’t know what to do, how to move, I recognize the opportunity.
The accident.
And I skate closer, pick up my right foot, and let the blade slice over his fucking throat.