Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
TREY
Ipaced my suite of rooms on the second floor of the Malachek mansion as quietly as I could while Slone was in the air.
I couldn’t wait for him to get here. My dad had been on a rampage since I arrived two and a half days ago.
Nothing I ever did was good enough, but it felt like something more drove his hostility this time, and all I wanted was to stay as far away from the man as possible.
Especially after taking a puck to the face. I didn’t tell Slone who hit the puck that hit me, but the man wasn’t stupid. If he hadn’t figured it out, then he would.
I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I had nothing of my own.
No freaking way to support myself. At least nothing that wasn’t under the control of my father and grandfather and their business managers.
Why my mother allowed them to assume control of my trust fund from the Petrov side of the family as well as her own inheritance, I’ll never know.
So yeah, screwed, especially with my dad and his agent handling everything hockey-related—contract, brand endorsements, NIL money—if I walked out the door, I would be destitute with no college degree, no NHL contract, no home, no car, nothing.
I needed to figure out how to extricate my life from theirs so I could walk away.
I hated to do it. The scandal would be fucking massive, but I had lived in a nightmare of increasingly horrific proportions for as long as I could remember, and I was done.
Twenty-one years old and I shouldn’t still be cowering when my dad raises his voice.
I shouldn’t have to worry about what sets him off the next time.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Slone
I’m on the ground in NYC. I’ll be there soon.
I typed, deleted, and retyped my message to him several times, unsure of how to express the gratitude I felt.
He dropped everything, arranged a flight to get him here in what had to be hours before a commercial flight could’ve managed, all because I asked.
No one had ever done that. Not even my parents when I came down with chickenpox and the nanny took me to the hospital.
Finally, I landed on a version that didn’t sound too needy or clingy or any other way a grown-ass man who played hockey shouldn’t sound.
Me
Thank you for coming and missing your family’s celebration to attend mine with me.
Slone
You’re my boy. You are my family.
Holy fuck, the man was too fucking much sometimes.
I already didn’t know how to respond to his kindness, and then he hits me with more.
I loved it. So freaking much. It soothed me in a way I never knew was possible.
It uplifted me whenever I felt down, or I spiraled.
It felt fucking amazing. Which was a poor descriptor, but it was all I had.
But as much as I loved it, I hated it too.
Every act and word of kindness felt like a shoe waiting to fall.
No, it felt worse than that. Like lying on your back under a guillotine held up by an increasingly fraying rope with your neck on the line and your eyes watching the rope strands snap one by one.
Yeah.
That.
That summed it up.
So, yeah, every act and word of kindness brought a storm of emotion—good and bad—swirling together until you couldn’t tell where the elation ended and the anxiety and fear began.
As much as it affected me, though, I wouldn’t ever tell him how his kindness made me feel.
Because after doing some research into kink, I truly think I’m a bit of a masochist. I love it when he makes me hurt in a good way, and this anxiety, fear-ridden elation was one of the good ways Slone made me feel. I never wanted it to end.
A glance told me Slone would be arriving at the gates soon. Turning, I looked for my phone only to find it still in my hand. I shook my head at my craziness and dialed the gatehouse.
“Good evening, Mr. Malachek. This is Aaron at the gate.”
“I have a visitor arriving soon. I’m unsure of what he will be driving since he’s in a rental picked up from the airport. His name is Abraham Slone.”
“Do you have his birth date, sir?”
Fuck. When did they implement that nonsense? Sighing, I replied, “Sorry, I do not. Not off the top of my head. Will that be a problem?”
“Do you have a description?”
Holy hell, this is ridiculous. Next, they’ll ask for his blood type. Not wanting to delay Slone getting in, I said, “He’s dark blond with brown eyes. He’s in his thirties. Around six foot three. He served in the Marines, if that helps.” I didn’t know if it would, but I didn’t think it could hurt.
“Thank you, sir. We will text—”
Shit. I interrupted, “Can you text this number specifically? My parents have retired for the evening. Big day tomorrow and all.”
The security guard replied, “Yes, sir. We can text this number.”
Swallowing a huge sigh of relief, I said, “Thanks so much, Aaron. I appreciate your help.”
Me
Security measures: You’ll have to show ID and will probably be asked questions. I cleared you, but if you have issues, talk to Aaron.
Did all former NHL players live like prisoners in bougie communities like this? Or really, any celebrities? Did Katie Carter?
I found it way over the top, but as long as Slone got through, I didn’t care.
Slone
ID. Questions. Aaron. Got it.
My phone buzzed with a call. A photo of me sprawled across Slone’s chest filled the screen.
“Are you here? Aaron was supposed to text when you arrived.”
“I’m at the gate. Aaron is checking my ID. Any place special I should park when I get to the house?”
“All the way forward in the driveway and as far away from the garage doors as possible. The guests tomorrow will be driven in, so making room for extra cars isn’t an issue, but the caterers and vendors will be in and out during the early part of the day.”
Jesus, that sounded pretentious even to my ears, and I grew up this way.
“Sounds easy enough. By the way, who knew there were this many trees so close to Manhattan?”
I laughed and said, “I’ll be waiting for you on the back stoop next to the garage.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
The call disconnected, and I raced down the back stairs to the kitchen and out the mudroom door, pausing to disable the security system.
Excitement filled me, and I couldn’t wait to be back in his arms, to feel safe and protected the way he’d made me feel since the morning I woke up to a Don’t Panic note.
A note I mourned the loss of during the time we were apart.
I had the bigger prize now, though. I had the man.
The big, sexy, possessive, sweet, kind, kinky man who made my blood boil and my—
Gravel crunched softly, breaking off the inner monologue about the sexy man driving up to the house.
Unable to stay put, I tore across the gravel, chasing the car like a dog.
The minute he pulled to a stop, I yanked open the door, and he surged out of the car and pulled me to him.
The weight of the world and the cold, harsh, unloving, critical reality of being a Malachek fell away.
In his arms, I was just Trey, the baby boy, cum dumpster, cockwarming slut to Abraham Slone, a Marine who gave me more than I ever dreamed I could have or was even possible.
“Hello, baby boy. I missed you,” he whispered when he pulled his face from the crook of my neck and cupped my face.
“I missed you too, Daddy,” I whispered back before pressing my lips to his.
“Trey?”
“Fuck,” I muttered, looking up at Slone before glancing at the mudroom door where my mother stood.
“Hey, Mama. This is my…” Oh shit, how did you introduce your Daddy Dom to your parents? Maybe I should’ve researched that while I paced my bedroom waiting for the man to arrive.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Slone. Trey’s boyfriend,” Slone said, walking over to Mama with his hand outstretched.
“Oksana Petrova Malachek,” Mama said as she shook Slone’s hand. Without releasing it, she turned to me. “Trey, you didn’t mention you were seeing someone or that they would be attending the festivities.”
“Sorry, Mama. It was last minute. Slone didn’t know if he could make it until a few hours ago.”
“Hmm. Well, alright then. Do you have bags, Mr…?”
“Slone,” he said as I ran back to the car to grab his bags and shut the driver’s door.
“Your name is Slone Slone?” Mama asked with wide eyes, glancing between Slone and me as I stopped with his luggage next to him.
Slone laughed, but if you didn’t know him as well as I did, you wouldn’t know it wasn’t his real laugh. “No ma’am. Slone is my last name. No one but my mama uses my given name. Too long spent in the Marines.”
“You’re a soldier?” she asked, and I giggled.
“Serving one’s country isn’t to be laughed at, Trey,” she said.
Through more giggles after looking at the soft, real smile tugging at Slone’s face, I said, “No, Mama, it isn’t. It’s an inside joke. Soldiers and Marines are not the same thing, I’ve learned.”
She hummed, then waved us into the house. Slone looked at me, and I giggled again as we followed Mama into the house, Slone’s hand on my back.
She stopped in the kitchen and sighed. “I don’t know what to do or where we can put him. Marta has gone to bed, and none of the rooms—”
“He’s staying with me. He doesn’t need a room of his own.”
Her eyes rounded, “That…that isn’t…your father…”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Mama, Slone is my boyfriend. He will stay with me.”
She swallowed, closing her eyes and nodding. “If you feel that’s best, then I guess…”
I knew where she was going, so I said, “I’ll deal with Dad. Just don’t say anything.”
She smiled and nodded, looking between Slone, whose hand still lay on the small of my back, and me, before she kissed my cheeks, always the left first, then the right, and then the left again. “Спи спокойно, мой дорогой.”
“Спокойной ночи.”
She nodded to Slone and said, “Sleep well, Slone.”
“You as well, ma’am.”
She smiled and slipped out of the kitchen, leaving Slone and me alone. “That was rude of us. I apologize. She said Sleep well, my darling and I responded with Good night.”