TWENTY-SEVEN
Luca
T he air in my bedroom now tastes like Max’s spicy cologne and raw male heat. I breathe him in, grateful that he doesn’t smell like perfume.
He wasn’t with a woman. I wasn’t sure.
I wondered if he snagged one of the women ogling him all night for a hot hook up to taunt me. I hate myself for caring. I knew he caught a ride with Damien Carter and the tasty twink he picked up.
Only that twink is the son of Aspen’s head coach. I wonder if that fact comes up while they’re fucking. Or after. If rumors are true, Carter is likely to be traded there next season. But I can’t think about Carter, and the hell he’ll catch for fucking his future’s coach’s son.
The here and now demand my attention.
“Why are you even in my room?” I say to Max’s back before he steps out into the hallway.
I just can’t help myself. My words bring him up short. Max is a hockey god, famous, and not accustomed to answering to anyone.
Especially his conscience.
He turns to me, and his blue eyes lower to my aching cock, twitching in the glow of his stare. “To see this reaction.”
That kiss in the coat closet surprised the hell out of me, but I’d been sending out signals that must have been hard to turn down. He tasted of delicious curiosity.
“You’re right about one thing,” I admit with a teasing stroke. “Nothing more should happen between us. I’m not worried about the team. I’m worried about you. I’m gay and you’re...straight-ish.” Even if I don’t want that to be true. “The gnashing of your mouth against mine twice and jerking off with my tongue in your mouth aside.”
Max swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thick neck. It’s so wide, my cock will slide down the column so sublimely.
“Good night, Luc.”
“Without you in my bed, it won’t be.”
“I wish I could argue with you.” Max swings open my bedroom door and gasps.
I spin around, and a man in a long black trench coat, shades, and a head shaped like a Neanderthal lunges from Max’s bedroom and into mine.
With a knife.
Max stands frozen, and before he yells, which is the normal human reaction, I’ve already grabbed my Glock and screwed on the silencer.
I shove Max out of the way, aim, and squeeze the trigger as the knife comes down, catching my bicep. The shot at close range pops this jack-off in the shoulder, his rotator cuff practically blown off. I only shoot to kill when I know the enemy. A dead man can’t confess anything.
I knock the blade out of his hand. He caught my arm in a messy flesh wound. Bloody as hell, but not deep.
The guy drops to his knees, holding his shoulder in a guttural cry. We have him on camera, breaking in with a knife. A knife he lifted to stab Max. I’m a hired bodyguard. My actions are justified. His aren’t. Not that I’m likely to leave this aggression to law enforcement.
First two guys with a hockey stick and a knife. Now one guy with a knife. If Belova wanted Max dead, a gun would have been put to his head already .
This is pure bratva torture. This is about pain. Prolonged agony is meant to keep him out of the game. Make him sit and watch his teammates blunder and fail without him. Max would take that personally. It’s his team, and he feels responsible for everyone and everything.
After I kick the knife away, I jam my foot down on his uninjured arm, so he can’t grab my leg. I don’t aggravate his blown-up shoulder. I don’t want any more blood on me than I already have, and his adrenaline from the pain will give him superhuman strength to fight me.
“Who sent you?” I don’t bother asking his name.
He groans and shakes his head.
I point the gun at his cock. “I’ll ask again. Just give me a name.”
“Fuck you,” he grounds out, his voice tilting.
The accent ever so slight, but I recognize it.
Russian.
I know Belova is behind this, but I want to know who in Ivan’s organization is calling these shots to hurt Max. My Max.
Belova is busy in tuxedos and waving to cameras. He’s a figurehead at this point, and has brigadiers making these reckless transactional decisions.
“Who do you owe your life to?” I switch up the question. “You had to know you’d die. That I couldn’t let you live.”
His eyes, red from the pain, close as he waits for his demise. Not yet, asshole.
“Max,” I mutter. “Grab my phone from the dresser.”
He’s frozen at first, but when I catch his reflection from a mirrored closet door turning away, I punch the guy in the throat, leaving him gasping for air.
When Max gets back and sees all the blood up close, he drops my phone. “Oh God,” he chokes out .
I hop off this animal and try to hug Max, but he backs away.
Could be because he saw how violent I get when provoked.
Could be because I’m naked.
Could be because I have blood all over me.
I lay down my gun on the bed, and hold up my hands. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Who is that?” he asks, fury overtaking him more every second, the angry defensemen emerging sexy as hell.
“I’m going to find out.” I bend down to pick up my phone.
Max stares at my hands, blood already seeping into my fingernails.
“Go into my bathroom, close the door and—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “I’m staying. Right here. With you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I can handle this,” he says sharply.
So fucking tough. I love it. And hate it. Acting too tough can lead to being overconfident and mistakes get made.
“Fine. Stay right there.” I finally notice my ragged breathing.
“God, Luc, your arm. You’re bleeding.”
“He caught me with the knife. It’s not deep. I’ll be fine.” I look down at myself. “Can you grab me a towel from that bathroom?”
Max is still in his tux, and blood can travel up to twenty feet. He’s got to get rid of those gorgeous threads.
Fuck. I need... I need my sister, Samara.
With the towel, I clean my hands as best I can. I don’t want to get rid of this phone. It will need a thorough cleaning, but Sam can do that, too .
“If you’re staying, can you please remove that tux. In here. We can’t contaminate any other room.”
Max looks down with a pained expression. “I like this tux. I don’t see any blood. Can’t I just send it to the dry cleaners?”
“No. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“That’s not...” He stops and biting his lower lip, he shucks off the jacket.
“Leave the clothes in a pile on the floor.”
“Who’s going to—”
“Max... I’m kind of crazy about you, but shut the fuck up.” I scroll through my phone until I get to the fingerprint app.
I take the unconscious guy’s hand and press his thumb, his forefinger, and his side palm into the screen. The app photographs the prints and then runs them through databases I subscribe to. The double beep stops my heart. I seriously didn’t think I would get a hit, but I had a shred of hope.
“Who is it?” Max asks.
It makes sense he wants to know who tried to hurt him. He doesn’t realize I see this as my problem. One hundred percent. All of this came from my backyard.
“He’s a ghost.”
“Looks real to me.”
“Someone whose prints aren’t registered. He had an accent. Could be a fresh recruit from Siberia.”
“Belova.”
“Most likely. Like 99.9 percent.”
“What do we do now?” Max looks around. “He came into my home .”
“He’s going to die for that.” I soak in Max’s stare, my visceral instinct to protect him growing deeper every second.
But we have a clean-up task to deal with right now. “ The blood splatter should be isolated to this room. That’s why you can’t leave until you’re clean.” My eyes run across his body. “Take off your clothes and get into my shower.”
His fingers stop unbuttoning his shirt and his hands drop. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
I glance down at the body on the carpet. “It’s happening.”
“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” It’s just hitting him.
“He tried to hurt you. He was sent by a criminal organization that can’t be negotiated with.”
“But why ?” Max argues, tearing off his dress shirt, the buttons flying in different directions. Crucial evidence if they contain a spec of blood.
Fuck.
“They want you out of the game,” I keep talking in the language I know Max will understand. Sport. “Would you give them that? Sit out?”
“No. I mean. I don’t know. If my fucking life upended on it, maybe I would.” He keeps undressing but turns away from me, teasing me with an ass I’m going to need to fuck soon. “I’m not insane.”
It shouldn’t be a time for lust, but it’s coursing through me. I see it in his eyes, too. Maybe he’s beyond curious.
What the fuck is he?
Confused?
At thirty-six?
“I’m going to call someone to help me clean this up once I finish him off,” I say to do something with my mouth and not drop to the carpet and blow him.
“Who are you going to call?”
I guffaw hoarsely. “It doesn’t matter. Just someone I trust. Completely. She— ”
“She?”
I cock my head to him. “There are female cleaners.”
“Cleaner. A cleaning lady?”
“Samara isn’t a maid.”
“What?” Max spits out. “What will she do?”
“Cut up and get rid of the body.”