Chapter 7 #2
Kai moved.
Fast.
He reached out and grabbed the ketchup bottle from the table. For a second, I thought he was going to squirt it on Carter.
Instead, he just set it down closer to the edge, creating a barrier.
"You're confused," Kai said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal rumble that cut through the diner noise. "You think I'm stuck with her. You think this is a chore."
He looked at me. He didn't look away. He looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
"Maeve isn't baggage," Kai said to Carter, but his eyes stayed on mine. "She's the prize. And you were too weak to carry her. That sounds like a 'you' problem, not a 'her' problem."
Carter sputtered. "Excuse me?"
Kai finally looked at him. The look was terrifying. It was the look he gave goalies before he scored.
"I said you're weak," Kai clarified. "Now, leave. Before I decide to demonstrate exactly how much stronger I am."
Carter turned red. He looked at his date, who was eyeing Kai with distinct interest. He muttered something under his breath and dragged the girl away.
Silence fell over the booth.
I stared at Kai. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
She's the prize.
"You didn't have to do that," I whispered.
"Yes, I did," Kai said, picking up his burger like nothing had happened. "He was annoying me. And he was wrong."
"I am high maintenance," I pointed out, my voice trembling.
"So is a Ferrari," Kai shrugged. "You don't buy a Ferrari and complain about the gas mileage, Maeve. You drive it because it's the best car on the road."
I laughed. A wet, shaky sound. "Did you just compare me to a car?"
"Top of the line engineering," he winked. "Eat your fries. They're getting cold."
"You guys are so cute," the waitress said, appearing suddenly with a refill of water. She beamed at us. "How long have you been together?"
I froze.
Kai didn't.
"Not long enough," he said smoothly. He reached across the table and wiped a smudge of ketchup off my cheek with his thumb. Then he licked his thumb.
The waitress sighed dreamily and walked away.
I stared at him. "You are dangerous."
"I told you," he grinned, the expression transforming his face. "I'm learning."
The drive home was quiet, but it wasn't empty. It was thick with tension. The kind of tension that makes the air feel heavy and electric.
Kai drove with one hand. His other hand rested on the center console.
Halfway back to the tower, I reached out. I slipped my hand into his.
He laced our fingers together instantly, squeezing tight. He brought my hand to his lips, kissing the back of my knuckles, keeping his eyes on the road.
We didn't let go until he had to park the car.
When we got up to the penthouse, the domestic spell didn't break. It intensified.
We walked in, kicking off our boots by the door. I threw my leather jacket on the couch. Kai stretched, his shirt riding up, exposing a strip of taut, muscular stomach.
I stared. I couldn't help it.
"See something you like?" he asked, catching me looking.
"Maybe," I said, emboldened by the diner, by the defense, by the way he had held my hand.
He walked toward me.
The playful mood evaporated. His eyes darkened. The predator was back.
"Come here," he said.
I took a step forward. He took two.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me flush against him. I gasped as my chest collided with his. He was so solid. So warm.
"Thank you," I whispered, looking up at him. "For tonight. For... what you said."
"I meant it," he murmured, his hands sliding down to cup my ass. He squeezed, pulling me up onto my toes. "Every word."
He lowered his head.
When he kissed me this time, it wasn't like the kitchen. It wasn't an explosion. It was a slow burn. It was deep, thorough, and devastatingly intimate.
I opened for him immediately, my tongue meeting his. He tasted like burger and milkshake and man.
We stumbled backward. My back hit the wall of the hallway.
Kai pressed into me, his hips grinding against mine. I could feel him—hard, heavy, demanding—through the denim of our jeans.
"Kai," I breathed, wrapping my legs around his waist as he lifted me effortlessly. "Bedroom."
"Which one?" he growled against my neck.
"Yours," I said. "It's bigger."
He carried me down the hall, kissing me the whole way. He kicked his door open.
The room was dark, the city lights casting shadows across the bed. The bed I had stripped a week ago.
He laid me down on the mattress. He crawled over me, his weight settling between my legs. It felt like coming home.
He kissed my jaw, my throat, the swell of my breast above the bodysuit.
"Maeve," he whispered, his voice ragged. "If we do this... if we cross this line..."
"I know," I said, my hands tangling in his hair. "No going back."
"No going back," he agreed.
He reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head.
My breath hitched. His chest was a masterpiece of muscle and ink. The tattoos on his arm—the Russian folklore monsters—seemed to writhe in the shadows.
He reached for the snap of my bodysuit.
Click.
The sound was loud in the quiet room.
He peeled the fabric down.
And then his phone rang.
Not a text. A ring. Loud. Jarring.
We froze.
Kai cursed into my neck. "Ignore it."
It rang again. And again.
"It might be Silas," I whispered, panting. "Or the Coach."
Kai groaned, rolling off me. He sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. He reached for the phone on the nightstand.
He looked at the screen.
He didn't answer it. He silenced it.
But the mood was broken. The reality of who he was—the Captain, the Scholarship Athlete, the guy with the Oligarch father—crashed back into the room.
He looked back at me. I was lying there, half-undressed, lips swollen, hair a mess.
"I can't," he said, his voice strained. "Not like this. Not when I'm one phone call away from losing everything."
He stood up, grabbing his shirt.
"I want you, Maeve. God, you have no idea. But I can't be distracted. Not tonight. We have the quarter-finals on Friday."
He was pulling away. He was putting the armor back on.
I sat up, pulling my bodysuit up. I felt cold. Rejected.
But then he turned back. He walked to the bed, leaned down, and kissed me on the forehead. It was a fierce, possessive press of lips.
"Friday," he promised. "After the game. We win. And then I take you apart. Deal?"
I looked at him. I saw the hunger in his eyes. He wasn't rejecting me. He was delaying gratification. He was exercising that terrifying discipline of his.
"Deal," I whispered.
He walked out of the room.
I lay back on his pillows, inhaling his scent.
Friday.
Three days.
I could wait three days.
But as I touched my lips, I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't just attracted to Kai Volkov. I wasn't just lusting after him.
I was falling in love with him.
And that was infinitely more dangerous than any game of hockey.