Chapter 7 #2
Just then, a shadow fell over the table.
I looked up. A middle-aged couple was standing there. The man was wearing a suit that cost more than Peter’s car. The woman was dripping in diamonds.
"Peter Volkov?" the man asked. His tone wasn't asking for an autograph. It was accusatory.
Peter stiffened. The relaxed Pyotr vanished instantly, replaced by the Tsar. His shoulders squared, his face went blank.
"Mr. Henderson," Peter said. "Good evening."
"I heard you were dining here," Henderson said, his eyes flicking to me with disdain. "Enjoying the booster money, I see."
My hackles rose.
"Mr. Henderson is a donor," Peter explained to me, his voice tight. "A generous one."
"I expect a return on my investment, Volkov," Henderson sneered. "Last season’s finish was unacceptable. And I hear your father is... making headlines again. Are we going to have a problem with focus this year?"
It was a low blow. A cheap shot.
I saw Peter’s hand clench into a fist on the table. His jaw worked. He was going to take it. He was going to sit there and let this rich prick insult him because he had to play the game.
Oh, hell no.
I put my wine glass down. Hard.
"Mr. Henderson," I said. My voice was sweet, sugary poison.
Henderson looked at me, surprised that the decoration was speaking. "Excuse me?"
"I’m Belinda O’Shea," I said, flashing a shark-like smile. "Head Data Analyst for the Kodiaks."
"O’Shea... ah. The GM’s daughter." He sniffed. "Charmed."
"If you’re concerned about ROI," I continued, leaning forward, "you’ll be pleased to know that Peter’s high-danger save percentage is currently tracking in the 98th percentile during pre-season.
That is statistically higher than any goalie in the NCAA, including the ones your alma mater recruited.
Furthermore, his focus metrics—reaction time, rebound control, and positional discipline—are at career highs. "
Henderson blinked. "I... well..."
"As for his personal life," I added, my voice dropping to a deadly chill, "that is a variable that does not affect his performance.
Unless, of course, people interrupt his dinner with unnecessary aggression.
Stress increases cortisol, Mr. Henderson.
Cortisol affects reaction time. So, technically, by standing here and harassing your star player, you are the one jeopardizing your investment. "
The silence at the table was absolute.
Peter was staring at me. His mouth was slightly open.
Henderson turned a shade of puce that clashed with the tablecloth.
"I... well. Good evening," he spluttered. He grabbed his wife’s arm and practically marched away.
I let out a breath I had been holding and picked up my wine glass. My hand was shaking slightly.
"Did I just yell at a donor?" I whispered. "My dad is going to kill me."
I looked at Peter.
He wasn't mad.
He was looking at me like I had just hung the moon and the stars and personally invented oxygen.
His eyes were shining. There was a mix of awe, disbelief, and something much hotter burning in them.
"You..." he started, then shook his head. "You just quoted stats to shut down Henderson."
"He was being a dick."
"He is a dick. But nobody talks to him like that. Not even Sarge."
"Well, somebody should," I grumbled, tearing off a piece of bread. "He insulted you."
"You defended me," Peter said softly.
"We’re a team, right?" I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Us against the variables."
Peter reached across the table. He took my hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed my knuckles. It wasn't the lesson kiss from the car. This was different. This was reverence.
"Moya zashchitnitsa," he whispered against my skin.
"What does that mean?"
"My defender," he translated. "My warrior."
My heart melted into a puddle on the floor of The Mirabelle.
"I like the sound of that," I breathed.
"Come on," Peter said abruptly, standing up and dropping a stack of cash on the table. "We’re leaving."
"We haven't ordered dessert."
"I don't want dessert," Peter growled, pulling me up. "I want to kiss you."
The ride back to The Hive was silent, but it wasn't quiet. The air in the car was thick with tension. Every time Peter shifted gears, his hand brushed my knee. Every time he stopped at a red light, he looked at me with a hunger that made my skin prickle.
We pulled into the driveway of the hockey house. The lights were off. Everyone was out.
Peter killed the engine.
He didn't wait.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned toward me. I met him halfway.
We collided over the center console.
It was frantic. Desperate.
His hands were in my hair, ruining Sloane’s perfect styling. My hands were gripping the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer.
His mouth was hot and demanding. He tasted like wine and need.
"Bee," he groaned against my lips. "You have no idea. You have no idea what you did back there."
"Tell me," I gasped, biting his lower lip.
"You owned the room," he growled. "You stood up for me. Nobody stands up for me. They just expect me to take it."
He kissed my jaw, my neck, trailing fire down to the cowl neck of the dress.
"Peter," I whimpered, arching into him. "The seatbelt. I’m stuck."
"Damn it," he muttered. He fumbled with the buckle, his hands shaking.
The click of the release sounded like a gunshot.
He pulled me onto his lap. In the driver’s seat. My legs straddled his hips, the slit in the dress falling open completely. The steering wheel dug into my back, but I didn't care.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled so good.
His hands roamed over my back, down to my waist, gripping my hips through the silk.
"This is bad," I whispered into his ear. "This is so bad. We’re in the driveway."
"I don't care," he rasped. "Let the neighbors watch."
He kissed me again, deeper. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me. I felt the hard ridge of him beneath me, pressing against the thin fabric of my dress.
I ground down. Instinctively.
Peter hissed a curse in Russian that sounded filthy.
"Bee," he warned, his hands tightening on my hips to hold me still. "Don't move. If you move like that, I can't..."
"Can't what?"
"Can't stop."
"Then don't stop."
He froze. He pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.
"We have to," he said, his voice ragged. "We have to stop. Rule One."
"I hate Rule One," I whispered.
"Me too," he admitted. "God, me too."
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest.
"Field Work is over," he said eventually. "This... this is real."
"Yeah," I said softly. "It is."
He opened his eyes. The grey was almost black.
"We need to go inside," he said. "Before I do something that gets me arrested for public indecency."
"Okay."
I climbed off his lap, adjusting my dress. My hair was a disaster. My lips felt swollen.
I opened the car door. The cool night air hit me, doing nothing to cool the heat in my blood.
Peter walked me to the front door. He didn't come in. He knew if he came in, he wouldn't leave.
"Goodnight, Bee," he said, leaning against the doorframe.
"Goodnight, Pyotr," I whispered.
He smiled. A real, soft smile.
"Dream of me," he ordered.
"I always do," I admitted.
He waited until I was inside and locked the door.
I leaned against the wood, listening to his footsteps retreat down the driveway.
I touched my lips.
We were in trouble. Big, beautiful, catastrophic trouble.
And I didn't want to be saved.