Chapter 19
Belinda
The morning sun hit the grey walls of Peter’s loft and, surprisingly, didn't make it look bleak. It made it look... clean. Blank. A canvas waiting for paint.
Or maybe that was just my perspective shifting. Because waking up with Peter Volkov’s arm draped over my waist tended to make even industrial minimalism look cozy.
I shifted, turning to face him. He was still asleep, his dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. He looked younger when he slept. The lines of tension around his mouth smoothed out. The weight of the franchise lifted.
I traced the line of his jaw with my finger.
He stirred, humming low in his throat. His eyes cracked open—grey, hazy, and immediately focused on me.
"You’re staring," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"I’m observing," I corrected. "Gathering data on morning hair physics. Currently, your hair is defying gravity in three separate directions."
Peter groaned and buried his face in the pillow. "Don't analyze me before coffee."
"I made coffee," I said. "And I fed Kevin. He’s currently destroying a squeaky toy in the living room."
"Good dog."
Peter reached out, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me flush against his chest. His skin was warm. Solid. Real.
"Are you real?" he asked quietly, burying his nose in my hair. "Or did I dream the park?"
"I’m real," I said. "And I moved in. My yarn is already colonizing the coffee table."
"Good," he said. "Let it colonize."
We lay there for a moment, basking in the peace. It was a fragile thing, this peace. We both knew what was waiting outside the door.
Reality.
"We have to go," I said softly.
Peter stiffened slightly, but he didn't pull away. "I know."
"Thorne called while you were in the shower last night," I said. "The press caught wind of you leaving the gala. Someone took a photo of you getting into a cab. They want a statement."
"Let them wait," Peter grumbled.
"And my dad called," I added.
That got his attention. He pulled back to look at me. "O’Shea called you?"
"He left a voicemail. He saw the photos from the park. Someone—probably a tourist—posted a picture of 'Rangers Goalie proposing in Riverside Park' on Twitter. It’s trending."
"I wasn't proposing," Peter said, panicked. "I was groveling. There’s a difference."
"To Twitter, a man on his knees is a proposal. Dad is... unhappy."
"Is he threatening you?" Peter asked, his voice hardening. The Tsar was waking up.
"No," I said. "He sounded... resigned. He wants to meet. Lunch. Today."
"I’m coming with you," Peter said instantly.
"I know," I smiled. "Rule Two. Partners."
Peter sat up. He ran a hand through his chaotic hair. He looked at the window, then back at me.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
"A little," I admitted. "He’s still my dad. And he can still make life difficult for us. He knows people in the league."
"He can't touch me anymore," Peter said. "I have a contract. I have a union. But he can hurt you."
"He can't hurt me," I said, sitting up and taking his hand. "Because I don't need his approval anymore. I have a degree. I have a job offer from a tech firm in SoHo. And I have you."
Peter squeezed my hand. Hard.
"Let’s go get lunch," he said. "I’m buying."
The restaurant was a neutral ground—a steakhouse in Midtown. Expensive. Loud enough to discourage shouting matches.
My dad was already there. He was sitting in a booth, nursing a scotch. He looked older than I remembered. The stress of the last season had carved deeper lines into his face.
When we walked in—hand in hand—he looked up.
His eyes flicked to our joined hands. Then to Peter’s face. Then to mine.
He didn't smile. But he didn't look like he was about to flip the table, either.
"Belinda," he said. "Volkov."
"Mr. O’Shea," Peter said. His voice was calm. Respectful, but not deferential. He wasn't the college kid terrified of losing his scholarship anymore. He was a Ranger. An equal.
We sat down.
The waiter came over. We ordered water. The tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a steak knife.
"So," Dad said, swirling his drink. "Twitter says you’re engaged."
"We’re not engaged," I said. "We’re dating. Again."
"And living together," Peter added. He didn't look away from my father’s gaze. "She moved in last night."
Dad let out a short, harsh breath. "Fast."
"We wasted enough time," Peter said. "Thanks to you."
It was a direct hit. I held my breath.
Dad looked at Peter. His jaw worked.
"I did what I had to do," Dad said. "To protect the team. To protect my daughter."
"You protected your reputation," Peter corrected. "You used my father’s addiction as leverage. You blackmailed a twenty-one-year-old kid."
"It worked, didn't it?" Dad countered. "You got drafted Top 5. You paid the debt. Your father is sober. Belinda finished her degree without a scandal."
"And we were miserable," I cut in. "We were both miserable, Dad. Is that your definition of success? Money and misery?"
"It’s better than poverty and chaos," Dad said. "Which is where you were headed with him."
"You don't know me," Peter said quietly. "You know my last name. You know my stats. But you don't know who I am."
He leaned forward.
"I am not my father, Mr. O’Shea. I don't break things. I fix them. I fixed my dad. I fixed my finances. And now, I’m fixing this."
He lifted our joined hands and placed them on the table.
"I love your daughter," Peter said. "I love her more than I love hockey. And that’s saying something, because hockey is the only thing I’ve ever known."
Dad stared at him. He looked for a crack in the armor. He looked for the fear he used to see in the college kid’s eyes.
He didn't find it.
"And if you try to interfere again," Peter continued, his voice dropping an octave, "if you threaten her, or me, or my family...
I will go to the press. I will tell them everything.
The blackmail. The loan sharks. The rehab payments.
I will burn your reputation to the ground, Thomas. And I have the platform to do it now."
It was a mic drop.
The silence stretched. The restaurant noise faded into the background.
Dad looked at Peter. Then he looked at me.
He saw the way I was looking at Peter. With pride. With absolute certainty.
He sighed. He looked down at his drink.
"You’re bluffing," Dad muttered. "You wouldn't ruin your own image."
"Try me," Peter said.
Dad was silent for a long moment. Then, he picked up his glass and drained it.
"Fine," he said.
"Fine?" I asked.
"Fine," Dad repeated. "You win. You have the contract. You have the leverage. And apparently, you have the girl."
He looked at me. His expression softened, just a fraction.
"I just wanted you safe, Bee," he said. "That’s all I ever wanted. I thought he was dangerous."
"He is dangerous," I said, squeezing Peter’s hand. "He’s a goalie. But he’s safe with me."
Dad shook his head. "Stubborn. Just like your mother."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He slid it across the table to Peter.
"My contacts at the league office," Dad said. "If the press gets too aggressive about the reunion story... call them. They can kill it."
It was an olive branch. A small, begrudging one, but an olive branch nonetheless.
"Thanks," Peter said. He didn't take the card, but he nodded.
"I have to go," Dad said, standing up. "I have a flight. Scouting trip in Sweden."
He looked at me one last time.
"Be happy," he said. It sounded like an order, but also a wish.
"I am," I said.
He walked away.
I slumped back in the booth, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for a year.
"Holy shit," I whispered. "You threatened him."
"I negotiated," Peter corrected, picking up his water. "It was a high-stakes play. But the data suggested he would fold."
"You were terrifying," I said admiringly.
"I was terrified," Peter admitted, his hand shaking slightly as he put the glass down. "But I wasn't going to let him win. Not this time."
I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
"My hero," I teased.
"Let’s go," Peter said, standing up. "I want to go home. I want to take that suit off. And I want to take that dress off you."
"We haven't ordered food."
"We have food at home," Peter said. "Or we can order pizza. After."
"After what?"
He smirked. A wicked, devastating smirk that made my toes curl.
"After the victory lap."
The ride back to the loft was electric.
Peter drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh. His thumb traced circles on my skin, a silent promise of what was to come.
We walked into the building. The doorman smiled at us. We smiled back. We weren't hiding anymore.
We got into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Peter turned to me.
He pressed me against the mirrored wall. He kissed me.
It wasn't desperate like in the park. It was possessive. Confident.
"Mine," he murmured against my lips. "No more secrets. No more hiding."
"Yours," I breathed, wrapping my arms around his neck.
The elevator dinged. We pulled apart, breathless and laughing.
We walked into the loft. Kevin greeted us with a bark and a wagging tail.
"Hey buddy," Peter said, scratching Kevin’s ears. "Go lay down. Mom and Dad are busy."
"Dad?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Step-dad," Peter corrected. "For now."
He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the windows, bathing the room in gold light.
Peter stopped at the foot of the bed. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the chair. He loosened his tie and pulled it off, dropping it on the floor.
He looked at me. His grey eyes were clear. Happy.
"Come here," he said softly.
I walked to him.
He reached out and cupped my face.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it scares me. But it’s a good scare. Like the seconds before a puck drops."
"I love you too," I whispered. "More than data. More than knitting. Maybe even more than Kevin."
He laughed. He kissed me.
He turned me around and unzipped my dress. It fell to the floor.
He stepped back to look at me.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "Always beautiful."
He undressed quickly, tossing his clothes aside.
He lifted me onto the bed. The sheets were cool against my skin.
This time, there was no rush. No fear of getting caught. No shadows in the corners.
He moved over me, his weight familiar and perfect.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered, bracing himself on his arms.
"Everything," I said. "I want everything."
"You have it," he promised.
He kissed my throat, my collarbone, my chest. His hands explored my body with a reverence that made me ache. He took his time, learning the new curves, the changes that a few months apart had brought.
When he finally entered me, it wasn't just physical. It was a homecoming.
I gasped, arching into him. "Peter."
"I’ve got you," he murmured, his forehead resting against mine. "I’m not letting go."
We moved together in the golden light. It was slow, deep, and devastatingly intimate. We watched each other’s eyes. We whispered names and promises.
There was no pain this time. No frantic desperation to memorize a moment before it was stolen.
There was just joy.
Pure, unadulterated joy.
When the climax came, it was a release of everything we had held back. The fear, the anger, the loneliness—it all shattered, leaving only light.
We collapsed together, tangled in the sheets, breathing hard.
Peter rolled onto his side, pulling me into his arms. He kissed the top of my head.
"Wow," he whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Wow."
We lay there for a long time, watching the sun move across the floor.
"So," Peter said eventually, his voice lazy and content. "What now?"
"Now?" I asked. "Now we order pizza. And then we walk the dog. And then maybe we watch a movie."
"Sounds boring," Peter said.
"It sounds perfect," I corrected.
"Yeah," he squeezed me tighter. "It does."
He reached over to the nightstand and picked up his phone.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Posting a picture," he said.
He held the phone up. He took a selfie of us—tangled in the sheets, smiling, happy.
"Peter!" I laughed, trying to hide my face. "You can't post that! It’s... scandalous."
"It’s not scandalous," he said. "It’s a statement."
He typed a caption. He showed it to me.
The North Star. #FoundHer #Mine
He hit post.
"There," he said. "Now the whole world knows. No going back."
"No going back," I agreed.
I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was strong. Steady.
We had survived the storm. We had navigated the dark.
And now, finally, we were home.