Ruthless Titan (North Shore Titans Hockey #6)

Chapter 1

Connor

She’s here. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured gardens, her Bluetooth earpiece in place, dressed in her usual armor. The cream Chanel suit and blonde hair pulled into a perfect chignon scream old money and a pathological intolerance for flaws.

Fuck my life.

It’s not enough that I can’t find my passport, now I have to endure being in the same room as my mother.

My flight to Austria is in four hours, and I don’t intend to miss Alexei and Eli’s wedding.

Though avoiding Viktor would be a bonus.

He’s been insufferable since getting engaged to Coach Harper.

Except I won’t be going anywhere if I can’t find my goddamn fucking passport.

I've already torn through my room, the library, every safe I have the combination for, and every conceivable hiding spot in this mausoleum that serves as our family home.

And nothing.

I yank open drawer after drawer, slamming each shut harder than the last. After the fifth, I slap the granite island hard enough to rattle the crystal fruit bowl. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Give me one second.” My mother presses a finger to the earpiece as she glares at me because Cordelia Walsh doesn't do interruptions. What she does do is engage in hostile takeovers, attend board meetings, and participate in social events that double as business opportunities.

Maternal concern? Not in her repertoire. Never was.

The only reason I fucking exist is because my father convinced her they needed an heir to take over the business. Some days, I wonder if she even remembers giving birth to me or if she's blocked out the entire inconvenient experience.

Her hazel eyes—the same shade as mine—rake over me like I’m a quarterly report that failed to meet expectations, stopping on my socks: black with anatomically correct middle fingers in neon green.

Her lips press tight, a sharp exhale escaping through her nose, before her gaze flicks back up to mine. “Must you make such a racket?”

“My passport's missing and I need to leave for JFK in half an hour.”

She walks over, shutting the drawer I just opened. Her manicured nail clicks against the wood—that specific tap which means she's already won. “You're not going to Austria.”

My neck muscles constrict as I pin her with my glare. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Cancel whatever arrangements you've made. You won't be attending this . . . wedding.”

My molars grind hard enough to crack. “Try again.”

She laughs, short and precise, as if she's snapping someone's neck for punctuation. “Don't be na?ve. Those relationships serve no purpose. They don't advance our interests, they don't strengthen our position, and they certainly don't prepare you for the responsibilities waiting for you.”

“They're family.” My voice drops low as I straighten to my full height.

She matches my stance. “You're a Walsh. You belong to thirty billion dollars, six continents, and a legacy that will outlast you. Family—”

“Shows up when shit matters,” I cut in, louder than intended. “Something you wouldn’t fucking understand.”

The slap lands exactly where it always does—left cheek, just below the bone. The sting is immediate and sharp, but I don’t flinch. Twenty-two years of this woman's indifference have made me immune to her cruelty.

“You will not speak to me that way.” Her voice is deadly calm with the kind of tone that makes junior executives shit themselves in boardrooms. “And what have they shown up for? Your parties? Or to use our private jet to take trips down to Miami?”

A muscle near my eye twitches as she continues to reduce the deepest connections I've ever had to mere strategic failures. But there's something else threading through the rage, something dangerously like the old desperation I felt as a kid, begging for scraps of attention from my parents.

Except I'm not that kid anymore.

“Now, you have a dinner date with Veronica tonight. Try to remember that appearances matter, even if genuine affection is beyond your current capabilities.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same about maternal instinct.”

“Lose the attitude. It doesn't suit you.” She reactivates her earpiece and walks out of the kitchen.

I look up at the ceiling, exhaling sharply.

Who I spend my time with, who I date . . . thought that would always be my choice. And they’ve never interfered in that area of my life before . . . until my father and Patrick Callahan started discussing a business merger nine months ago.

That’s when they forced me to start dating Veronica Callahan.

And that shit needs to end soon.

Except the Callahans have been dragging their feet on finalizing terms, making demands, and renegotiating clauses. My father's getting impatient, which means the pressure is on me to keep Veronica happy.

Not that I haven’t enjoyed the time together. She’s a great fuck and just as ruthless as I am. And she’s captain of the Titans crew team. We really are the perfect power couple.

But I didn’t choose her.

Maybe that’s why I enjoyed Raiyne’s mouth so much.

I shake the thought away, refusing to think about what happened in Miami.

My footsteps echo through the marble-lined hallway as I exit the kitchen toward the east wing of the house, leaving one battlefield for another—my father’s office. The door is closed, but I don't knock. Walsh men don’t knock in their own houses.

He’s sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, looking like he’s carved from the same expensive wood. At fifty-three, my father remains imposing, his broad shoulders barely contained by his custom-tailored shirt, silver threading through his dark hair.

The office itself could serve as a war room with monitors displaying stock prices, international news feeds, and real-time updates from Walsh International Holdings' operations across six continents.

“Connor.” He doesn't look up from the documents spread across his desk. “Figured you'd end up here eventually.”

“Where's my passport?”

“In my safe, where it will remain.” He finally looks up, his eyes completely devoid of warmth, and juts his chin toward the chair. “Sit.”

“I'll stand.”

“Wasn't asking.” His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, when I don’t move. “Very well. Let's discuss your future.”

“My future involves being on a plane to Austria in three hours and forty-three minutes.”

He leans back in the leather office chair, steepling his fingers. “Your future involves the Washington Capitals training camp. September fifteenth.”

My heart suddenly beats faster, throat tightening. “I have one year left. One year to finish my degree, to—”

“To what? Continue wasting time with your friends?” He rises, walking around the desk until he’s standing in front of me. “You've won your championships. Proven your leadership. There's nothing left for you there.”

Two weeks ago, Zach walked away from Ottawa. When we met up after he got back, he looked relieved, not disappointed or regretful. And since that night, I've started to question if hockey is really my dream or just the only path my father ever allowed me.

But my choices have never been mine. Don’t know why I expected anything different.

I let out a slow breath, then smile just enough to unnerve him. “There’s no guarantee how long my career will last. You can’t predict injuries. And your ultimate plan is for me to take over Walsh International Holdings eventually, right?”

His lips press into a tight line, posture rigid. “Your point?”

“The board would just love a college dropout running their empire. Really screams excellence.”

His upper lip ticks up into a momentary sneer. But then he smiles, and every hair on my neck stands up. “You make a valid point. Stay at Crestwood. Finish your degree. But there is still one more matter at hand.”

“Which is?”

“You'll be marrying Veronica this Labor Day weekend. The marriage will seal the alliance and give us a controlling interest when it comes to North American sports media.”

All the air rushes from my lungs.

Marriage.

Not engagement, not a future possibility, but marriage. And in three and a half weeks.

My brows furrow, eyes narrowing. “Over my fucking dead body.”

“That can be arranged. I’m sure Patrick Callahan wouldn’t want to look like a callous asshole to the public.”

Did my father just . . . I shove my hands into my pockets and whistle. “Wow. Threatening filicide now? That'll play great in The New York Times. Oh, and I'm not your merger clause, so find another fucking way.”

“You'll do as you're told.”

The finality in his voice, the complete absence of any consideration for what I might want, hammers the final nail into the coffin of any autonomy I foolishly thought I had. Twenty-two years of grooming, shaping me into the perfect heir, was all building toward this.

Not my success, not my happiness—but his empire.

But I’m not going down easily.

There has to be a way to beat him. I just need time to figure it out. So, for now, I’ll play his game.

I stare right at him, a smile creeping across my face. “Fine. I'll marry her.”

His eyebrows raise, the first sign of surprise I've seen from him in years. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” I pause, letting him think he's won. “Now, can I have my passport?”

“The answer is still no. You’re needed here.” He waves me off, then returns to his documents.

I leave without a word, the door clicking shut behind me. No slamming it, no dramatic exit. Just that old, familiar ache in my chest. The one that reminds me I’m nothing more than a pawn waiting to be moved.

Except I refuse to promise my life to someone I didn't choose. So, it’s time to flip the entire fucking board and become a player instead of a piece.