26. Eva
EVA
It’s been ten days, and I finally feel somewhat human.
Ten days since I stopped bleeding out on a metal table under a man who wanted to carve me into something unrecognizable.
Long enough to realize Hudson chose not to kill me.
That part still doesn’t feel real.
Honestly, none of this does.
But my body is healing, little by little.
The bruises are fading from purple to green.
The deep soreness is finally easing enough that moving doesn’t feel like punishment anymore.
I taped my mangled finger to the one beside it. This morning, I managed to shower on my own for the first time since this started.
Washed my hair.
Shaved my legs.
Stood upright without feeling like I was going to collapse.
Maya would probably feel proud of my progress.
Hudson’s been patient and gentle, and more of a nurse than he ever wanted to be; that’s for sure.
I appreciate it more than I can say, but it’s still nice to feel a little independent again.
I pull on the clothes he picked up for me in town: black leggings and a long cream-colored sweater that’s soft enough not to bother my skin.
After brushing through my hair and drying most of it, I finally look a little more like myself again.
Or at least closer to the version of myself that existed before all this.
I wander into the main room and find Hudson standing by the giant picture windows overlooking the lake.
A fine mist drifts across the water outside, turning the shoreline hazy and gray. The whole place looks eerie in the beautiful way northern lakes naturally manage.
“How do you feel?” Hudson asks as I make my way to his side.
“Better,” I say. “Mostly okay.”
I lift my bandaged hand slightly and make a face.
“That finger is still deeply upsetting, though.”
“Yeah, I feel bad that we didn’t take you to the hospital to have that repaired.”
The guilt in his voice surprises me.
I don’t answer right away.
I now understand why he brought me here instead.
Martin would’ve been looking for us.
Hospitals ask questions.
Police get involved.
We needed a quiet place to disappear.
To have time to think.
To figure out what happens next.
Hudson has a book tucked into one hand. I tilt my head to read the cover.
The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.
I cringe.
“God,” I mutter. “That’s a rough one.”
“It’s a classic,” he says. “I’ve read it a couple of times.”
“Of course you have.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“It’s miserable,” I explain. “Gray skies. Starvation. Cannibalism. Everyone is emotionally devastated.” I gesture toward him. “Very on brand.”
“Not everyone’s miserable,” he says. “There’s something else in it.”
“Hope?” I guess.
He doesn’t answer.
I turn back to the window, watching the fog roll in thicker now.
I sigh. “What the fuck are we going to do?” I don’t mean to say it out loud.
Hudson looks at me for a long second.
Like he wishes he had an answer.
Then he turns and heads for the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and grabs a beer. He puts his book on the arm of the couch as he passes.
I watch him as he walks back toward me.
At first, all I could see was the scar.
That jagged line cutting across his face, pulling at the corner of his mouth, making him look permanently dangerous.
But somewhere along the way, my brain stopped noticing it.
Now I notice everything else: the sharp slope of his nose, the hard line of his cheekbones, and the shadow of stubble that always roughens his jaw.
The thick dark-blond hair always falls a little too long over his forehead.
And his big hands.
Last night, I dreamed about those hands on me.
About his beard scraping against my skin while he held me down and kissed me until I couldn’t think straight.
Heat pools between my legs from the memory.
“How did you get that scar?” I blurt.
Hudson just stares at me for a moment, taking another sip of his beer.
Like he's deciding how much of the truth to give me.
Finally, he looks out toward the lake.
“That's a long story.”
Something about the way he says it makes me think the scar isn't really the point.
He takes another drink.
“It starts in Tampa. I spent the first year playing at a lower level, getting stronger and building muscle. Martin liked it because he already had suppliers down there. Asked me to work with some of his people.”
His voice stays calm, matter-of-fact.
“And I was stupid enough to think that sounded exciting.”
His gaze drifts to the bottle in his hand.
“I had money for the first time. Freedom. Attention. Thought I was hot shit.”
A dry laugh slips out of him.
“Worked hard on the ice. Partied hard off it. Ran errands for Martin when he asked.”
“And Lucian stayed in Chicago?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
He nods.
“He was still little then. First grade, maybe second.”
His expression softens briefly at the mention of Lucian.
“Martin sent him down a few times with the nanny. I went back to Chicago during breaks.”
He shrugs.
“It was easy flying between Tampa and Chicago. I did that for about three years. Then Tampa traded me to Anaheim.”
“Because you were good?”
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
“Because I was really fucking good.”
I snort softly.
“Modest.”
“You asked.”
“California,” I murmur.
“Yeah.”
His tone shifts when he says it.
“I grew up there,” he adds.
That surprises me
I don’t say it out loud, but it must show on my face because his mouth twitches at one corner.
“Didn’t expect that?”
“Not really,” I admit. “You feel oddly Midwest.”
A rough laugh escapes him.
“I started drinking more out there,” he continues.
I stay quiet.
Hearing Hudson admit weakness feels strangely intimate.
“But I was playing out of my mind,” he adds. “Didn’t matter what I did off the ice. I showed up. I performed.”
I can picture it too easily.
Younger Hudson has money and fame, and nobody tells him no.
He was reckless enough to mistake self-destruction for freedom.
“Anaheim won the Cup the second year I was there.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” He huffs out another short laugh. “I felt like a God, untouchable. Martin was pushing harder by then. Wanted me more involved with the club.”
“So you gave him what he wanted.”
Tension settles across his shoulders.
“I gave him everything.” He answers with no hesitation.
“I started doing more runs,” he continues. “Pickups. Deliveries. Enforcement jobs.”
“Enforcement,” I repeat.
He glances at me.
“Intimidation,” he clarifies.
Rain continues tapping softly against the windows while he stares down at the beer bottle in his hand.
“I was burning the candle at both ends. Playing hockey, partying, fucking puck bunnies, working for Martin. I wasn’t sleeping much.”
“You didn’t stop.”
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
Hudson is quiet for a long time, and I can tell he’s lost somewhere back in the memory.
I don’t interrupt.
I have a feeling nobody’s ever let him talk through any of this before. Or maybe he’s never even let himself process it.
“One night,” he says finally, “we lost a game. Bad. I got shitfaced,” then he adds. “Still showed up for a job.”
I frown slightly.
“You went drunk?”
“I’ve done worse.”
That does not make it better.
“I wasn’t even supposed to do anything,” he continues. “Just stand there. Look intimidating. Keep people calm. But some guy started mouthing off, and I got into a fight.”
His voice turns colder.
“He smashed a bottle into my face. I just…saw red. I ended up killing the guy, which set off a chain reaction. I won’t get into details, but an explosive detonated, blew the warehouse, and killed most of the guys, including someone I considered a friend.”
“Oh, shit,” I say.
“To say the very least,” he agrees. “It fucked up my face. Put me in the hospital for a couple of months.”
I swallow.
“And hockey?” I ask.
“I went back to the game, but I wasn’t the same.
I was, like, twenty-three? Twenty-four? Still young.
Should’ve been entering the prime of my career.
Instead, I got moved to the second string.
Then I got traded again to Ottawa. I wasn't exactly thrilled, but I stayed there for two years, then I asked for Chicago.”
“Why Chicago?”
“I couldn’t do shit forMartin while I was in Canada, and I wanted to be home.
Lucian was a little older, and I missed him.
I told my agent I’d take a pay cut if I had to.
I’d stay sober. I’d get my head right. I just wanted Chicago, so he moved mountains and made it happen, like five years ago?
I’ve stayed mostly sober. Played okay hockey for a decisively bad hockey team. Focused on what the club needs.”
For the first time since I met him, Hudson looks less dangerous.
Before I can think better of it, I move closer, shifting onto my knees in front of him.
Hudson goes still immediately, watching me. Waiting.
Slowly, I reach up and touch his face.
My fingertips trace the scar running from his temple to the corner of his mouth. The skin there is uneven beneath my touch, shiny in places where it healed badly.
He doesn’t pull away.
I lean in and kiss him.
Soft at first.
When he still doesn't kiss me back, uncertainty flickers through me.
Maybe I read this wrong.
Maybe he doesn't want me.
Then I meet his eyes.
And every thought leaves my head.
They’re darker now.
Focused.
Intense enough to make my pulse stutter.
“You don’t want this,” he says.
His voice comes out rough and low, like he’s forcing the words past restraint.
I hold his gaze for another second.
Then I shift forward and climb into his lap, straddling him carefully.
His hands flex once against his thighs.
Like he’s fighting the instinct to touch me.
I kiss him again.
And this time, he kisses me back; one hand slides to my lower back while the other settles against the nape of my neck.
“You don’t want me,” he says again against my mouth.
“You don’t get to decide what I want.”
His grip tightens on my back.
“Eva—”
“Not after all of this.”
His eyes close briefly.
“I’ll hurt you,” he says, quieter this time. “Your injuries?—”
“Then be careful.”
The words barely leave my mouth when the last of his control snaps.
His hand slides firmly into my hair.
The other pulls me flush against him.
And everything changes.