36. Lincoln
LINCOLN
I tore after Daniel, not even bothering to lock the SUV. Catching up with him at the front door, his hand already twisting the key in the lock, I wrapped my arm around his waist, careful of his injured side, and placed my mouth to his ear. “You’re not going fucking anywhere without me.”
“Let go of me.”
“No.” I slid my hand up to his throat, squeezing lightly. “Don’t argue. I’m not leaving.”
“You-you can’t—”
“Don’t. Fucking. Argue.”
His breath stuttered as he got the door unlocked, letting it swing open. “Fine. If you wanna torture yourself even more, that’s your prerogative.”
I was shaking with anger, but I held myself together enough to bite out what I wanted to say. “Go and do the shit you need to do. Catch your family up on what happened. Make sure a doctor looks at your injury. Then you will come and find me. Got it?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “G-go upstairs and turn left. My bedroom’s the first door on the left. Wait for me there.”
“I will.” Releasing him, I shoved at him gently, and his head turned. He shot me a wide-eyed look of disbelief, but at my glare, his eyes closed, and he turned away with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.
When he’d disappeared down the hallway, I headed for the stairs, making my way to his inner sanctum.
I couldn’t quite believe he was giving me unfettered access to his space, but I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise the faith he’d placed in me by letting me in here unsupervised.
I moved around the room, giving it a superficial sweep.
Everything was simply decorated, neat and tidy, but it didn’t seem sterile. Not like my room at the mansion.
I turned around, and my brows rose. Hmm.
It appeared that some of Daniel’s decorating choices were…
interesting. On a shelf beneath the huge wall-mounted TV and games console, five mannequin heads were lined up in a row.
The first three heads were covered with Purge-style masks, and the final two were clad in balaclavas.
Interesting way to store them. I continued my scan of his room, and my gaze landed on the photos carefully taped to the wall above his desk, making up a huge collage in a perfect rectangle.
Each one was a Polaroid style, with several neatly labelled in caps in Daniel’s handwriting, all combining to make up a full image of someone who loved life and was loved in return.
Countless pictures with his family, his friends, and his teammates.
Then there were random images—a sunrise over the sea, standing stones on the Cotswolds on a winter morning, a dog with a large stick in its mouth, and many, many shots taken on the ice.
Close-ups of pucks, sticks, arty action shots— Wait a second…
I stared at the photo in the bottom right corner.
It was me, in a Whelford Flames jersey. It was a photo from one of our games against the Cranham Kings, taken from the stands.
Rubbing at the scruff on my jaw, I stared, taking in the details.
I was clean-shaven in the picture, so it must’ve been taken during our first year at uni.
I suddenly remembered. Daniel had been out of that game, having been injured in his previous game, and when I’d found out, I’d been weirdly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to go up against my hated rival.
He’d zoomed in on me, capturing me mid-skate with a look of intense concentration on my face.
Two of his teammates were also in the image, but they were blurry figures, with the focus clearly on me.
My brows pulled together as I studied the rest of the pictures.
There. A party hosted by the mayor last winter, when everyone who was anyone was basically required to attend.
I’d been catching up with my former lacrosse teammate, Roman Cavendish, and his girlfriend, Quinn Farrow, and Daniel had caught us clinking champagne flutes together.
A smile was on my face, and from the angle of the photo, it looked as if I was smiling at the photographer, although there was no way on Earth I would have ever smiled at Daniel Hoyton. Not then.
There was another photo, in the far-left corner, almost hidden behind a trophy.
World’s best hockey forward. My lips curved up at the sight of the gleaming golden puck.
I could almost guarantee that Daniel had awarded that to himself.
But my amusement died away as I carefully moved the trophy aside so I could get a proper look at the photo, and my breath caught in my throat.
It had been taken in my apartment kitchen, and once again, I was the central focus, although this time, I had my back to the camera.
I was shirtless, just wearing joggers, pouring water from the kettle into two mugs on the countertop.
This had been taken last night. Daniel had come here, printed it out, and stuck it on his wall sometime between then and now.
My heart pounded. The question was…why?
When the door creaked open, my earlier anger returned in a flash, although this time it was tempered. I couldn’t stop thinking about those photos.
“You didn’t trash my room, at least,” Daniel said warily, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
“How’s your stab wound?”
“Oh, that? It was nothing. The knife was barely any bigger than that excuse for a knife you brought to our fight at the yard. Or the one you brought today, for that matter. He couldn’t do any serious damage with it. A couple of stitches, and I was good to go.”
“You did serious damage with it,” I pointed out, and he tugged his lip between his teeth.
“Uh, yeah. I’m surprised you’re still here after all that.
I-I didn’t kill that man, you know. I just…
knocked him out. And, uh, he’ll get to wear a cool eye patch like a pirate, if Sid lets him live…
” He trailed off with a grimace, his gaze darting around the room.
“Like I said, I don’t know why you’re still here, and why my room’s still exactly as I left it, except—”
I followed his gaze to the shelf with his golden puck. “Yeah. I moved your trophy. Did you award that to yourself?”
“No.” His cheeks flushed, and I bit back a grin. Liar. “Uh, so…I guess you saw the photos?”
“Yeah, I saw them.” Rising from his desk chair, I crossed the room to him, gripping his jaw. “Want to explain them? Want to explain how that one in the corner came to be here, if you only took it last night? And why it’s here? And how you’re going to explain it to your friends?”
He exhaled shakily, his pulse pounding beneath my fingers.
“I had an empty space, and I like everything to be all lined up, so I needed to fill it. I came up here earlier for a nap before we went to the offices, and I dunno, I printed it. My friends won’t even see it, probably.
No one comes here since we moved into the hockey house, and the Hoytons don’t host parties like the Thorpes and the Volkovs do. ”
“Why me, though? It’s not the only photo, either. You have two more with me in them.”
His cheeks were even more flushed now; I could practically feel the heat radiating from his face.
There was a long silence, during which he swallowed several times and looked everywhere but at me, but eventually, he replied.
“Motivation. A reminder that I can’t let you beat me.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, I used to have your face on a dartboard. Maybe I should bring that back.”
“Right.” Releasing him, I let my hand fall to my side, although I didn’t move away. “Forget the photos for now. Let’s talk about the fucking ridiculous message you sent me and what you said about it. You seriously didn’t think I’d care if you fucking died?”
His eyes finally met mine, defiance in his gaze. “Why would you? You hate me, Bellingham.”
“Oh, fuck you, Hoyton,” I snarled. There was an ache in my chest.
“Then you saw me in action, and I know—” Cutting himself off with a frustrated huff, he turned on his heel, stalking across his bedroom to bang his forehead against the door that presumably led to a bathroom.
“That’s not your life. You’re a law-abiding citizen.
The son of hotshot lawyers and the nephew of someone who locks up people like me for a living.
You saw what I did to those people. What I will do again if necessary.
” The words burst out of him in a rush, interspersed with rapid breaths. “How can you even look at me, when—”
Striding over to him, I grabbed his shoulder, jerking him around to face me.
I got right in his face, my hand around his throat.
“Listen very fucking carefully. I would care if you died. I fucking care about you, alright? And did you miss the part where I willingly stabbed one of those men and attacked others? There was no coercion on your part, Dan. I went into that situation with my eyes wide open. I started hooking up with you with my eyes wide open too. Your life isn’t news to me, asshole.
I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. I know who you are.”
His eyes grew wider than I’d ever seen them before, moisture filling them as he blinked rapidly. “I…I thought you still hated me.”
Swiping my tongue over my lips, I leaned in. “I thought you still hated me, but I don’t think you’d be getting this upset if you did. Am I right?”
He swallowed hard and then nodded slowly. “I…I’m sorry, Link.”
His voice was so small. I sighed, letting go of his throat and giving in to the urge to wrap my arms around him. “Come here, baby.”
Burying his head in my shoulder, he placed his own arms around me. His breathing eventually slowed, and after a while, he began hesitantly stroking his palms over my back. “Do you still hate me?”
“Do you really think I’d be here if I did?”
“Probably not,” he mumbled into my neck. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“Fine. No, I don’t hate you anymore.”
“It’s a miracle.”
“I agree.”