CHAPTER 11 #2
"The legal brief has already been forwarded to a federal judge in Chicago," Everett said, his voice dropping even lower, entirely saturated with dark, possessive alpha authority.
"As soon as the authenticity of the wire logs is verified in discovery, the fraud allegations will be completely dismissed.
The State Department will drop the deportation warrant.
The men who did this to you are going to face international federal indictments by the end of the month. "
Dorian couldn't speak.
A profound, agonizing surge of emotion clawed its way up his throat.
The icy, unyielding defense mechanisms he had relied on his entire life entirely melted under the sheer, blinding heat of what Everett was offering him.
It wasn't just legal protection. It was absolute, undeniable vindication.
It was a man using every ounce of his wealth, his power, and his ruthless intellect to systematically destroy anyone who dared to touch what belonged to him.
Dorian looked up from the tablet.
He met Everett’s eyes in the dim light of the cabin. The captain’s expression was intense, searching Dorian’s face for the exact moment the panic broke.
Dorian didn't say thank you. The words were entirely inadequate, pathetic little syllables that couldn't possibly encompass the massive, terrifying devotion expanding in his chest.
Instead, Dorian moved his left hand.
He slid his arm slowly down the side of his seat, dropping his hand below the sightline of the aisle, hiding his movements under the heavy drape of Everett’s open suit jacket.
He found Everett’s right hand resting flat against the captain’s thigh.
Dorian didn't hesitate. He slipped his long, cool fingers directly beneath Everett’s massive palm.
The physical contact was electric. He pressed his hand flush against the thick, heavily calloused skin of Everett’s grip, interlocking their fingers in the dark, entirely hidden from the thirty teammates sleeping around them.
Everett let out a slow, heavy exhale through his nose.
The captain didn't pull away. He reacted instantly, his massive fingers closing around Dorian’s hand with a bone-crushing, desperate pressure.
The grip was hot, rough, and deeply intimate.
It was the exact same grip that had pinned Dorian to the black silk sheets in the penthouse.
It was the grip of a man who had completely stopped pretending.
Dorian squeezed back. He poured every ounce of his exhausted, terrified gratitude into the pressure of his fingers, entirely blurring the line between a tactical marriage of convenience and a raw, total emotional surrender.
He anchored himself to the solid, unyielding heat of the captain, entirely willing to let Everett dictate the terms of their survival.
They sat there in the dark, their shoulders pressed firmly together, their hands locked in a silent, violent promise hidden beneath the navy wool.
Ding.
The sharp, electronic chime of the aircraft's public address system cut through the low drone of the engines.
"Cabin crew, prepare for descent," the pilot’s voice crackled over the overhead speakers, professional and crisp.
"Gentlemen, we are currently beginning our initial approach into Toronto Pearson International.
Local time is 11:45 PM. The weather on the ground is thirty-two degrees with heavy sleet.
Please ensure your seatbelts are securely fastened. "
Everett’s thumb dragged heavily across the sensitive skin of Dorian’s knuckles one final time before he slowly, reluctantly released his grip. The sudden loss of heat left Dorian shivering in the climate-controlled air.
Everett reached down and hit the side button on the tablet. The screen went instantly black, severing the light. The magnetic leather case snapped shut with a sharp, final clack.
Everett slipped the device back into his breast pocket. He sat up straight, his massive shoulders squaring as the public, impenetrable mask of the Chicago Inferno captain slammed back into place.
Dorian turned his head back toward the window.
The aircraft banked sharply to the right. The thick, black cloud cover suddenly broke apart, entirely shredded by the violent winds coming off Lake Ontario.
Below them, the sprawling, massive grid of Toronto appeared, millions of streetlights burning like cold fire against the dark earth.
The city looked vast, hostile, and heavily fortified.
Somewhere down there, in a luxury high-rise hotel, a federal agent was waiting to tear their lives apart.
Somewhere down there, the Detroit Vipers were resting, preparing to unleash absolute physical hell in the crease tomorrow night.
Dorian watched the wing flaps engage, the hydraulic whine of the machinery signaling the final drop toward the tarmac.
He wasn't shaking anymore. The paralyzing, suffocating anxiety that had choked him since Chicago was gone, entirely replaced by a cold, razor-sharp athletic focus. He felt the heavy, solid pressure of Everett’s shoulder pressed against his own, an iron wall that no federal audit and no opposing forward could ever break.
The high-stakes away match was waiting for them beneath the stadium lights, and for the first time in his career, Dorian Pike was fully prepared to let the world burn.