CHAPTER 12
Sixty feet below the reinforced glass of the executive suite, a silver spoon struck the rim of a porcelain saucer with a sharp, distinct clink.
Everett Kane tracked the sound with the predatory stillness of a man expecting an ambush.
He stood entirely motionless in the shadowed recess of the luxury hotel’s internal atrium window, his massive frame obscured by the heavy velvet drapes.
The morning light filtering through the glass was the pale, unforgiving gray of a Canadian winter front refusing to break.
He looked straight down into the sprawling, geometric lobby of the Toronto Fairmont.
Among the high-end leather seating, the polished brass luggage carts, and the chaotic movement of business travelers, one figure sat completely stagnant.
A slate-grey suit occupying a wingback chair directly adjacent to the main elevator bank.
Officer Hawkins.
The heavy, dense musculature across Everett’s chest tightened into a solid block. His right hand, previously resting loose against his thigh, curled slowly into a massive fist.
Hawkins wasn't alone. Sitting across from the American federal agent was a man in a crisp navy uniform bearing the insignia of the Canada Border Services Agency. A local liaison. The bureaucratic escalation was entirely deliberate. Hawkins was utilizing cross-border intelligence protocols to monitor the Inferno’s travel logistics.
They were tracking the keycard swipes. They were logging the exact timestamps of when Everett and Dorian entered and exited the penthouse suite on the top floor.
It was a suffocating, airtight perimeter.
If Hawkins found a single hotel staff member willing to testify that the team captain and his new husband requested separate cots, or that Dorian was spending his downtime in another player’s room, the stay of removal would be shredded before the opening face-off tonight.
Everett dragged a slow, jagged breath through his nose. The air in the suite smelled of stale, high-altitude cabin pressure clinging to their luggage and the sharp, chemical tang of the hotel’s carpet cleaner.
He let the heavy velvet drape fall shut. The heavy fabric swung into place, entirely cutting off the view of the lobby.
Behind him, the heavy wooden door of the suite’s master bedroom unlatched.
Everett turned his head, his tactical calculations immediately suspending as his focus snapped to the man stepping out into the living area.
Dorian walked onto the dark hardwood flooring.
He was in the middle of buckling his team-issued travel trousers.
The heavy charcoal fabric hung perfectly against the long, powerful lines of his legs.
His white dress shirt was buttoned to the collarbone, but he hadn't yet reached for his Inferno suit jacket.
Everett watched him. For the past two years, he had studied the goalie’s pre-game routines from across the locker room.
He knew the precise, mechanical rhythm Dorian employed to isolate his mind before a match.
But the man standing in the center of the suite wasn't visualizing the geometry of the crease.
Dorian’s movements were frantic. The long, cool fingers fumbled blindly with the silver prong of the leather belt.
His jaw was locked so tight the bone pushed stark and white against his skin.
His gray eyes darted across the room, snapping from the heavy exit door to the digital clock on the microwave, entirely failing to absorb the environment.
It was the raw, unfiltered manifestation of a trauma response.
Dorian wasn't bracing for a sixty-minute hockey game. He was bracing for the federal authorities to flank him the second he stepped off the team bus. He was waiting for the flashing lights of the sports press to capture his arrest, broadcasting his ultimate humiliation across the globe.
Everett didn't issue a verbal command. He closed the distance between them in three heavy, deliberate strides.
Dorian’s head snapped up at the sudden movement, his hands freezing against the leather belt. The goalie took a fractional step backward, a pure, defensive flinch driven by the adrenaline flooding his nervous system.
Everett stopped directly in Dorian’s path, utilizing his towering six-foot-four frame to physically block the goalie’s line of sight to the exit.
"Stop," Everett said. His voice was a low, heavy rumble, pitched entirely beneath the ambient hum of the suite’s ventilation system.
Dorian’s chest heaved. He didn't look at Everett’s face. He stared at the dark wool of Everett’s suit jacket, his breathing fracturing into short, shallow spikes. "The bus leaves in twenty minutes. I need to review the penalty kill footage. I need—"
Everett reached out.
His large, calloused hands bypassed the belt, moving straight up to the collar of Dorian’s white dress shirt.
The physical contact was immediate and entirely unauthorized by any standard professional boundary.
Everett’s thick fingers brushed against the pulsing, frantic vein on the side of Dorian’s neck.
The skin was entirely flushed, burning with a feverish, terrified heat.
"Hawkins is downstairs," Everett stated flatly, deliberately dropping the tactical reality directly onto the table.
Dorian stopped breathing. The total cessation of respiratory movement was a glaring alarm. The goalie’s long eyelashes fluttered, a microscopic tremor of pure panic overtaking his features.
"He is in the lobby," Everett continued, his rough thumbs slowly sliding under the starched collar of the shirt, smoothing the fabric against Dorian’s collarbones. "He has a CBSA liaison with him. They are watching the elevators."
"He has a warrant," Dorian choked out, the heavy Eastern European accent thickening around the jagged syllables.
His hands finally dropped from his belt, hanging entirely useless at his sides.
"Everett. If he coordinates with the Canadian authorities.
.. they can detain me at the arena. They can pull me out of the locker room. "
"No, they cannot."
Everett didn't raise his voice. He injected every ounce of his inherited corporate arrogance and alpha dominance into the four words.
He stepped a half-inch closer, crowding the goalie completely.
The scent of Dorian—the clean hotel soap from his morning shower mixed with the sharp, undeniable pheromones of human fear—hit the back of Everett’s throat.
It triggered a violent, territorial necessity to entirely consume the threat currently terrorizing his husband.
Everett’s right hand shifted. He slid his palm up from the collar, his thick fingers wrapping heavily around the back of Dorian’s neck. He applied a firm, unyielding pressure, forcing Dorian to lift his chin and meet his gaze.
"Look at me," Everett commanded.
Dorian’s gray eyes dragged upward. They were massive, entirely blown out, swimming with the ghosts of the Russian directors who had sold him out.
"The federal government does not cross my blue line," Everett said, his dark eyes boring directly into Dorian’s.
"Hawkins is sitting in that lobby because he has absolutely zero legal jurisdiction in this province.
He is executing a psychological operation.
He wants you to crack. He wants you to walk through that lobby looking like a hostage so he can log it in his behavioral report. "
Dorian swallowed hard. The sharp click of his throat was audible in the quiet space. He leaned infinitesimally forward, his body subconsciously seeking the immense, solid heat radiating off the captain’s chest.
"I cannot..." Dorian started, his voice cracking. "I cannot focus on the puck when I am waiting for the handcuffs."
Everett’s grip on the back of Dorian’s neck tightened, his thumb pressing a heavy, slow rhythm against the base of the goalie’s skull.
"You do not look at Hawkins," Everett instructed, his tone dropping into a dark, rough cadence that commanded total obedience. "You do not look at the Canadian liaison. You do not look at the press."
Everett moved his left hand, grabbing the heavy wool of Dorian’s Inferno suit jacket from the back of the nearby chair. He pulled it around Dorian’s shoulders, his movements entirely possessive, dressing the goalie like a piece of high-value armor.
"Your entire existence tonight is the crease," Everett stated, pulling the lapels of the jacket flush against Dorian’s chest. "You track the puck. You execute the blocks. You hold the defensive geometry."
Everett leaned his head down, his mouth hovering mere inches from Dorian’s ear.
"I am the wall," Everett breathed fiercely against the hot skin of Dorian’s temple.
"I handle the suits. I handle the federal interference.
If anyone tries to step onto that concrete with a badge, they have to physically go through two hundred and thirty pounds of me to get to you.
And I promise you, Dorian, they do not have the kinetic force required to move me. "
The absolute certainty in Everett’s voice acted as a massive, heavy shock absorber against the goalie’s spiraling trauma.
Dorian’s rigid posture entirely collapsed.
The defensive, icy mask he had worn out of the bedroom shattered into a million pieces.
He closed his eyes, a ragged, heavy sigh tearing out of his lungs.
He leaned forward, letting his forehead drop directly against the solid, unyielding bone of Everett’s sternum.
Everett immediately caught his weight. He wrapped his arms around the goalie’s narrow waist, pulling him flush against his own body.
He buried his face in the dark, damp hair at the crown of Dorian’s head, breathing in the scent of him, letting the intense, raw reality of their physical connection drown out the administrative nightmare waiting sixty feet below.
They stood locked together in the center of the executive suite. The quiet ticking of the wall clock marked the countdown to the bus departure.