Chapter 14 #2
And he had just told me, in no uncertain terms, that if Peter messed up, he was gone.
I was the risk. I was the variable that could destroy Peter’s career.
I should break up with him. Right now. I should text him and end it. It was the logical choice. It was the safe choice.
But then I pictured Peter on the roof. I pictured him telling me about the broken plates. I pictured him whispering I love you.
I couldn't do it. I was selfish. I was weak.
I decided to fight.
I would be more careful. I would be paranoid. I would make sure nobody saw us. Not even a shadow.
Saturday night. The BU game.
We won. 3-2. Peter was a wall. He stopped 42 shots. The Scouts were scribbling furiously in their notebooks. Thorne texted him: Stock is rising. Keep it up.
The team celebrated at a bar downtown. The Sin Bin.
I went. I had to. It was suspicious if I didn't.
But I stayed away from Peter. I sat with Sloane and the soccer team. I didn't even look at him.
Peter was at the bar, surrounded by fans. He looked miserable. He kept glancing at the door, glancing at his phone.
Peter: You’re killing me. Just one look?
Me: Can't. Miller is watching. Dad is watching. Be the robot.
Peter: I hate the robot. I want the girl.
I smiled into my drink.
Later, around 1 AM, the crowd thinned out.
I went to the bathroom. When I came out, the hallway was empty.
Except for Peter.
He was waiting by the exit door. He looked flushed. Happy.
"Coast is clear," he whispered, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the alleyway behind the bar.
It was dark. It smelled of rain and garbage, but I didn't care.
He pressed me against the brick wall. He kissed me.
It was a hungry, desperate kiss. A kiss that said I missed you.
"You were amazing tonight," I murmured against his lips.
"I was bored," he groaned. "I just wanted it to be over so I could see you."
He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
"Come home with me," he whispered. "To the Hive. Everyone is staying out late. We have the house for an hour."
"It’s risky," I said.
"We’ll be careful. Back door. Lights off."
I hesitated. Miller’s comment. Dad’s warning. The deleted Instagram comment.
But Peter’s body was warm against mine. His need was palpable. And I missed him so much it hurt.
"Okay," I whispered. "One hour."
We walked to The Hive. We took the back path through the woods. We snuck in the back door.
We went to his room. We locked the door.
We didn't turn on the lights.
We made love in the dark, frantic and silent. It felt like we were stealing time. Like we were criminals getting away with the heist of the century.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets.
"See?" Peter whispered, kissing my temple. "Safe."
"Safe," I agreed.
But as I drifted off to sleep, I had a nightmare.
I dreamt of broken plates. Shattering. One by one.
And then I woke up.
It wasn't a dream.
There was a sound.
A loud, deliberate banging on the bedroom door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Volkov!"
It wasn't Jax. It wasn't Miller.
It was my father.
My blood turned to ice.
"Open the door, Volkov!" Dad shouted. His voice was shaking with rage. "I know she’s in there!"
Peter sat up instantly. He looked at the door. He looked at me.
His face went pale. The color drained away, leaving him looking like a ghost.
"Bee," he whispered. "Hide."
"Where?" I hissed, scrambling for my clothes. "There’s nowhere to hide!"
"The closet. Go."
"He’ll check the closet!"
"Just go!"
I grabbed my dress. I ran to the closet. I huddled in the back, behind his suits.
Peter pulled on his sweatpants. He walked to the door.
He took a deep breath. He put on the mask. The Tsar.
He opened the door.
"Mr. O’Shea," Peter said calmly. "It’s 3 AM. Is there a problem?"
"Don't lie to me, son," Dad snarled. "Miller sent me a photo. Of you two in the alley. Kissing."
Miller.
My heart stopped. He had followed us. He had taken a picture.
"Where is she?" Dad demanded, pushing past Peter into the room.
"She’s not here," Peter said, standing his ground. "The photo is fake. Or old. I was alone."
"Really?" Dad asked. He walked into the room. He looked around.
He saw the bed. The tangled sheets.
And then he saw it.
My phone.
I had left it on the nightstand. It lit up with a notification.
Sloane: Where are you? Did you go home with Peter?
Dad picked up the phone. He read the screen.
He turned to Peter. His face was purple.
"You’re fired," he whispered.
"Dad, no!"
I burst out of the closet. I couldn't let Peter take the fall alone. I couldn't let him lose everything.
"It’s not his fault!" I cried, stepping between them. "I pursued him! I forced him!"
Dad looked at me. He looked at my disheveled hair. My dress held to my chest.
He looked broken.
"Get out," he said to me. His voice was dead. "Get out of my sight, Belinda."
"Dad—"
"GO!" he roared.
I flinched.
Peter stepped in front of me. "Don't yell at her."
"You shut your mouth," Dad hissed at Peter. "You’re done. You hear me? You’re off the team. You’re done at this university. I will burn your scholarship to the ground."
"Dad, please!" I begged. "It’s the draft! You can't ruin his life!"
"He ruined it himself," Dad said. He threw my phone onto the bed. "Pack your bags, Volkov. You have until morning to clear out of the house."
He turned and walked out.
The silence left in his wake was deafening.
Peter stood there, staring at the empty doorway. His shoulders slumped. The mask crumbled.
"He’s right," Peter whispered.
He turned to look at me. His eyes were empty. The North was gone.
"The ice cracked," he said.
And then he sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands.
I stood there, clutching my dress, realizing with a sick, horrifying clarity that love wasn't enough to save us.
Love was the thing that had just destroyed us.