CHAPTER 3 #3
“You want the truth?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You cannot have part of it.”
“Then give me all of it.”
His eyes burned into mine.
“You will publish it.”
“If it matters.”
“It will end my career.”
The words landed between us.
I swallowed.
“Did you hurt Derek?”
His expression changed.
Pain.
Deep and immediate.
“No.”
“Did you know he was injured?”
“Yes.”
“Did you help them hide it?”
His jaw tightened.
“I signed the statement.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
He looked at my mouth.
Maybe because he could not look at my eyes.
“Lars.”
“You think I am one of them.”
“I think you are refusing to tell me the truth.”
“Because truth is a weapon in your hands.”
“And silence is one in yours.”
His chest rose sharply.
Our faces were inches apart.
I could feel the tremor in the air between us.
Anger blurred into something hotter.
Older.
My body remembered him.
The weight of him.
The exact shape of his mouth.
The way he breathed when he was losing control.
His gaze lowered.
My lips parted.
That was all it took.
He kissed me.
There was nothing gentle about it.
His mouth crashed into mine with three years of rage behind it.
I should have pushed him away.
Instead, my hands caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.
He made a rough sound against my mouth.
His body pressed into mine.
Hard.
Familiar.
Impossible to mistake.
His hand slid behind my neck, holding me still as he kissed me deeper.
I tasted blood from his split lip.
I tasted every argument we never finished.
Every night I slept alone and told myself it was freedom.
His other hand gripped my hip.
My body arched into his before pride could stop me.
“Lars,” I breathed.
He kissed my jaw.
My throat.
The spot beneath my ear he had discovered during our second month together and never forgotten.
“You still say my name the same way,” he murmured.
I hated the satisfaction in his voice.
I hated more that he was right.
His hand slid beneath the hem of my blouse, warm against my bare waist.
My breath caught.
He lifted me.
Instinctively, my legs wrapped around him.
He carried me toward the bed without breaking the kiss.
For one reckless second, I let myself imagine it.
Letting him lay me down.
Letting him strip away the years.
Letting anger become the thing we understood better than honesty.
Then my hip struck the edge of the mattress.
The cracked helmet flashed through my mind.
Derek’s name.
The waivers.
Lars’s signature.
I pushed against his chest.
“Stop.”
He froze.
Immediately.
His breathing was ragged.
His forehead rested against mine.
I could feel how much effort it took for him not to move.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
His grip loosened.
“I know.”
“You do not get to kiss me instead of answering.”
“I know.”
“I cannot sleep with a man I may have to expose.”
His eyes opened.
The words hurt him.
He stepped back slowly.
The loss of his body left me cold.
Lars looked toward the windows.
His shirt was wrinkled where I had grabbed it. His mouth was darker from kissing me. His hands trembled at his sides.
This time, he did not hide it quickly enough.
“What is wrong with your hand?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You keep doing that.”
“I took a hit yesterday.”
“No. You were doing it before the game.”
His gaze sharpened.
“How do you know?”
“I watch you.”
The confession slipped out.
He looked at me.
“I watch every game,” I said. “Even when I tell myself I won’t. Even when I hate you.”
Something softened in his face.
Then he said, “I read every article.”
I stared.
“All of them?”
“Every one.”
“Even the minor-league salary investigation?”
“I hated that one.”
“It was good.”
“It was boring.”
“It won an award.”
“Still boring.”
A laugh escaped me.
Small.
Unwanted.
Real.
Lars looked at me as though the sound had saved something.
Then his phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
Whatever he saw erased the softness.
“What is it?”
He turned the phone toward me.
A photograph filled the screen.
Me entering Derek Cole’s apartment building two weeks earlier.
The image had been taken from across the street.
Beneath it was a message.
YOUR WIFE SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL WHO SHE VISITS.
My skin went cold.
Lars locked the screen.
“When did you meet him?”
“I didn’t.”
“You entered his building.”
“He never answered the door.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“You went alone?”
“Yes.”
His face hardened.
“Derek is missing.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“No one has heard from him in four days.”
“How do you know?”
“Matteo called an hour ago.”
My mind raced.
The anonymous files.
The helmet.
The photograph.
The brick.
“Lars, what happened to him?”
He looked at me with something close to defeat.
Then he crossed the room and locked the bedroom door.
Not to trap me.
To keep everyone else out.
When he turned back, the man standing in front of me was no longer the Ice Wolf.
He was my husband.
Scared.
Exhausted.
Running out of ways to protect a secret that had already begun destroying us.
“I did not ruin Derek Cole’s career,” he said.
His voice was rough.
“I tried to stop the men who did.”
And for the first time since the photographs leaked, I believed him.