Chapter 45
Nikolai
Iwake to my heartbeat pounding in my skull. The first thing I feel is pain everywhere: thundering behind my eyes, aching in my ribs, stabbing in my cheekbone.
“Fuck.” The word scrapes my raw throat. My mouth tastes like death—a foul combination of alcohol and blood. My nose is clogged. It hurts to breathe.
This is not in my apartment. The bed is too plush, the sheets too crisp. I crack my eyes open, sunlight cuts through the curtains—and my retinas—and I regret it.
I’m at the fucking manor, in one of the guest rooms.
The events of last night come back in fragments—the text from Paxton, the girl, the bar, the alley, the bouncer’s fists, Alexei’s gun, a confrontation with Rocco, and…Ethan and Jackson?
Ethan made me an offer: hockey and Pax.
“Fuck,” I repeat, this time with feeling.
I push myself upright, and my ribs protest with sharp, shooting pain. My head spins, and I grip the edge of the mattress to keep from toppling over.
My gaze catches on a photo hanging on the wall—an aerial view of the property, with the lake, the trees, and the snow dotted with structures. My focus narrows to the exact cabin Paxton and I used to sneak off to—the place where we first kissed, where we lost our virginity to each other.
In that moment, I thought we’d be together forever. Nothing could have convinced me otherwise—except my father, three months later, when I was accepted into the Junior Hockey League.
My stomach clenches, and my eyes well up.
The fucking manor. I hate it here.
I take a deep breath—as deep as I can with bruised ribs wrapped tightly—and release it slowly. As I exhale, I let go of the memories.
My temples throb. I need coffee. Badly.
I stumble out of bed and drag myself to the bathroom.
I avoid my reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to see the damage to know it’s bad.
I splash cold water on my face. It stings my split lip and the gash above my eyebrow.
My knuckles are raw and bruised—at least I got a few good hits in before that asshole used me as a punching bag.
The guest room is well stocked, and I grab a new toothbrush and toothpaste from under the sink. I scrub my teeth until my mouth no longer tastes like a sewer.
At some point during the night, I changed into a T-shirt and sweats. Given their enormous size, I’m guessing they’re Alexei’s. On the nightstand, I find my phone and shove it into my pocket, afraid to check the notifications.
The smell of bacon pulls me up the stairs. My stomach growls despite the nausea churning in my gut.
Each step sends a jolt of agony through my side, but I grit my teeth and keep climbing. The door to the kitchen is partially open, and, as I get closer, I’m hit with the sounds of familiar laughter, chatter, and the clank of dishes.
I pause in the doorway.
The room is chaos. Jackson flips pancakes while debating hockey strategy with Ethan. They’re discussing whether the enforcer position—my position, Ethan’s old one—is still relevant. Modern teams prefer speed skaters like Jackson. Thankfully, New York is not a modern team.
Rocco stands at the counter, a small boy in dinosaur pajamas perched on his hip, the child’s lower lip jutting out in a pout, his eyes red-rimmed.
Reece—the medic who patched me up—sits at the table with a pregnant woman on his lap, sipping coffee.
She must be Aurora. I’ve heard about her in the media, and Alexei mentioned her a few times.
Dante argues with my brother—and I don’t need to hear their conversation to know it’s also about me. Between the twins sits a guy whose face looks about as bad as my own.
“Nikolai, have a seat, dear. I’ll pour you a coffee and get you some ibuprofen.” Even Mrs. Harris is here.
When the fuck did we become a family again?
I scan the room for the least awkward place to sit.
Alexei’s gaze meets mine. He gestures to the vacant spot beside him, then returns to bickering with Dante. “I’m just saying, if someone had been watching the fucking bar—”
I tune him out and lower myself into the chair with a wince.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Harris sets down a steaming cup of coffee—black, how I like it—and a couple of ibuprofen. “Can I get you some toast?”
“No. I appreciate it, though. Thank you.” I pop the pills and wash them down with a scalding sip. The caffeine hits my system and clears some of the brain fog.
Des raises his mug in greeting. “Morning, sunshine. Rough night?”
I reply with my middle finger.
The boy in Rocco’s arms lets out a wail that cuts through the kitchen. “I want Mama.” His bottom lip trembles, and fat tears roll down his cheeks. “Ma-ma,” he sobs, clutching a stuffed T-Rex to his chest.
Rocco bounces him gently. “Mama’s sleeping, little man. She had a long night. It’s you and me this morning.” He sits opposite Alexei.
“You want me to hold him?” Reece asks. “He’s usually fine once he starts eating and playing.”
Rocco shakes his head. “I don’t mind. He got up before sunrise to build a snowman, which I promised him.” He grins, amusement crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Harper could barely keep her eyes open. After he eats, we’ll bring her breakfast.”
Clearly tired, the child buries his face in Rocco’s shoulder, and Rocco rubs his back.
Rocco doesn’t have children of his own because he was busy helping raise us boys. I’m not surprised he waited to settle down until we were adults. I hope Reece’s sister doesn’t mind caring for others, because I can’t imagine Rocco any other way.
“Breakfast is ready.” O’Reilly sets a platter of pancakes and bacon in the center of the dining table, along with syrup, sliced strawberries, and homemade whipped cream.
Mrs. Harris hands out plates and silverware, then tops off everyone’s coffee before taking her seat. Jackson settles onto Ethan’s lap, and Ethan wraps an arm around Jackson’s waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It all makes my chest ache.
Only one person is missing.
Before I talk myself out of it, I slip my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of the pancakes and strawberries, Rocco feeding a child, and Jackson on Ethan’s lap.
I add the caption:
Family breakfast at the manor. I miss you.
I hit send before my brain can catch up with my heart.
Three dots appear, and my stomach drops.
I shouldn’t have sent that, even though it’s true: I miss Pax more than anything.
Still, it’s manipulative. Last night, he made it clear he was moving on.
He was done being my secret, and he’d found someone else.
I’m only playing with his emotions, setting myself up for heartache and fury.
My pulse races against my bruised ribs as I wait for his response.
Then I notice his location.
Hartford West. The hockey team’s housing. I don’t live there—I live with Alexei—but I know everyone who does.
What are the chances the guy Pax stayed with last night—he must have spent the night, since it’s morning, and he’s there—lives in the team apartments?
The team I play for.