Chapter 20
Mauricio POV
The storm had blown out to sea before dawn.
Through the tall sash windows of my bedroom, a stark, blinding wash of white winter sunlight cut through the frost ferns clinging to the glass, throwing long rectangular patterns across the dark pine floorboards.
Outside, thirty inches of fresh powder smothered South Portland in an unnatural, muffled silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic rumble of a municipal snowplow clearing Cottage Road.
I woke without the usual violent jolt of adrenaline.
For three years, waking up had meant an immediate, physical reckoning: teeth grinding, shoulders locked tight, the hairline fissure in my right fibula throbbing under the sheets, and my mind instantly running the balance sheet of Rafael’s therapy invoices.
This morning, the air in my lungs moved smooth and slow.
My jaw was slack. The chronic, dull ache behind my temples had receded into quiet nothingness. My resting heart rate sat at forty-eight beats a minute, thudding with a heavy, unhurried cadence against the mattress.
Kiyomi was asleep on my chest.
Her head rested directly over my left collarbone, her dark hair splayed across my bare shoulder in soft, tangled silk.
Her face was turned inward, her cheek pressed to my skin, warm and even against my pectoral muscle.
Her left hand was splayed flat across my ribs, her small fingers curled loosely against my side, rising and falling in rhythm with my breathing.
The heavy charcoal quilt had slipped to our waists. The bare line of her spine was exposed to the pale morning light, the pale skin of her back smooth, flawless, and flushed with sleep.
She smelled of almond, sweet skin, and the clean cotton of my sheets.
I didn't move. I didn't dare draw a deep breath.
I lay there in the quiet room, staring at the ceiling, feeling an unfamiliar stillness settle through my blood. It was a domestic quiet so absolute, so devoid of defensive armor, that it felt more dangerous than standing on the blue line against a five-on-three power play.
* * *
My right hand rested on her bare hip.
My palm was warm, my thick calloused fingers loose against the soft flare of her waist. Slowly, moving with deliberate gentleness so I wouldn't wake her, my thumb began to trace the curve of her hipbone, smoothing over the warm skin of her lower stomach.
I looked down at her face.
Stripped of the sharp, combative intellect she used as a shield in the arena, she looked fragile.
The fierce, defiant chin was soft against my shoulder; her long dark lashes rested against high cheekbones that were still pink from the heat of the night before.
Her lips were slightly parted, swollen from my mouth, her breath puffing against my throat in tiny, warm intervals.
She had given me everything in the dark. Every defense, every rule, every shred of control she had guarded for twenty-one years.
My thoughts drifted south to Scarborough, to the brick rehabilitation facility where Rafael was waking up in his motorized chair, to my mother Elena working overtime in the billing office.
The weight of that responsibility had almost broken my spine in half. I had spent months believing that if I allowed myself to care about anything other than an NHL contract, the whole structure would collapse into ruin.
Looking at Kiyomi tangled in my sheets, the equation flipped.
She wasn't a distraction that would make me soft. She was the reason to stand taller. She was the person who had stood on marble floors in front of scouts and regents to declare that my life had value, that I wasn't just a blunt instrument to be used and discarded.
A fierce, protective ache expanded behind my breastbone, tight and heavy.
I brought my hand up, my fingers brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. My thumb grazed the soft, sensitive curve of her lower lip with feather-light pressure.
Kiyomi stirred.
Her breath hitched in a soft, sleepy sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered, dark and thick, before her honey-brown eyes opened slowly, squinting against the bright snowlight pouring through the glass.
She didn't startle. She didn't yank the quilt up to her chin or look around the room with morning regret.
She looked up, her gaze locking onto mine with an unshielded, drowsy warmth that knocked the remaining air straight out of my chest. Her fingers tightened on my ribs, her face turning into the palm of my hand as she nuzzled her cheek against my rough skin.
"Good morning," she murmured. Her voice was raspy, thick with sleep, vibrating against my collarbone.
"Morning, sweetheart," I rasped back.
* * *
I didn't let her pull away.
I shifted my weight, sliding my left arm beneath her shoulders and rolling her gently onto her back beneath me. The dark sheets bunched around her hips, leaving her slender frame framed against the white linen, glowing like warm pearl in the winter sun.
She looked up at me, her hands sliding up the dense muscle of my arms to rest on my shoulders, her eyes clear and unashamed.
I hovered over her, supporting my weight on my forearms, my face inches from hers. The radiant heat coming off her body was an intoxicating pull, drawing me down until my mouth grazed the corner of her lips.
"You sleep alright?" I asked, my voice a low rumble against her cheek.
"I slept without dreams," she whispered, her lips parting as she tilted her chin up to meet my mouth. "For the first time in months."
I closed the distance, taking her mouth in a slow, deep morning kiss.
There was no desperation in the touch, no anger, and no panic.
It was a lazy, unhurried claiming of warm skin and shared breath.
Her lips were soft and eager against mine, her hands sliding behind my neck, her fingers tangling into the cropped hair at my nape.
She arched her back off the mattress, pressing her bare chest against mine, letting out a soft, breathy sound that vibrated straight through my pelvis.
I kissed her until her breathing turned ragged, until the pulse in her throat was drumming a steady, familiar beat against my jaw.
When I finally lifted my head, our foreheads rested together, our breath mingling in the chilly bedroom air.
Outside, a distant horn sounded from Cottage Road as a municipal truck cleared the drifts. The Level 3 travel ban would lift by midday. In three hours, the roads would open, and the outside world would come knocking at the timber door.
Arthur Vance would want the weekend compliance verification. Coach Henrik Lindqvist would have line charts waiting in the locker room. Dr. Warren Hayes would expect Kiyomi back in the biomechanics laboratory, analyzing force vectors for her Olympic fellowship application.
Kiyomi’s eyes flickered toward the window, the reality of campus settling into the quiet room.
I reached out, my fingers wrapping around her chin, gently drawing her focus back to my face.
"Listen to me," I commanded softly, my thumb stroking the pink swell of her bottom lip. "When we walk out that door, we play by their rules. You keep your head down, you finish your fellowship data, and we don't give Vance or Cross an inch of leverage to hurt your career."
Her honey-brown eyes held mine, steady and defiant, but tinged with a quiet vulnerability. "And us?"
"Us doesn't change," I said, my voice dropping into that absolute, gravelly certainty that brooked zero argument.
"You belong to me now, Kiyomi. In this bed, in my truck, and behind closed doors, you are mine.
Nobody touches you. Nobody speaks down to you.
I'm going to finish this season, I'm going to sign that pro deal, and I'm going to make sure Rafael and you never have to worry about a damn thing. "
Her throat worked as she swallowed, a soft flush rising across her collarbones. She didn't argue. She lifted her hand, her small, warm fingers cupping the side of my jaw, her thumb brushing across my stubble.
"Okay, Mauricio," she whispered. "We do it together."
I kissed her one last time, sealing the pact against her lips, knowing with absolute, unshakeable certainty that whatever storm the athletic department or the NHL draft brought down on my head, I would tear the world apart before I ever let her go.