Chapter 26
Mauricio POV
The heavy charcoal curtains shut out the gray January morning, leaving the bedroom wrapped in an amber, muted dusk.
Outside, a mixture of fine sleet and ocean spray scratched against the high glass panes of the carriage house, a steady, rhythmic hiss that made the room feel carved from the side of a mountain.
The cast-iron radiator beneath the sill clanked softly, radiating a steady, dry wave of heat across the dark floorboards.
I lay flat on my back, the heavy wool quilt pulled over my hips.
My body, usually locked in a state of rigid athletic tension by dawn, was thoroughly relaxed. My jaw muscles were slack, the habitual ache behind my molars gone. My resting pulse thudded at forty-six beats a minute, a slow, heavy cadence vibrating deep inside my breastbone.
Kiyomi was asleep on my right side.
Her forehead was tucked beneath the ledge of my collarbone, her cheek resting over the flat muscle of my chest. Her dark hair spilled across my bicep in soft, untamed curls that smelled of almond oil and sweet skin.
One of her slender arms was draped across my ribs, her small fingers curled loosely against my side, rising and falling in perfect synchronization with my chest.
I lifted my left hand, resting my palm flat against the back of her bare shoulder.
The contrast was staggering.
My hand was thick, calloused from friction tape and composite sticks, my knuckles swollen and bruised from sixty minutes of board battles against Vermont on Friday night. Her skin was pale, soft as silk, delicate beneath my touch.
A quiet, profound reverence tightened around my throat.
Outside these timber walls, my life was a violent arena: Henrik Lindqvist barking about defensive gap control, Arthur Vance monitoring compliance minutes, national scouts treating my body like a racehorse on an auction block, and Julian Cross lurking in concrete tunnels with extortion files.
The public world took everything I had and demanded more blood.
In this room, with Kiyomi breathing against my heart, the violence had zero purchase.
She had stood in front of me when no one else would. She had laid her small hands over my scars and looked into my darkness without flinching.
I looked down at the peaceful line of her profile, making a silent, iron vow: I would burn down my own future before I let the world defile this sanctuary.
* * *
Kiyomi stirred.
Her dark lashes fluttered against my skin, her breath hitching on a soft, drowsy sigh that washed warm over my chest. Her small hand shifted, her fingertips trailing lightly across the ridge of my ribs, making the fine hairs along my arms stand on end.
Her honey-brown eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep, adjusting to the dim room.
She didn't pull away. She looked up at me with an unshielded, drowsy warmth that made my breath catch in my throat.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice thick and raspy from the night.
"Morning, sweetheart," I rasped back.
I didn't let her move.
With slow, immovable authority, I slid my right arm beneath her shoulders and my left arm around her waist, shifting my weight until I rolled her gently onto her back beneath me.
The dark sheets rustled softly as she yielded to the movement, her body settling into the mattress, her arms sliding up to drape over my shoulders.
I hovered over her, supporting my weight on my forearms, bracketing her slender frame with two hundred and twenty-five pounds of heat and muscle. The heavy quilt fell over our shoulders, sealing us inside a private vault of fevered skin.
"You're awake," she whispered, her lips parting as her gaze locked onto mine.
"I've been watching you breathe for an hour," I answered, leaning down until my stubble brushed the soft curve of her cheek.
My hands moved with agonizing, deliberate patience.
I slid my palm down her side, tracing the gentle flare of her waist, the soft curve of her hip, before resting flat against the warmth of her lower abdomen. Her skin was burning hot, soft as satin, yielding to the pressure of my fingers.
When I settled between her parted thighs, her breath caught in a sharp, shallow gasp.
"Look at me, Kiyomi," I growled softly, my face hovering an inch from hers.
Her eyes held mine, dark with blown pupils in the amber gloom.
"I'm looking, Mauricio," she breathed, her hands sliding to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling into my cropped hair.
I took her mouth in a slow, searing morning kiss.
There was no haste in the touch, only deep, thorough possession. My lips claimed hers with heavy reverence, tasting the sweet warmth of her tongue, drinking in the soft, broken sounds that vibrated from her throat.
Her body arched off the sheets, her hips shifting to meet the solid, demanding line of my pelvis. The friction between our bare bodies was intoxicating, a slow, rhythmic heat that built with every ragged breath we shared.
"Good girl," I murmured into her mouth, my hand sliding beneath her lower back to lift her slightly, drawing her deeper into my cadence. "Stay right there with me. That's it."
She let out a ragged, breathless sob of release against my lips, her legs wrapping tight around my waist, anchoring my frame to hers.
Her fingernails dug into the dense muscle of my traps as the wave of intense somatic pleasure broke through her limbs, her body shivering in long, trembling waves beneath my weight.
A low, guttural groan broke from my chest. My rhythm deepened, an unhurried, soul-claiming drive that poured every shred of my devotion into her skin until my own control fractured, collapsing me into the crook of her neck with a heavy, ragged shudder.
* * *
The quiet that settled over the bedroom was absolute.
We lay tangled together beneath the charcoal quilt, the warmth between us deep and immovable.
Kiyomi’s head rested over my heart, her cheek pressed against my skin, her breathing gradually slowing to a steady, peaceful draw.
Her fingers trailed lazily across the scarred ridge of my collarbone, tracing the old white lines with absentminded tenderness.
I stroked her dark hair, my lips pressed to the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her skin.
"Twelve compliance hours left, Kiyomi," I murmured into the quiet dark.
She hummed against my chest, her fingers pausing over my breastbone. "Three more weeks until the regular season finale."
"Then the conference tournament," I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly certainty that brooked zero doubt. "And then the combine in Buffalo."
I shifted slightly, lifting her chin with my thumb until her honey-brown eyes were looking into mine.
"When the draft is settled in June, we're done hiding," I whispered, my thumb stroking the soft curve of her lower lip.
"I'm signing with a club that keeps me near you.
We get an apartment wherever your fellowship takes you.
Boston, Chicago, Colorado Springs—it doesn't matter.
You won't have to look over your shoulder in an arena again.
I'm going to give you everything you've ever worked for. "
A soft, brilliant smile touched her lips, her eyes warming with clear, unshakeable trust.
"I believe you, Mauricio," she whispered, leaning up to press a lingering, warm kiss to the center of my jaw. "I'm holding you to that."
She nestled back against my chest, closing her eyes, wholly anchored in my arms, safe from the freezing rain beating against the glass.
I tightened my hold around her waist, but my gaze drifted over her head toward the heavy curtains.
A cold, primal instinct stirred in the pit of my gut, heavy and ominous.
The peace in this room was too clean, too perfect. In the real world, debts were never forgiven, and predators like Julian Cross didn't crawl into dark corners to die quietly.
The season was winding down to its final, brutal stretch, the pressure building behind the arena walls like a rising tide.
I stared into the gloom, holding her against my chest, knowing the storm outside was sharpening its teeth.