Jackson leans forward between the seats. "You sure about taking him back to Long Island? Seems risky."
"The flight manifest puts us in Miami." I trace the tattoo on my left hand, the one I got to cover the surgical scars. "It would be too coincidental if his body was ever found."
He snorts, leaning back into the seat. “Yeah, Killian would justloveit if I got arrested my senior year. Would blow my chance of playing for the NHL too.”
Connor huffs. “Because you seemso excitedto go to Winnipeg.”
Jackson doesn’t respond. He’s been cagey about his career next year. Not that Winnipeg is anyone’s ideal place to move to, but the team is pretty good.
And no one turns downplaying for the NHL if that’s what they want to do, regardless of the team that drafted them.
Releasing a deep breath, I stare out the window again, the Miami skyline blurring past. The lights reflect off the bay, creating a mirror image of the city.
It's beautiful in a way that makes me think of Merci on those silks—all fluid grace and controlled power, body curved like some kind of living art piece. He's no longer the awkward stepbrother who invaded my space. Instead, he’sbecome someone who commands attention and knows exactly how to use his body as a weapon.
"How’s the hand? Notice you've been flexing it a lot more lately." Viktor's voice is soft, concerned.
"Same as always." I flex my fingers again, the familiar tingling sensation running from my wrist to my fingertips. "Can't feel shit half the time, but I manage."
However, that’s not entirely true. It’s been getting worse. My grip strength has been declining, which is concerning. Hell, the fall itself could’ve paralyzed me, could’ve ended everything.
Instead, I'm left with these . . . imperfections.
These weaknesses.
Because having a traumatic head injury as a kid that left me with brain damage wasn’t enough to deal with.
Despite it all, I managed to come back from it and even became good enough to be drafted by the Senators.
Except everything seems to be unraveling again. And during my senior year no less. My heart thumps a bit faster in my chest. If I can’t fix the issues with my hand, I might as well kiss my NHL future with Ottawa goodbye.
Then I’ll be completely fucking useless.
The airport comes into view. Connor's father's jet waits on the private runway, ready to take us home to where this all ends.
Viktor pulls up to the hangar and kills the engine. Around back, he places a hand on my shoulder as the liftgate opens. "You know I'm here for you. You don't have to hide shit from me."
The words are soft, careful. I know he means them, but they claw at something inside, and I can’t explain why they feel like a weight instead of comfort.
I shrug off his touch. "If my own mother couldn't handle what I became, it's only a matter of time before you leave too. Especially when your precious Beckett doesn’t like me."
Viktor's face hardens, but I turn away before he can respond. I don't need his concern or his loyalty. I don't need anyone.
Right now, I only need to make Merci pay for what he did.
And soon, I'll have exactly that.
Chapter 4
Merci
My head pounds like a jackhammer, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of pain through my skull, my throat dry and scratchy. I try to open my eyes, but they fall shut from the heaviness. My body’s sluggish like I’m trying to swim through molasses.
I take a deep breath, trying to stop my chattering teeth, and chase away the nausea settling in as consciousness slowly returns. What the hell happened?
The last thing I remember is. . .
Oh, fuck.
