My teeth grind together, nostrils flaring. None of those feeds better reach into Merci’s room, especially since he took the goddamn door down.
Connor clears his throat. “So, what is the new plan for your stepbrother anyway?”
"There’s no plan."
He cocks his head sideways. "Bullshit. You’ve been plotting revenge for how many fucking years, and now you’re just going to let it go?"
I don’t respond, skating to the bench instead, my breaths becoming shallower. Finding my stepbrother andkilling him was supposed to be easy. And sure, the original plan went to shit. But everything feels wrong lately.
Off-balance.
Like the world shifted slightly on its axis the moment Merci came back into my life, stirring up emotions that make me want to scratch my skin off because I can’t make sense of them.
The attraction is easy. Merci’s hot. But every time I get off lately, I’m thinking about him . . . that’s a problem. Same way I watched him sleeping again, like some fucking guardian.
I’m not responsible for his demons. But Christ, the way he thrashes in his sleep . . .
The same need arises like it did all those years ago. I want to slay whatever’s haunting him.
It makes no sense, serves no purpose.
Not when there’s a boatload of other messy shit to deal with, like the fact my father is reaching out more than he used to. Mostly to make sure I don’t“do anything stupid”like try to kill Merci.
If he only knew.
My fingers tighten around my stick. The old man should give half as much of a shit about me, his biological son.
I reach up instinctively to tug at my hair, forgetting my helmet is on. My breathing becomes more rapid, pulserate increasing. Luckily, the horn blares, signaling the start of the game.
Thank fucking Christ.
At least now I can get out of my own head.
We line up for the opening faceoff, tension crackling in the air. The Titans versus the Serpents is never just a game. It’s war, and tonight is no different. The puck drops and chaos erupts.
“Try not to choke, Reed,” Blackwell taunts, digging for the puck.
Jackson shoves him, all smirking dominance. “You’re the one who loves choking.”
Blackwell’s laugh is low and dangerous as he spins away with the puck. “We’ll see who’s choking when I score.”
Luckily, Henneman is there, cutting Blackwell off and forcing him to pass to Raiyne. I track the redhead devil, anticipating the play, and the second he touches the puck, I angle my body and slam him into the boards.
“Watch it, Knight. You’re gonna hurt my pretty face.”
“Wouldn’t want to make your fans cry.” I shove him off the puck.
He grins, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Aw, you do care.”
I ignore him, clearing the puck and skating toward the offensive zone. My job is simple—stop the puck, stop the player, and if necessary, stop their hearts.
But on occasion, try to score as well.
The period grinds on, each play more brutal than the last. I’m in my zone, blocking, checking, forcing turnovers. The Serpents are relentless but so are we.
Viktor makes a glove save that has the crowd roaring, but the momentum shifts when Trembley picks up a loose puck in our zone. I move to poke check, but my fingers slip and my stick clatters to the ice.
Fuck.
