“Liar,” he hisses, his face inches from mine, hands fisted in my shirt.
Instinct takes over. I shove back, sending him stumbling into the metal desk. It screeches across the floor, papers scattering.
“Back off,” I warn, stance widening, preparing for what’s coming.
“Make me.” Beckett’s voice is cold, controlled in a way that’s more frightening than his anger. “Tell me the truth or make me back off. Those are your options.”
I see the punch coming and duck, but not quite fast enough. Beckett is bigger, stronger, and faster, but I’m a fighter. His fist only just grazes my jaw. I respond on autopilot, driving my shoulder into his midsection, lifting him off his feet. We crash into the wall together, rattling the framed arena map.
Beckett’s elbow finds my ribs, a sharp jab that forces me to loosen my grip. He twists free. We grapple in the small space, knocking over the chair, sending the desk skidding.
“You selfish piece of shit,” he pants. “All these years, I trusted you.”
“You don’t understand,” I gasp, ducking another wild swing.
“Then make me understand!” he roars, catching me with a hook that snaps my head back.
The door bursts open. Security floods in, four beefy guards in black uniforms. Hands grab me, haul me off Beckett. I struggle against their hold, not ready to be separated, not ready for this confrontation to end unresolved. It’s like if it ends, we end.
“That’s enough!” One guard has his arm around my throat, pulling me back. Another helps Beckett to his feet and dusts him off. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you two?”
Beckett’s eyes never leave mine. In them, I see anger, confusion, and worst of all, hurt. The kind of deep hurt that comes from betrayal.
He takes a step toward the door. I struggle against the security guard’s grip on me.
“Beckett! Don’t…”
He turns his back on me and moves through the open door, security and staff skittering out of the way. He gives me the finger over his shoulder.
“I’m going back to work.” And then he’s gone.
I rip myself free of the guard who gives me a little push for good measure. I straighten my shirt and crack my neck.
Carmen Montenegro, head of security for the arena, walks in cool as a cucumber. He has a finger to his ear, probably listening to radio chatter.
“Pierce,” he says cheerily, extending his hand.
“Carmen.” I wipe my hand on the thigh of my jeans before taking his.
“I can’t ban you. Packmates of the team have priority access to the arena at all times. But we are going to escort you off property for the night. I got a car waiting for you.”
“That’s fair.” I shrug.
Carmen nods and gestures me into the hallway.
“How pissed is Volkov?” I ask.
“Oh, not at all. He thought it was a blast. Said to tell you to come apologize with a bottle of vodka. The good stuff. And get something nice for Sandra.”
Yeah, right. My life just fell apart, and Alexei is going to want to yuk it up over drinks. Fucker.
Carmen pushes open a do-not-exit exit door. Nashville is warming up, but the night air is cold, and it slaps me in the face.
I breathe deep. I can smell popcorn burning somewhere. But not a single hint of peach.
Chapter forty-five
LIAM
