Page 29 of Hold the Line

Damian leans back in his chair, studying me for a moment before his mouth twitches into a smirk. “Yes, but don’t come back without my winger, Vik.”

I narrow my eyes at him, the irritation clear on my face. The man is an asshole when he wants to be, especially when he knows he has the upper hand. Damian just smirks wider, completely unbothered, like he enjoys watching me squirm. Elias is still grinning in the corner, clearly entertained by the whole exchange.

I push to my feet without another word, grabbing the box of cookies Elias got for my mother and heading for the door. The address in my pocket feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Tonight I am going to find Cole. Tonight this silence between us ends—one way or another.

The drive is quiet, three long hours stretching out in front of me like a punishment I probably deserve. The address Damian gave me sits plugged into my GPS, the calm female voice occasionally breaking the silence to tell me to turn or merge. For the first half hour I kept glancing at the paper like it might change, half-convinced there had been some mistake. Lena’s apartment is above a tattoo shop. She is a tattoo artist—sharp-tongued and fiercely protective of her brother, just like the ink she puts into people’s skin. I wonder for a brief second if Damian got the address wrong, but then I remember who he is. Damian Kade does not get addresses wrong. He knows everything about everyone on this team, whether we want him to or not.

The highway gives way to city streets as the sun slowly sinks behind the buildings, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples before fading into night. By the time I pull up in front of the shop, darkness has settled completely. The tattoo parlor is closed, metal gate pulled down over the glass front, but the apartment above it has lights on. I kill the engine and sit there in the driver’s seat for a long moment, hands still gripping the wheel, staring up at the window right above the shop.

And there he is. Cole is sitting on the wide window sill, legs drawn up, one arm resting on his knee. The window is cracked open, letting cool night air in. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the faint glow of the tip visible every time he takes a drag. In his other hand is a glass with something amber inside—whiskey, probably. His curls are messy, falling into his face, and he is wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweats that sit low on his hips. The tattoos along his ribs and forearms stand out against his skin under the warm interior light. Even from down here I can see the scowl etched deep into his expression, that familiar shit-eating grin completely absent. He looks exhausted. Angry. Hollow in a way that makes my chest tighten painfully.

This is my doing.

I sit there in the dark car, unable to look away, watching the man I have been quietly in love with for years smoke like he is trying to burn something out of himself. The sight of him like this twists something deep inside me. I should get out. I should go upstairs and face what I have broken. But for another long minute I just sit, gripping the steering wheel harder, trying to gather the words I have avoided saying.

I kill the headlights, push open the car door, and step out into the cool night air. My boots are heavy on the pavement as I cross the street and find the side entrance to the apartments above the tattoo shop. The stairs are narrow and dimly lit. Every step feels like it costs me something.

At the top, I stop in front of the door. My hand hovers for a second before I knock—three firm, deliberate raps that echo in the quiet hallway. I wait, my heart beating too loud in my ears. Seconds stretch. Then I hear movement inside—footsteps, the faint clink of glass being set down. The door swings open.

Cole stands there in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. For a single heartbeat he freezes when his eyes land on me. Brown eyes widen slightly in surprise, then narrow into a sharp, furious glare that hits harder than any punch he could throw. The air between us goes electric with everything unsaid.

The little shit does not even give me a chance to speak.

He slams the door in my face.

The sound cracks through the hallway like a slap shot off the boards. I stand there staring at the closed door, the sting of it settling deep in my ribs. I can hear him breathing on the other side, angry and unsteady. My hand twitches at my side, wanting to knock again, wanting to push the door open and say everything I have been too afraid to admit. But I stay still, waiting, the weight of every mistake I have made pressing down on me in the quiet.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

I stand there staring at the closed door like it personally betrayed me, heart hammering so hard against my ribs I’m surprised Viktor can’t hear it from the hallway. Of course Damian would send someone. I knew he would eventually—probably after I ignored the tenth call and the team started losing games without their chaotic right winger. But I expected Elias. Or maybe even Zara with a media crisis folder and a lecture. Not him. Not Viktor standing on the other side of that thin piece of wood like some silent Russian storm I’ve been trying to outrun for a week and a half. My stomach does that stupid fucking flip it always does around him, equal parts anger and something softer, something I hate myself for still feeling. I drag a hand through my hair, breathing hard, willing my pulse to calm the hell down.

I don’t move. I just stare at the door, willing him to leave, willing myself to not care that he actually came.

Then his voice filters through the wood, far too gentle for how much I want to punch him again. “Soroka…”

My eyes squeeze shut. The nickname hits like a cheap shot to the ribs. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but tonight it feels different—raw, careful, like he’s finally saying it with meaning instead of just habit.

“Stop calling me a fucking bird!” I huff, voice cracking louder than I want it to. I sound pissed. Good. I am pissed.

There is a pause on the other side. Then Viktor speaks again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. “Magpie.”

I blink at the closed door, confusion cutting through the anger for a second. “What??”

“It means magpie,” he says simply, like that explains everything. Like dropping that bomb through a door after weeks of silence is normal.

I stare at the wood separating us, my brain short-circuiting. Magpie. The loud, shiny, chaotic bird that steals things and builds nests where it doesn’t belong. The nickname I always thought was just him calling me annoying clicks into something heavier, something that makes my chest ache even worse. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with him standing out there after everything.

I yank the door open so hard it almost slams against the wall behind it, but I catch it at the last second with my still-sore hand. Viktor is standing right there in the dim hallway, his eyes locking onto mine the moment the door flies open. My stomach does that stupid fucking flip again and I glare up at him, breathing hard through my nose.

“What do you want?” I refuse to step aside even an inch.

Viktor doesn’t move. He just stands there, steady as ever, looking at me like he’s been carrying the weight of the last month and a half right alongside me. “Can I come in?” he asks, that accent wrapping around the words in a way that pisses me off even more.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts, crossing my arms over my bare chest as I lean against the doorframe. The anger that’s been simmering for weeks—hell, for over a month before Thanksgiving and every silent day since—explodes right there in the hallway. I don’t let him in. I just start yelling, not caring how loud my voice gets or who might hear us through the thin walls.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I hiss, stepping forward but keeping him firmly on the other side of the threshold. “You go radio silent for over a month, treat me like I’m nothing after that night in Vancouver, disappear to Russia without a single word, then come back and still won’t even look at me—and now you just show up here? At my sister’s door? What the fuck, Viktor? You think showing up after a month and a half of treating me like I don’t exist is going to fix anything?”

My voice cracks but I keep going, glaring up at him with everything I’ve got. “I punched you on the ice because I’m so fucking tired of this—of you watching me like you care and then shutting me out like I’m poison. Of waiting for you to decide I’m worth something. So what do you want? Huh? Because I’m done chasing a ghost who kissed me like I was everything and then ran.”