Page 59 of Hold the Line

I grin back. “You laughed so hard that night. I wanted to make you laugh again. Even if it’s stupid.”

He leans down and kisses me — soft, lingering, full of something warm and grateful that makes my toes curl despite the ache in my ribs. When he pulls back, he is still smiling, the tension from earlier gone from his shoulders.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmurs, attaching the keychain to his own keys right there. “And I love it. Thank you, my loud one.”

I make grabby hands at him again until he climbs back onto the bed and pulls me gently against his chest. We stay like that for a while, the silly keychain now hanging from his keys on the nightstand, his hand stroking through my hair.

“I’m sorry I pushed you away…” Viktor says, his voice rough with regret as he holds me close.

I pout. “I’m sorry I let you.” I shift carefully, wincing at the pull in my ribs, and look up at him. “Are you going to tell me what happened after the fight?”

Viktor freezes for a second, then looks at me. “It was my father. He sent the goons after you. Damian, the police, and I managed to find them, and they’re behind bars now.”

I frown, not really surprised. Some part of me had already guessed it.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Viktor adds.

I frown a little deeper, running my good hand through his short hair, feeling the tension still there. “When I get better, I’m so gonna give him a piece of my mind,” I groan, the words half-serious, half-delirious from the pain meds.

Viktor leans down and kisses my forehead, soft and lingering. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs against my skin. “He already paid for his mistakes.”

“Paid? Paid how?” I ask, confused, the word sticking in my foggy brain as I try to make sense of it.

Viktor’s hand strokes slowly down my side, careful of the bandages. “Dearly,” he says. “Don’t worry about it, little magpie.”

Then he starts kissing down my neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin just below my ear, then lower, trailing warmth along my collarbone. It is clearly an attempt to distract me, and fuck if it's not working. My breath catches, the ache in my ribs fading into the background as heat curls low in my stomach. I tilt my head to give him more room, a soft sound escaping me as his mouth finds that spot that always makes me melt.

“Vik…” I murmur, half-protest, half-plea. The worry is still there, nagging at the edges of my mind, but his mouth is making it harder to focus on anything but him. The way he kisses me like I am something precious and fragile, even while his hand grips my hip possessively.

“Vik… please,” I murmur, trying to pull him on top of me, ignoring the sharp twinge in my side.

Viktor makes a low sound in his throat, half-warning, half-groan, and gently catches my hand, pinning it above my head with careful strength. “Easy, soroka,” he says against my neck. “You are hurt. Let me take care of you. No moving too much.”

I whine, frustrated and needy, but the way he says it makes me shiver. He keeps me still, mouth moving lower, kissing along my collarbone, then down my chest, careful of the bandages around my ribs. His free hand slides down my body, wrapping around me with just the right pressure. I moan, hips twitching up into his grip despite the pain, the pleasure cutting through the ache like fire.

“Vitya…” I gasp, the name slipping out like it always does when I am this gone for him.

He groans softly, rewarding me with a firmer stroke, his mouth still pressing soft kisses to my skin. “That’s it. Let me have you like this. No rushing. I’ve got you.”

I'm trembling, overwhelmed by how gentle he is being while still giving me exactly what I need. The pain is there, dull and throbbing, but it's nothing compared to the way he is touching me — like I'm something precious he's afraid of breaking, but also something he can't get enough of.

It is two days before New Year’s Eve, and we are at practice. I tried to convince Cole to stay home and rest, but he absolutely refused, stubborn as always. So naturally, I am on the ice running drills while he sits on the bench, all bandaged up and hazy from painkillers. He is pouting at Damian like a child who has been told he cannot have dessert, begging to be let back on the ice. Damian looks like he is two seconds away from tying him to the bench with skate laces.

This is going to be a long couple of months.

Even after that, I am not sure Cole will be able to play in the playoffs. If we make it to the playoffs. The team is doing well, but without our right winger at full strength, things feel off-balance. I keep glancing over at the bench between drills, making sure he is still there, still okay. He catches me looking and pouts harder, crossing his arms over his chest like that will convince Damian to let him skate.

“Viktor, focus,” Damian barks from the bench, but there is a hint of amusement in his voice. He knows exactly why I am distracted.

I nod once and force myself to pay attention to the play, but my mind keeps drifting back to Cole. To the bruises that are still fading. To the way he winces when he moves too fast. To the fear that lingers in his eyes when he thinks I am not looking. I should have been there. I should have protected him better.

The whistle blows again and I skate over to the bench during a water break, stopping in front of him. He looks up at me, still sulking, but there is a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not playing today,” I say, handing him a water bottle.

“I know,” he grumbles, taking it. “But I can watch. And cheer. Loudly.”

I huff a small laugh despite myself and lean down to press a quick kiss to his forehead, right above the fading bruise. “Be good, little bird.”