Page 63 of Hold the Line

The heat crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the vodka. I shift on the couch, trying to ignore the way the question makes my body react even through the pain. “He’s… careful,” I admit. “But not gentle. Not really. He still gets this look like he wants to devour me but he’s pissed at the universe for breaking me first. Yesterday he—” I cut myself off, grinning despite the ache, remembering Viktor’s mouth on my neck and the way his hand had pinned my good wrist while the rest of him stayed infuriatingly controlled. “Let’s just say the man has restraint. And I hate it. And I love it.”

Elias howls with laughter, nearly spilling the bottle. “Restraint? From Petrov? I’ve seen the way he looks at you on the bench. That man is one bad day away from throwing you over his shoulder and disappearing into the mountains. Tell me about the elevator. Was it as hot as the tape makes it look? Because from what I heard—”

“Eli!” I shove at him with my good hand, face burning, but I’m laughing too. The shots keep coming, smooth and relentless, and the ache in my ribs dulls into a distant hum while the rest of me gets loose and floaty.

Across the room Viktor’s still at the bar, coffee in hand, watching us like he can hear every word. Damian says something to him and Viktor’s mouth twitches—just barely—but his eyes never leave me. That steady, heavy stare settles low in my stomach, mixing with the alcohol and the ache until I’m squirming on the couch.

Elias catches me looking and cackles. “Oh my god, he’s doing the murder-husband eyes again. Quick, describe his dick in one word before he comes over here and rescues you from my inappropriate ass.”

I’m drunk enough and horny enough and pissed-off-at-my-own-body enough that the filter is completely gone. I lean in toward Elias, the words tumbling out in a rush. “One word? Try fucking ruinous. It’s thick, heavy, curves just right like it was made to wreck me from the inside out. When he’s hard it’s this obscene fucking thing—veins, that fat head, the way it throbs when he’s trying to be patient with me. And don’t even get me started on how he uses it. Slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch he pushes in, stretching me until I can’t think, then he just owns me. Deep, relentless, that perfect angle that makes me see stars and beg like a slut. He gets this look in his eyes when he bottoms out, like he’s claiming territory, and I swear to God I feel it in my soul every single time—”

Elias is wheezing, face red, slapping his knee like I’m the funniest thing he’s ever heard, but my eyes drift past him to the massive TV mounted on the wall behind the couch. The party noise fades for half a second as the news ticker scrolls and a familiar name flashes across the screen.

Sergei Petrov.

My mouth stops moving mid-sentence. I snatch the remote from the coffee table and crank the volume up, heart suddenly hammering harder than the bass. The anchor’s voice cuts through the party noise, calm and professional:

“…found dead this morning in his apartment here in Ravensburg. Sergei Petrov, father of Ravensburg Reapers defenseman Viktor Petrov, appears to have died from acute alcohol poisoning. Authorities say there are no signs of foul play at this time…”

I blink hard. He had an apartment in Ravensburg? Viktor never mentioned that. Dead? Just… dead? The words slam into me like a dirty hit from behind. I whip my head around, searching for Viktor through the crowd. He’s already looking at me—those eyes locked on like he felt the shift from across the room. I expect grief. Shock. Something. Instead, the corner of his mouth is tilted up, just a fraction. A tiny, satisfied little smile that sends ice and heat racing down my spine at the same time.

What in the absolute shit.

“Vik! Baby!” I call out, already trying to push myself up off the couch despite the screaming protest from my ribs. The room spins a little from the shots and the sudden rush of adrenaline. I need to get to him. Comfort him. Figure out what the hell is going on because that smile is not the reaction of a son who just lost his father.

Before I can even get fully upright, Viktor’s moving—long strides cutting through the chaos like the party doesn’t exist. He reaches me in seconds, one big hand sliding along my jaw, fingers threading into my curls as he tilts my face up. Then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, swallowing whatever I was about to say. The kiss is fierce, possessive, tasting like black coffee and something darker underneath. I kiss him back on instinct, lips parting, my tongue brushing his, but my eyes stay wide open, staring straight into his.

He doesn’t look sad. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks… calm. Relieved. Like the news was exactly what he expected.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. Viktor pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, thumb stroking my cheek like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Around us the countdown hits ten, the team exploding into cheers and noisemakers, but all I can focus on is the steady, unreadable darkness in his eyes and the ghost of that tiny smile I saw on his face seconds ago.

Elias is outright staring at us now, his drunk energy momentarily frozen as the countdown echoes through the house. Ten… nine… The rest of the team is losing their minds, screaming and clinking bottles and throwing confetti like it’s the end of the world, but the four of us—me, Viktor, Elias, and Damian across the room—are locked in this weird little bubble. My ribs throb in time with my heartbeat as I stare up at Viktor, frowning hard, searching every inch of that stoic face for something, anything, that makes sense.

“Fucking hell, Petrov!” Damian’s voice cuts across the noise like a whip, low and rough, his eyes glued to the TV where the news segment is still playing. He looks pissed, but not surprised. Like he’s been waiting for this shoe to drop. My stomach twists. Am I missing something? Does Damian know more than I do?

“You knew?” I ask Viktor, voice cracking a little from the alcohol and the sudden spike of confusion.

“Yeah,” Viktor says simply, steady against the chaos exploding around us. “Police called this morning to tell me.”

The countdown hits zero. The entire house erupts— “HAPPY NEW YEAR!”—voices screaming, glasses clinking, bodies crashing into hugs and sloppy kisses. Elias is still staring at us, mouth half-open like he’s trying to process the same thing I am. But Viktor doesn’t look away from me. Not for a second.

“Happy New Year, little bird,” he whispers, the words warm against my lips as he leans in again, thumbs stroking slow and gentle over my cheeks like he’s memorizing me.

My chest feels too tight. “Are you… are you okay?” I manage, searching his eyes, looking for grief, for shock, for something. This is his father. The man who made his childhood hell, sure, but still his father.

Viktor’s expression doesn’t flicker. He just runs those big thumbs across my cheekbones again, calm and certain, and says, “Never better.”

The words hit me like a slap. Never better? I know the stories—Viktor’s told me enough about the abuse, the drinking, the way his father dimmed his mother until there was almost nothing left. I know Sergei was a monster. But hearing Viktor say that, voice steady and almost… relieved, while the news is still flashing his dead father’s face on the screen? It doesn’t compute. My frown deepens, the alcohol making my thoughts slow and sticky but not enough to dull the worry gnawing at me.

“Vik…” I start, needing to understand what the hell is going on behind those eyes.

“Oh god! Viktor is that your father?!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade as she stumbles out of a hallway—hopefully not coming from Mats’ bedroom, though the way her hair’s a mess and her lipstick is smudged makes me doubt it. She freezes when she sees the TV, eyes wide, then swings straight to Viktor. The words ripple outward fast. Heads turn. Conversations die. The whole damn party slows down as more and more people catch the news ticker still scrolling across the screen and then look at Viktor standing there with his hands still on my face.

The condolences start pouring in immediately.

“Shit, man, I’m so sorry—” “Vik, that’s rough, you need anything?” “Fuck, brother, alcohol poisoning? That’s brutal—”