Page 34

"No, say it." I step toward him, closing the distance between us, needing him to feel the weight of my words.

"Because I've been trying, Bast. I've been trying to hold it together, to recover, to figure out who the hell I am when I’m not playing at full capacity.

And you? You've been silent. About us. About whatever has turned you into this cold, closed off version of the man I believe you're not.

I know nothing about you really. Hell, I stumbled upon your studio.

If I hadn't, I'd still be fucking clueless that you moonlight as a world-renowned artist."

His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping beneath his skin. I want to press my thumb against it, feel the tension there. "I didn't ask for this."

"Neither did I!" I shout, weeks of confusion and longing erupting from somewhere deep inside me. "But we're here. And I need to know if I'm just another guest in your house, or if I'm something real to you."

Silence crashes down between us like a hammer, dense and destructive.

He stares at me, breath heavy, those gray eyes stormy with something I can't quite name. And then he says, low and ragged, "You are real to me. Too real. That's the problem. I know how I feel. I’ve said it before. . .but I’m fucking scared."

The truth of it knocks the wind out of me. I stumble back a step, blinking, suddenly unsteady on my feet. All this time I thought I was fighting for something that didn't exist, and here he is telling me it's so substantial it frightens him.

"I can't give you what you want if you won't meet me halfway," I say, softer now, the anger dissipating like smoke. "I'm not asking for perfection. I'm just asking for you to let me in."

He nods slowly, something shifting behind his eyes like a door unlocking after years of being sealed shut. "Then maybe it's time I do."

I follow Bast into the living room, my heartbeat a thunderous rhythm in my ears.

The sleek leather couch cool beneath me as I sink down, watching him carefully.

He doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he paces, all coiled energy and hesitation, before finally lowering himself beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth, but with enough space between us to suggest the weight of what's coming.

"Before Seattle, I was with Winnipeg for six years," he begins, his accent thickening around the edges. "The last three, I was with someone. Lachlan Devereaux."

The name hits me with unexpected force. Lachlan Devereaux, center for the Wolves, known for his lightning-quick hands and ruthless precision. Not someone I'd ever pictured with Bast.

“Wait, I thought he was straight.” I say, confused and maybe a little jealous.

"We kept it quiet. Professional hockey, you know how it is." His shoulders slump, the proud, straight line of his back curving inward. "The rest of the hockey world saw a bromance. But to us, well, to me, I thought. . .I thought we were building something real."

I want to reach for him, but something in his posture warns me not to. Not yet.

"What happened?" I ask softly.

Bast's laugh is hollow, a sound so devoid of humor it makes my skin crawl.

"One night after a game, right there in the locker room, he announced he was getting married.

To a woman." He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the stubble of his throat.

"I thought it was a joke. Some sick prank. I knew he wasn’t out to his family.

His parents would never have approved of us.

I knew this. It was his greatest fear. But I held on. I thought he would choose us. Me."

My chest tightens, imagining the shock, the humiliation. "He didn't tell you first? Privately?"

"No." The word hangs between us, heavy with betrayal. "Nothing. And then I saw it on Instagram. 'She said yes', with a picture of matching engagement rings."

"Jesus," I breathe, the cruelty of it hitting me like a body check to the boards. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. What could I do? It was a secret.

The franchise didn't know." His hands flex against his thighs, powerful fingers curling into half-fists before releasing.

"I tried calling. Texting. I couldn’t confront him publicly.

He ghosted me completely. Three years together, and suddenly I didn't exist."

I feel sick imagining Bast, proud, strong Bast, being treated like he was disposable. Like he didn't matter.

"His parents," Bast continues, his voice dropping lower. "They're conservative. Religious. He was terrified of them finding out. But instead of telling me, instead of giving me any warning. . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

"He threw you away," I finish for him, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

Bast's eyes finally meet mine, and the raw pain there steals my breath. "After that, I couldn't stay in Winnipeg. Seeing him every day, pretending nothing had happened. I had my agent find me a new team. Seattle made an offer."

Understanding blooms in my chest. The fortress he's built around himself, the careful distance he maintains from everyone, it all makes sense now. This isn't just about hockey. It's about protection.

"So, this is why you keep everyone at arm's length," I murmur.

He nods, a barely perceptible movement. "I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone close enough to do that to me again." His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and I can't stop myself from reaching out, laying my hand over his.

"Bast. . ."

"And then you happened." He turns his hand over, our palms meeting, his fingers curling around mine with surprising gentleness. "Bright, open, fearless. Everything I'm not."

My heart leaps, then settles into a steady, hopeful rhythm. "I'm not fearless. You've seen me at my worst."

"That's different." His thumb traces circles against my skin, sending shivers up my arm. "You're scared of what happened to you. I'm scared of what might happen."

The honesty in his voice strips me bare. I've been so caught up in my own trauma, my own recovery, that I never fully recognized his. Different wounds but wounds all the same.

"Is that why you never let me in? Why you hide your art, why you keep parts of yourself locked away?" I ask, squeezing his hand.

"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of years of self-protection. "It became a habit. Safer not to share. Easier to be alone."

"But you're not alone anymore," I whisper, daring to lean closer. "I'm right here."

His eyes, when they meet mine, hold a question neither of us can voice yet. Instead, he reaches up with his free hand, cupping my cheek, his palm warm against my skin.

"I know," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. "And that terrifies me more than anything."

"It seems we are both terrified of something. My recovery. You with this. . .us." The words leave me in a rush, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

Bast's eyes darken, the storm in them intensifying as he holds my gaze. There's a shift in him, something fundamental changing in the air between us.

"Je ne veux plus que la peur guide mes pas," I no longer want fear to guide my steps, he whispers, French flowing from his lips like water over stones.

Before I can decipher what he’s saying, his hands are at my waist, strong and sure as he pulls me toward him.

I move willingly, my body knowing what it wants even as my mind races to catch up.

The leather of the couch creaks beneath us as I settle onto his lap, my thighs bracketing his hips, our bodies finding the perfect alignment like they've done this a thousand times before.

The first press of his mouth against mine is electric, sending currents through my body that light up every nerve ending.

His lips are soft but insistent, nothing tentative in the way he claims me.

My hands find his face, cradling the sharp angles of his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of stubble against my palms.

This kiss is different from all our others.

There's no holding back, no careful restraint.

It's punishing and perfect, full of everything we've been too afraid to say.

My fingers slide into his hair, short strands tickling between my fingers as I grip tightly, anchoring myself.

His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, and I open further for him, surrendering completely.

A groan rumbles from deep in his chest, the vibration passing between us where we're pressed together.

His hands roam restlessly up my back, down my sides, like he's trying to memorize the topography of my body through touch alone.

The heat of his palms burns through my thin t-shirt, and I arch into the contact, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine.

When breathing becomes a necessity, I pull back just enough to gulp in air, my forehead resting against his. His breath fans across my face, warm and minty, our exhales mingling in the scant space between us. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must feel it where our chests press together.

"I need you," I whisper, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside me. It's more than just physical want, it's a bone-deep ache, a hunger for all of him, every complicated, beautiful piece.

His hands slide up to frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones with surprising tenderness. "J'ai besoin de toi," I need you , he murmurs, his accent thicker than I've ever heard it, emotion making his voice rough around the edges.

My French isn’t the best, but I don't need to be. The meaning is clear in his eyes, in the way his body responds to mine, in the slight tremble of his fingers against my skin.

"Bedroom?" I manage to ask, already rocking slightly against him, my body operating on instinct and need.

He shakes his head, surprising me. "Non. Here. Now." His hands slide down to grip my hips, fingers digging into muscle with delicious pressure. "I want to see you. All of you."

"Yes," I breathe, already reaching for the hem of my shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. "God, yes."

His hands catch mine, stilling them. "Let me," he says, the command soft but unmistakable.

I drop my hands to my sides, surrendering control to him.

Slowly, with reverence that makes my throat tight, he lifts my hoodie, knuckles deliberately grazing my abs, my chest, as he pushes the fabric up.

I raise my arms, allowing him to pull it off completely, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps across my newly exposed skin.

His eyes roam over me, taking in every inch with an intensity that feels almost physical. "Tu es magnifique," you are beautiful , he murmurs, hands following the path his gaze just traveled, mapping the contours of my shoulders, my chest, my stomach.

I shiver under his touch, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. "Your turn," I manage, tugging at his henley with impatient fingers.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips before he leans forward, allowing me to pull the shirt over his head.

And then, oh God, there he is, all bronze skin and defined muscle, the intricate designs of his tattoo sleeve stark against his shoulder and bicep.

I've seen him shirtless countless times, but this is different. This is for me. This is mine.

My hands explore greedily, tracing the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, learning him through touch.

The warmth of his skin radiates against my palms as I memorize every dip and curve of muscle.

When my fingers brush across his nipple, he hisses, head falling back slightly, exposing the strong column of his throat.

I can't resist leaning forward to press my lips there, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling his pulse racing beneath my mouth, the thundering rhythm matching my own frantic heartbeat.

"Derrick," he groans, my name a prayer and a plea on his lips, his accent wrapping around the syllables in a way that sends electricity down my spine.

I roll my hips experimentally, even through layers of clothing the delicious friction between us making us both gasp.

Heat coils low in my belly, tension builds with each movement.

His hands fly to my waist, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks, guiding my movements, creating a rhythm that has me seeing stars behind my eyelids.

The pressure builds, sweet and maddening.

"I want—" I start, my voice ragged and desperate, but can't finish the thought, overcome by sensation. Words fail me as his hands slide lower, cupping my ass and pulling me tighter against him.

"Tell me what you want, Princesse," he urges, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, his grip firm but gentle, holding me steady, forcing me to meet his gaze.

Those dark eyes bore into mine, pupils blown wide with desire, leaving only a thin ring of color.

The vulnerability there, carefully hidden behind desire, a crack in his usually impenetrable armor, nearly undoes me.

My chest aches with something far beyond physical want.

In this moment, I'm not afraid of anything.

Not the past, not the future, not the complications that await us beyond this room.

Just this. Just us. Just the way our bodies speak a language our words never could.

"Everything," I answer truthfully, my voice raw with emotion I don't try to hide. My fingers brush over his head, holding him to me. "I want everything with you."