Page 4

Chapter 3

Zach

Raiyne leads us down a dimly lit corridor. "Security's been paid off, but we should still move quickly."

Viktor and Connor flank me while Jackson brings up the rear. My unconscious stepbrother is slung over my shoulder like a rag doll, the paint on his skin smearing onto my suit, leaving silver streaks across the expensive fabric.

Like the cum stains aren't enough.

My cock twitches, and I clench my jaw, frustrated by my body's response.

"Car's around back." Connor's voice is clipped, professional, like we're discussing a business transaction instead of kidnapping my stepbrother.

Sometimes, like now, he sounds just like me.

I adjust my grip on Merci, his dead weight pressing into my shoulder. He's lighter than I expected, all lean muscle wrapped in smooth skin. But also different from the scrawny teenager who pushed me down those stairs five years ago.

My left hand clenches. The doctors said I was lucky. The compound fracture in my arm could’ve ended my hockey career permanently. Instead, I spent months in physical therapy after three surgeries, learning to grip a stick again while dealing with permanent nerve damage—a parting gift from my stepbrother.

"You good?" Viktor's ice-blue eyes study me from behind his crystalline nun mask.

I give a curt nod.

Outside, the Miami night air is thick and humid. Nothing like the bitter cold back home. No snow, no frost-covered windows. Just palm trees swaying in the breeze as we head toward the back lot where our black Range Rover sits waiting, the tinted windows concealing the interior from prying eyes.

We chose this vehicle specifically. High-end enough to blend in but generic enough not to draw attention.

Connor unlocks it with a click of the key fob. "Get him in before someone sees."

After Jackson opens the liftgate, I lay Merci down in the cargo area and his mask slips. Gone is the soft, innocent look of the teenager who infiltrated my home. Now he's all high cheekbones dusted with glitter and full lips .

Jackson and I secure his wrists and ankles with zip ties, the plastic cutting into his painted skin, and something twists in my gut. I can't process it, can't name it. Just another thing my damaged brain struggles to comprehend.

Raiyne leans against the SUV. "He's not the type to hurt anyone."

I straighten to my full height, staring at him. "You did your part. Now stay out of the rest."

He crosses his arms, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something harder. "He doesn't strike me as a killer, Knight."

My hand shoots out, grabbing his throat. I squeeze just enough to make my point. "Say one word about this to anyone, and I'll make sure you never breathe again."

"Zach." Jackson’s tone carries a warning.

I release Raiyne, who winks at me.

Brave little snake.

Jackson looks at him and jerks his head back toward the estate. "Get back inside. Make sure no one asks questions."

Raiyne nods, then looks at Connor with a smirk. "Enjoyed the show?"

Connor's jaw tightens. "Get the fuck out of here."

Raiyne laughs as he walks away .

"What's wrong?" Jackson's grin is pure evil as he closes the liftgate. "Feeling a little sensitive after getting your dick sucked by a Serpent?"

Connor's head snaps toward him. "Fuck off, Reed."

"Hey, no judgment here. I'm dating their captain, remember?" Jackson climbs into the back seat, still grinning. "Though I gotta say, didn't think you swung that way."

"I've got enough shit to deal with without your commentary." Connor slams the door after getting into the back seat opposite of Jackson. “Besides, it was just a blowjob.”

"Keep telling yourself that,” Viktor says as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Guess you’ll be kicking that girlfriend of yours to the curb, huh?”

My friend doesn’t respond verbally, just punches the door panel. Luckily, the conversation dies off.

After I climb into the passenger seat, we pull out of the lot and leave the estate behind us. The leather seats are cool against my skin and the engine purrs with quiet power as we merge onto the highway.

I stare out the window, the city lights blurring past. My reflection is hollow, empty—like every other day. I flex my left hand, trying to work out the numbness that's settled into my fingers .

"Want to tell me what happened in there?" Viktor glances at me before turning his attention back to the road. "Getting the cockroach off wasn't part of the plan."

"Sex is sex. And it served to distract him, giving you a chance to inject the Ketamine into him." My voice is flat, detached. Like always. "Does it matter?"

"It matters when you're acting weird about it."

"Focus on your own relationship issues." The words come out sharper than intended. "Isn't your boyfriend still plotting my demise for what happened with the whips?"

Viktor's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Beckett's not plotting anything. He just doesn't understand you."

Most days, I don't understand myself either. Like tonight. Getting hard from Merci grinding against me—that's just biology. Making him come—that was about control. But the way my skin burns where he scratched me, the way my cock stirs every time I look down at the stains on my clothes . . . That's something I don’t understand.

A soft groan from the trunk catches my attention. The sedative must be wearing off.

"He's going to wake up soon,” Connor says. “Should we dose him again?"

I shake my head. "He can wait until we get to the airfield. "

Jackson leans forward between the seats. "You sure about taking him back to Long Island? Seems risky."

"The flight manifest puts us in Miami." I trace the tattoo on my left hand, the one I got to cover the surgical scars. "It would be too coincidental if his body was ever found."

He snorts, leaning back into the seat. “Yeah, Killian would just love it if I got arrested my senior year. Would blow my chance of playing for the NHL too.”

Connor huffs. “Because you seem so excited to go to Winnipeg.”

Jackson doesn’t respond. He’s been cagey about his career next year. Not that Winnipeg is anyone’s ideal place to move to, but the team is pretty good.

And no one turns downplaying for the NHL if that’s what they want to do, regardless of the team that drafted them.

Releasing a deep breath, I stare out the window again, the Miami skyline blurring past. The lights reflect off the bay, creating a mirror image of the city.

It's beautiful in a way that makes me think of Merci on those silks—all fluid grace and controlled power, body curved like some kind of living art piece. He's no longer the awkward stepbrother who invaded my space. Instead, he’s become someone who commands attention and knows exactly how to use his body as a weapon.

"How’s the hand? Notice you've been flexing it a lot more lately." Viktor's voice is soft, concerned.

"Same as always." I flex my fingers again, the familiar tingling sensation running from my wrist to my fingertips. "Can't feel shit half the time, but I manage."

However, that’s not entirely true. It’s been getting worse. My grip strength has been declining, which is concerning. Hell, the fall itself could’ve paralyzed me, could’ve ended everything.

Instead, I'm left with these . . . imperfections.

These weaknesses.

Because having a traumatic head injury as a kid that left me with brain damage wasn’t enough to deal with.

Despite it all, I managed to come back from it and even became good enough to be drafted by the Senators.

Except everything seems to be unraveling again. And during my senior year no less. My heart thumps a bit faster in my chest. If I can’t fix the issues with my hand, I might as well kiss my NHL future with Ottawa goodbye.

Then I’ll be completely fucking useless.

The airport comes into view. Connor's father's jet waits on the private runway, ready to take us home to where this all ends .

Viktor pulls up to the hangar and kills the engine. Around back, he places a hand on my shoulder as the liftgate opens. "You know I'm here for you. You don't have to hide shit from me."

The words are soft, careful. I know he means them, but they claw at something inside, and I can’t explain why they feel like a weight instead of comfort.

I shrug off his touch. "If my own mother couldn't handle what I became, it's only a matter of time before you leave too. Especially when your precious Beckett doesn’t like me."

Viktor's face hardens, but I turn away before he can respond. I don't need his concern or his loyalty. I don't need anyone.

Right now, I only need to make Merci pay for what he did.

And soon, I'll have exactly that.