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Chapter twenty-seven

Katarina

T he limo's too quiet.

It should feel luxurious. Classy. Private. But all it feels like is pressure—thick and mocking.

Liam and I sit on opposite sides of the leather bench, tension wound tight between us like a live wire we’re both too afraid to touch.

The kiss still burns on my lips. I haven’t looked at him since.

I want to pretend the whole night didn’t happen. The red carpet. The tight smiles. The way that woman reduced me to nothing with a single word: polished.

Like I was a smudge on Liam’s otherwise pristine image.

I’m used to being overlooked. Being the little sister. The one who blends into the backdrop while the real stars take center stage.

But something about hearing it while standing beside him—after everything—made it land different.

Like it was true.

Liam’s jaw is still locked tight, shadowed in the streetlights slicing through the tinted windows. He hasn’t said a word since we stepped into the car. But I keep glancing. Like I’m checking to see if he’s still there. If he’s real. If any of this is.

And I hate that I want him to speak first. That I want him to tell me none of it matters.

That I’m enough.

That I’m his.

But I already had all of him—for one night, behind a rhinestone silk mask.

And I didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

It’s soft. Embarrassingly small.

“I know this isn’t what you signed up for.”

He doesn’t react.

No sound. No sigh. No look.

I push through the silence, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel right here in this dress.

“I mean… did you see the other women tonight?”

I laugh—hollow and sharp.

“They’re the kind of women guys like you end up with. They glide. They fit. They don’t screw up press events or say the wrong thing or hide behind lipstick like armor.”

I pause.

“They’d make your life easier,” I say, and then gesture at myself like a punchline. “Not... this.”

The words hang there like fog, thick and impossible to see through.

Then his hand is on my jaw. Steady. Warm.

And when he turns my face to his, I let him.

Because I’ve never known how to say no to Liam Steele.

Not then. Not now.

When his mouth crashes into mine—I forget how to breathe.

This isn’t sweet.

This isn’t patient.

This is him unmaking me—ripping through every shield I’ve put up since the night I let a stranger pull me apart with his mouth and call me greedy.

But he isn’t a stranger.

He never was...and I’ve been pretending otherwise for too long.

He pulls back, breath ragged, his cheek brushing mine.

“I don’t want a woman who fits into a picture, Kat,” he says. “I want you.”

I flinch.

Not because I don’t want him to say it.

But because I do.

Too much.

“But this isn’t real,” I whisper. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. There’s no one watching.”

“No?” he asks.

I should tell him.

Right now.

Before this goes any further.

Before I forget my name again and let him touch me like I’m his to keep.

Before this turns into something I can’t claw back from.

That I’m not some mystery.

Not a maybe.

That I’m the girl from the masked play party—the one he dragged off the edge on shaking knees with nothing but filthy promises and a hand on my throat.

But I don’t.

Because I didn’t know his name then.

And I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out now.

What happens if this blows up in my face?

If it gets out—if word slips to the wrong locker room, or a teammate overhears something they shouldn’t?

I stop being the team nutritionist.

I become Griffin Novak’s little sister.

The puck bunny who blew a rookie in a black-tie sex den—then showed up on payroll.

Doesn’t matter that I earned this job.

That I worked my ass off to make it out from under my brother’s shadow.

Doesn’t matter what degrees or certifications. One secret in the wrong hands... one fucking detail—and I’m not a qualified expert anymore.

I’m not enough.

Just another woman who fucked her way into the building.

So, no.

I don’t tell him.

I kiss him back instead. Like he’s new. Like he hasn’t already had every inch of me.

Even though he’s the only one who’s ever made me want to fall apart.

Even though I’ve been thinking about that night every time his voice drops below a whisper.

I don’t tell him.

Because if I do—

If I hand him this truth—

I might lose the only thing I built without anyone’s permission....And I’m not sure I can survive that. He kisses me again. Soft. Intentional.

Like he’s not trying to prove something—just say something. I kiss him back. Because I don’t know how not to.

Somewhere outside this tinted glass cocoon, The Bay’s still buzzing. People are still snapping photos. Still drawing headlines. Still asking questions neither of us is ready to answer.

But in here? It’s just him. Just me. Just this moment I’m not supposed to want.

His lip's part mine with a kind of savage need that makes my chest cave in. And when his hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, I don’t resist. I fold.

I let it happen. All of it.

Because if I think too hard, I’ll remember I’m lying.

If I speak, I’ll say something true.

And truth is dangerous.

So instead, I climb onto his lap. My dress rides up and my conscience shuts the hell down.

His fists twist in the fabric. My thighs part without hesitation, like they know him.

They do.

“Liam,” I breathe, as his hand trails over my skin. “We should stop.”

He groans into my mouth, like the idea alone physically hurts him.

But he doesn’t stop.

His thumb drags slow and lazy creeping between my thigh and my breath gets caught in my chest. His mouth finds mine again—no patience. No pause.

Just want, sharp and reckless. And I swear I could live inside this moment and never want for anything else. He hisses—his fingers slide beneath my panties and find the truth.

“Fuck. You’re soaked for me.”

I don’t answer. Honestly, what words could capture this?

That I’ve been dripping for him in secret, soaking through panties and fantasies for weeks?

That every filthy thought, every ache between my legs, spirals back to that night—his hands, his mouth—his thick cock burning me alive in a haze of sin I still crave?

That I’m drowning in the memory of his touch, begging silently in the dark while pretending I’m cold?

That every time he so much as looked at me with that cocky, careless grin, I remembered exactly what his fingers felt like, what his mouth did to me?

Instead, I shut my mouth tight and kiss him harder, swallowing every shameless confession I can’t dare say aloud.

His fingers press inside me—one first, slow and deliberate. Then another, curling just right, squelching in and out like he already knows what my body wants before I ask for it.

“Greedy little thing,” he whispers, his mouth grazing my ear. “How many fingers does my girl need?”

That voice. That tone.

It slams me straight back to that night, masked — to the ache that split me wide open for a stranger I never forgot. “Yes,” I moan, hips grinding down against his hand.

“More.”

“I’ll give you more, sweetheart... Let go for me... That’s a good girl.” His laugh is low, dark—completely feral. “You’re perfect for this cock.” “And — whoever the hell she thinks she is—she thought I’d want her instead.” His fingers curl and his thumb circles my clit faster.

“She’s wrong.”

I’m gone. Melting. Folding in on myself.

“Walk away from this?” He growls. “From you. You know why she was wrong?”

I grip his hair, helpless. The orgasm is already building in my spine like a tidal wave I can't outrun.

“Why?” I rasp.

He looks up at me, pupils blown wide, mouth slick from every kiss I keep giving him.

“Because you’re mine.”

That’s it.

That’s the line that tears me to shreds, unraveling me bit by bit.

My entire body seizes—cunt clenched, spine bowed, throat catching on the sob that rips out of me as the orgasm crashes through.

I fall into him.

Shaking. Spent. Silent.

And when I finally breathe again, I don’t feel cheap. I don’t feel stupid. I don’t feel used.

I feel wanted. Claimed.

Kept.

And God help me—

I let it happen.

Liam’s mouth is on mine again, and I let myself drown. In the kiss. The warmth. The lie.

My phone buzzes.

Once.

Then again.

I groan and reach blindly into my clutch. I’m half-tempted to ignore it, but when I see the text lighting up on my screen, everything inside me ices over.

Griffin.

I swipe the screen open, already bracing for the worst.

Saw the post Aurora shared.

Let me guess…that bastard played you and now you’re fucking him?

I’m gonna rip that motherfucker’s head off.

My breath punches out of me in one hard, shuddering exhale.

I blink. Read it again. It doesn’t change.

“Kat?” Liam’s voice cuts through the fog. “You okay?”

He knows.

Or at least—he thinks he does. And with Griffin? That’s enough.

“Kat?” Liam’s voice is low, concerned. “What is it?”

I can’t even look at him. I’m gripping the phone like it might disintegrate in my hand.

Griffin, who’s never been just my brother—he’s my protector, my shadow, the steel I hide behind… and my biggest oppressor.

How will he look at me now?

Not as a woman in love.

Not as someone who finally reached for something that made her feel whole.

No—he’ll see me as the weak little sister who got duped by his enemy.

And Liam?

He won’t just be the guy I fell for.

He’ll be a target.

Of my brother’s rage.

Of the league’s gossip.

Of every single headline just waiting to explode.

“Kat,” Liam says again, touching my knee.

I finally meet his eyes.

“He knows,” I whisper. “And he’s coming for you.”

The silence that follows is loaded, electric.

And I realize in that moment—we’re not just playing with fire.

We’re already burning. And this time, I’m not sure either of us would survive the blaze.