Page 18 of The Pucking Date (Defenders Diaries #3)

CHECK IN AND CHECKMATE

FINN

T he plane hums beneath us, four hours into a westbound flight that’s supposed to feel routine.

It doesn’t.

Jessica’s one row ahead, aisle seat, posture perfect. She’s reading—hardcover, black dust jacket, white lettering. I shift just enough to catch the title: The Power .

Of course. Right up there with The Three-Body Problem . A little chaos. A little vengeance. Classic Novak.

I wait a beat. Then slide into the empty seat beside her. She doesn’t look up. Turns the page, but her knuckles go white against the spine.

“No brother tagging along this time?”

“Nope.” Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight rasp.

“Daddy staying home too?”

“Mmhmm.”

I lean in, brushing my shoulder against hers and catching that intoxicating vanilla of her perfume. “So it’s just the two of us. Unsupervised.”

That gets her. Her eyes snap up to mine, pupils blown wide—pupils that tell me she’s been thinking about me. A flush creeps up her throat like spilled wine, and I want to follow it with my tongue.

“Do you always make yourself at home mid-flight?”

“Only when the company makes it impossible to stay away.”

She doesn’t smile. But she doesn’t shut me down either. And she doesn’t move away from the heat radiating between us.

“ The Power ,” I say, letting my fingers drift across the armrest until they’re a whisper away from hers.

A nod. Page turn. But her breathing’s changed.

“Planning on electrocuting someone this week?”

“Depends. You volunteering?” She glances over, and there it is, that spark of interest she can’t quite hide. “You read it?”

“I did.” My gaze drops to her mouth, lingers on her bottom lip before dragging back up. “But I think the author missed something.”

She shifts toward me, the movement pressing her knee against mine. “Are we doing a book club now?”

I ignore the jab. “I don’t get why the author stops where she does.”

“How so?”

“If you had that kind of power…” I let my knuckles brush hers, electricity crackling at the contact, “why waste it on pain?”

She tilts her head, and I catch the flutter of her pulse at her throat. “What would you do with it instead?”

I lean in until my lips are nearly touching her ear, my voice dropping to gravel and sin. Her breath hitches—sharp, audible. The flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress, and I want to follow it with my tongue .

“I wouldn’t just take the power,” I purr, my voice rough with want. “I’d make them ache to give it. Every inch. Every sound. Every part they swore they’d hold back.”

Her fingers tremble on the book.

“See, real power isn’t about taking. It’s about making someone want to give,” I rasp, letting my breath ghost across her skin, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. “About creating such perfect trust that surrender becomes a gift instead of a defeat.”

She’s breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that makes my blood burn.

“You know what I think, Red?” I let my thumb trace across her wrist, feeling her pulse hammering wild and desperate. “You don’t want safe. You want someone who knows exactly when to hold you down—and exactly when to let you fly.”

Her eyes flutter closed at the contact, a soft sound escaping her lips.

“I remember,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper, “how you came apart in my hands. How you said my name like it was the only word you knew. How you gave me everything. And then begged for more.”

Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, not to stop me, but to anchor herself against the storm I’m building inside her.

“Finn—” My name comes out broken, desperate.

“And I know you remember too,” I murmur, bringing our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her racing pulse. “How good it felt to finally let someone strong enough handle your current.”

For a heartbeat, we stay frozen like that, her pulse wild under my lips, electricity crackling between us .

Then I release her hand and stand, straightening my shirt like I haven’t just set us both on fire.

“Enjoy your book, Red.”

I return to my seat, leaving her there, flushed, breathless, and completely undone.

She doesn’t pick up the book again for the rest of the flight.

Because I rewired the whole damn story.

Four hours later, we touch down in Salt Lake City.

The air hits different here—thinner, crisper, sharp with the promise of mountain snow.

By the time we pull into Park City, the sun’s starting to dip behind the mountains.

Long shadows stretch across the pines and asphalt, and the resort glows in the golden sunlight.

The lobby gleams with glass, stone, and leather—minimalist, expensive, touched with a curated warmth only money brings. Fireplaces flicker inside sleek hearths, and the check-in desk commands the space, all heavy mahogany and quiet authority.

Jessica strides in. Polish and power. Navy silk dress fitted at the waist, whispering around her thighs with every step.

High neckline, sleeveless, enough dip in the back to make a man forget what he was saying.

Her heels are red and high. Unapologetic.

Her hair’s pinned up in a slick knot that makes it impossible not to stare.

And behind her, her black carry-on rolls in silence.

She doesn’t look at me.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel me watching. And yeah, I’m watching.

Because I know how she shatters. I know how she melts when she stops pretending she doesn’t want me. And all I can think about is peeling away that perfect composure layer by layer.

That’s when Chad Vanderbilt materializes from the shadows near the concierge desk, polished, predatory, and radiating the kind of intent you only recognize once it’s too late. The fine print in human form.

“Jess,” he drawls, smooth teeth and expensive charm. His gaze slides over her like he’s appraising property, lingering on the curve of her waist, the length of her legs, the way her dress falls over her body.

My jaw locks. Hard.

He’s the kind of man who learned etiquette before empathy—smooth manners to your face, and a knife already sliding into your back.

Polished to perfection, every ounce of charm engineered to distract from the rot underneath.

And he’s looking at her like she’s still his.

The familiarity in his stare, the possessive sweep of his eyes, it hits me like a body check to the ribs.

Every muscle in my body coils tight. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Even though she’s not mine yet, the way this bastard’s drinking her in makes something primal and violent claw up my throat.

“Chad,” she says, voice cool as winter, but I catch the slight stiffening of her shoulders. The way she unconsciously shifts in my direction.

He doesn’t notice. Too busy cataloging every inch of her like he’s got permanent viewing rights.

“You look...” He pauses, his predatory smile spreading wider. “Incredible. That dress… Christ, Jess. You always did know how to make a man forget his manners.”

The words drip with intimacy. With the kind of casual ownership that makes my vision go red around the edges .

Jessica’s smile doesn’t waver. But when she speaks, her voice is glacial and controlled.

“And you always did confuse proximity with permission, Chad.”

The words land clean and sharp, and something primal flares in my chest. A slow burn at first. Then full-blown, blistering want.

She’s not giving him an inch. Doesn’t need backup, she’s already got him bleeding. But I still step in, close enough to shadow her, close enough to make it clear.

If he wants anything else, he’ll have to go through me.

Chad’s eyes flick to me, finally registering the threat. His smile falters for a second before sliding back into place. “O’Reilly,” he says, smiling his signature fake smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

I offer a small, sharp nod. “And yet, look at that. The universe has a sense of humor.”

Chad Vanderbilt isn’t some random suit sniffing around. He’s the heir to Vanderbilt Finance, the sleek little empire that manages athlete money, massages egos, and makes a killing branding athletes.

Not me, though.

I don’t trust anyone who smiles that much while playing with other people’s millions.

He sells strategy like it’s silk—smooth, bespoke, impossible to question. But underneath all that gloss, it’s about control. Power wrapped in partnership. Sleaze in a suit.

And right now, he’s looking at Jessica like she’s still a line item in his portfolio.

Last I checked, he left her for someone else. A glossier arm piece. A socialite fiancée with a better pedigree. But the way he’s smoothing his voice when he says her name doesn’t exactly scream “taken. ”

His gaze drifts between us—me, her—slow and clinical. Calculating where to cut.

“Just here supporting the league’s rising stars,” he says crisply. “Helping a few of our guys navigate the summit, position for brand synergy, strategic alignment...you know.”

Jessica’s knuckles tighten on her purse. Barely. But I see it.

“Some of us manage fine without a handler,” I drawl, taking a step toward Jessica, making my presence unmistakable.

His smile wobbles. “I’ll see you two around,” he says, and turns. He knows when retreat is in order.

Jessica exhales a slow breath. Not relief, exactly. More like recalibration. We check in side by side, our elbows nearly brushing, not speaking.

Until I glance at her and say, “It’s always some guy hovering, isn’t it?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

“Just an observation.” I shrug, grabbing my room key. “Your dad. Your brother. Now your ex.”

I glance at her again, letting my smile linger. “Feels like you’ve got a whole rotation of men whose full-time job is to keep me away from you.”

She snorts. “You’re perfectly capable of ignoring boundaries all on your own.”

“Maybe. But I’ve been so good, Red.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, cool, curious. “Is that right?”

“Way too good,” I nod, letting my tone drop. “That ends here.”