Page 17 of Dice & Dekes

I try to make a derisive noise, but my masseuse’s hands hit a huge knot between my shoulders right at that moment, so it comes out as a groan. “Like he wishes he could scrape me off his shoe? Once or twice.”

“Nope, not that look.” Baylor sounds amused. “Never mind. Let’s just enjoy the massage.”

“Actually, let’s not enjoy it too much,” I murmur, lifting my head just enough to glance at the two massage therapists. “Just a reminder—Dante made me sign an NDA. A real scary one. Like, break-your-contract-and-he’ll-make-you-disappear scary.”

The brunette at my side goes stiff. “Oh, we know. He already told us that if any photos or rumors got out, we’d be ‘relocated to Siberia with a lifelong ban from eye contact.’ I think he was joking. I hope he was joking.”

“He wasn’t,” Baylor and I say at the same time.

Over the next two hours, my muscles surrender, but my mind refuses to go quiet. The question keeps looping like a bad pop song I can’t stop humming.

What if he does look at me like I’m something he wants?

Worse—what if he always has, and I just never let myself believe it?

* * *

“Everything okay?” Mom asks.

“Hm?” I keep my eyes locked on the ice, where Viktor and the rest of the Venom are gathered near the bench. We’re waiting just off the rink so Mom can sing the National Anthem. And Viktor—Viktor won’t stop staring at me. Which I know because I’m staring right back.

What is his deal?

Is he undressing me with his eyes? Probably. The perv. He finally got me naked, and now he wants a damn trophy and a slow-motion replay, frame by frame. We haven’t spoken since we woke up married and bare, and even then, he was ogling me like I was his favorite dessert.

“I asked if you’re okay,” Mom repeats gently. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

“Just not feeling chatty, I guess.”

She lays a hand on my arm, and I finally look at her. She’s still beautiful, even pushing sixty, with just a few silver streaks in her hair. Knight and I both favor her—strong jaw, wide-set eyes, the cheekbones that could cut glass. I should be so lucky to age like her.

Right now, though, the laugh lines around her mouth have softened into concern.

“Baby,” she says softly, “you sure? You can talk to me.”

Oh. That’s what this is. She’s worried I’m spiraling again, like I did after my last tour—quiet in a way that scared her and Dad both.

“I’m fine, Mom. Just tired from work.” I shift my weight. “Had an engagement. Five thousand feet up.”

Her face relaxes, and she bumps her shoulder against mine. “And from the party the other night, no doubt. What time did you get home? I was up late, didn’t hear your car come up the driveway.”

“Didn’t.” I duck my head. “Got a hotel room. I was pretty drunk.”

She beams like I told her I just won a humanitarian award. “That’s my responsible girl.”

Normally, this is when I’d snap that I’m not a girl, that I’m a grown-ass woman who’s faced live fire and crash landings and misogynistic air traffic controllers. But… I did get drunk. And married. And quite possibly used his enormous hands for deeply inappropriate purposes—with his full cooperation, I might add.

So instead, I just let her think whatever she wants. And I look back toward the bench where Viktor’s still watching me. That same steady, unreadable gaze like I’m a puzzle he’s finally figured out but isn’t sure if he wants to solve.

God, I hate that I notice.

Worse? I hate that he looks good.

All suited up in his pads and jersey, curls damp with sweat, chest rising with every deep inhale like he’s holding back a war cry. He’s every fantasy I ever had—before I learned that boys like Viktor don’t stay. They flirt, they flash those devastating dimples, and they wreck you. Then they walk off whistling, never looking back.

And if you’re lucky, they only break your heart once.

But still—he looks like him. The boy who held my hair when I drank too much at my first house party. Who taught me how to throw a punch and kissed my knuckles afterward like he was proud of the damage I could do.

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