Page 77 of Penn

Tomorrow, he’ll be out of town.

Jace will finally show his hand.

And I’ll be ready.

Kynan and Penn chat for a few more minutes, mostly about the security agents who will be guarding us until this is all resolved. I don’t dare look at Malik as he silently listens, afraid that Penn might see the truth of what I’ve put into motion in my expression.

When they’re gone, Penn pulls me into his arms and gives me a long hug. “Thank you for agreeing with me on this,” he whispers.

“Of course,” I manage, and the guilt almost buckles my knees. I know this is no way to foster a healthy, trusting relationship, but I also know Penn won’t listen to reason. I know that we will not come to an agreement on this.

I have to trust my gut that I’m doing the right thing for both of us and can only hope that Penn will forgive me when it’s all said and done.

CHAPTER 27

Penn

The bed feelstoo empty.

Which is ridiculous considering I fell asleep with Mila tucked against me, her body soft and warm in my arms like it belonged there. Like she’s belonged here all along.

But now? Cold sheets. Quiet house.

Something’s not right.

I push up, scrub a hand over my face, and glance at the clock. Early—barely five thirty. We’ve got wheels up for Chicago in a few hours, and I was hoping for one last morning with her curled against me before I had to go be a hockey player instead of… whatever the hell I am now.

A man wrecked over a woman, apparently.

I get up, pull on a pair of sweats, and start moving through the house. It doesn’t take long before I see the faint glow of a bathroom light spilling under the door of the guest bathroom. The softest sound comes next—water running, then the unmistakable scrape of someone shifting against the tile floor.

My gut twists as I knock lightly. “Mila?”

Her response is faint. “In here.”

I push the door open and find her lying on the floor by the toilet, knees drawn up, a towel bundled under her head. She looks pale. Clammy. And so damn small.

“What the hell?” I crouch beside her, my hand instinctively going to her forehead. Cool. No fever. But her skin has that too-pale look I don’t like one bit.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she whispers, wincing. “I’ve been sick all night.”

Guilt hits me hard. “Jesus, Mila. You should’ve gotten me up.”

She manages a weak smile. “You’ve got a game and needed sleep. I didn’t want to wake you with my vomiting, so I came in here instead of your bathroom.”

That’s incredibly sweet and stupid at the same time, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I slide an arm under her knees and another behind her back. She doesn’t protest when I lift her off the floor, which tells me all I need to know about how shitty she feels.

I carry her straight back to our bed while her arms wrap around my neck and her head rests on my shoulder.

“You’re not going to Chicago like this,” I say firmly, lying her down and pulling the comforter over her.

“I’ll be fine,” she murmurs, trying for a smile but not really pulling it off. “I think it might be food poisoning or something.”

“Bad shrimp,” I mutter, because that’s what she had for dinner. Fucking scampi. I shake my head, already running through options. I glance at my watch. “You need to see a doctor. Maybe we can get you in and out of an urgent care—”

She reaches for my wrist, her fingers cool against my skin. “I don’t need a doctor. I need sleep. Maybe some ginger ale and crackers.”

I hesitate. Every instinct is screaming at me that something else needs to be done. I’ve never had to care for someone like this and I’m frustrated that I’ve got to leave for Chicago soon. Could I miss the game?

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