Page 69 of Penalty Kiss
"You don't have to go anywhere," he says firmly. "This is just paper and fabric. It can't make you do anything."
"You don't understand." I pull away from his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. "He doesn't just ask. He orchestrates. Manipulates. He'll make staying here impossible, make the people I care about—"
I stop myself before I can finish that thought, but Cam catches it anyway. And it hangs between us, heavy with implication.
“This is a power move,” I say, voice thin. “He’s showing me he can reach me anywhere. Make me feel small.”
I can't breathe.
Cam doesn’t hesitate. He takes the scarf, shoves it back in the box, and pushes it across the counter like it’s vile.
"Then we get rid of it," he says simply. “We don’t preserve it, we don’t admire it—we destroy it.”
"It's not that easy—"
"It's exactly that easy, darling." He cups my face again, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're not seventeen anymore, sitting in a library planning your escape. You escaped. You built something real here."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "And I'm not going to let anyone—not your father, not your cousin, not anyone—take that away from you."
The conviction in his voice makes my chest tight. Few days ago, this man was a cocky hockey player with a concussion. Now he's my anchor in a storm I didn't see coming.
"What if he makes things difficult for you? For the town?"
"Let him try." Cam's smile is sharp, predatory. "I've been hit by guys twice his size moving twice as fast. Your daddy doesn't scare me."
I want to believe him. I want to sink into his confidence and let him handle everything. But I know my father in ways Cam doesn't. Julien Delacroix doesn't fight fair, and he doesn't fight clean.
"Cam—"
"Nope." He silences me with a quick, hard kiss. "No spiraling. No catastrophizing. We deal with this together, remember?"
The kiss makes me feel steadier. Not safe—I'm not sure I'll ever feel truly safe—but steadier.
"What do you want to do with it?" he asks, nodding toward the box.
I look at the elegant packaging, the expensive ribbon, the weight of expectation wrapped in silk.
"I want to burn it," I say, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice.
Cam's grin is fierce, approving. "Now you're talking."
The scarf is just the opening move in a game my father has been playing for decades.
And somewhere out there, Lucien is making his own moves, for reasons I'm only starting to understand. His chaos wrapped in charm and violence.
The thought makes me shiver and Cam notices immediately, pulling me closer.
My phone buzzes against my hip. A text from yet another unknown number.Your father sends gifts. I send warnings. Careful, cousin—loose lips sink more than ships.
I hand Cam the phone before my nerves can betray me. He scans the message, lips pressing into a grim line, then exhales with a dry laugh.
“Figures. Your father plays empire-builder, Lucien plays wrecking ball. Different playbooks, same obsession with power.”
His eyes sharpen, the flash of a defenseman spotting an opening on the ice. “They might chase the same prize, but they’ll undercut each other getting to it. All we have to do is keep them skating into each other’s lanes.”
The casual observation shouldn’t feel like strategy. But it does. Because he’s right. Julien and Lucien will trip each other up trying to reach me. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like doom—it feels like possibility.
Cam’s hand brushes mine, and suddenly I don’t feel hunted. I feel like a player with the puck on my stick.
