Ottawa, 1996

Shane wakes up to the smell of pancakes and his mother’s voice singing something soft in Japanese. He’s five years old today, and the September sunlight streams through his bedroom window, catching on the hockey posters he’s already plastered across his walls.

He tumbles down the stairs, still in his Centaurs pajamas, and finds his dad waiting in the kitchen with a grin that stretches his whole face.

“Happy birthday, buddy.”

There’s a package leaning against the kitchen table, wrapped in newspaper comics because his mom always says wrapping paper is wasteful. Shane knows what it is before he even tears through the paper — the shape is unmistakable.

His first real hockey stick.

“It’s a Gretzky,” his dad says, crouching down beside him. “Junior size. What do you say we take it to the rink this afternoon?”

Shane nods so hard his whole body moves. His hands are already wrapped around the shaft, feeling the tape his dad put on the blade. It smells like rubber and possibility.

His mom sets down a plate of pancakes with a candle stuck in the middle. “Make a wish, Shaney.”

He closes his eyes. I want to play in the NHL.

Moscow, 1996

Ilya doesn’t wake up gradually. His father’s hand shakes his shoulder hard, and suddenly he’s blinking in the grey Moscow dawn, confused and half-dreaming.

“Get dressed,” his father says in Russian. “We have something important to do today.”

It’s his birthday, but birthdays in the Rozanov household aren’t the same as other children’s birthdays. There are no balloons, no cake from the bakery on Tverskaya Street. His mother stopped trying to make them festive years ago.

They drive for nearly an hour, his father’s Mercedes cutting through Moscow traffic with the same ruthless efficiency Grigori Rozanov applies to everything. Ilya sits in the back, watching the city blur past, his stomach tight with something that might be anticipation or might be dread.

The shooting range is underground, accessed through what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Men nod at his father as they pass, their eyes sliding over Ilya with assessment.

“You’re five years old now,” his father says, leading him into a room that smells like gunpowder and oil. “Old enough to understand what we are. What you will become.”

On the table sits a Makarov pistol, smaller than his father’s usual weapon. Modified, Ilya will learn later, for smaller hands.

“This is your gift.”

Ilya stares at the gun. The metal catches the fluorescent light, cold and certain.

“Pick it up,” his father orders.

The weight surprises him. Heavier than he expected, but not impossibly so. His father’s hand covers his, adjusting his grip, guiding his finger to rest along the side of the trigger guard.

“Never on the trigger until you’re ready to kill,” his father says. “Do you understand?”

Ilya nods. He’s five years old, and he understands exactly what his father is telling him. There’s no room in the Bratva for children who don’t understand.

Ottawa, 2006

Shane is fifteen and still doesn’t understand why kissing Miranda Watson feels like a performance. They’re at Adam Sanderson’s house party, in the basement that smells like Axe body spray and stolen beer, and everyone keeps looking at them expectantly.

“Are you gonna kiss her or what?” Adam shouts over the music.

Miranda leans in, and Shane meets her halfway because that’s what he’s supposed to do. Her lip gloss tastes like artificial strawberries. Her mouth is soft and eager and everything every guy at school won’t shut up about wanting.

Shane pulls back first. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” Miranda breathes, her cheeks pink. “Really nice.”

It’s a lie. Not the kiss itself — that was fine, technically adequate — but the whole thing feels wrong in a way Shane can’t articulate. Like he’s reading lines in a play he didn’t audition for.

Later, in Adam’s bathroom, he splashes water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror. He thinks about the locker room after practice, the way his eyes sometimes catch on bare skin and muscle before he forces himself to look away. The hot, shameful flush that follows. The way he has to think about homework or his grandmother or anything else to make it stop mattering.

He dries his face and goes back downstairs. Adam high-fives him. Miranda smiles shyly from across the room.

Shane smiles back and feels nothing.

Moscow, 2006

The woman his father hired is probably twenty-five, though she tells Ilya she’s twenty. She has dark hair and darker eyes and a practiced smile that doesn’t reach anywhere real.

“Fifteen,” she says in Russian, closing the hotel room door behind them. “Your father’s idea?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice hasn’t fully dropped yet. It cracks on the single syllable, and he hates himself for it.

She softens slightly, some genuine emotion flickering across her professional mask. “First time?”

He nods.

“It’s okay. I’ll make it good for you. Or at least, I’ll make it easy.”

But easy isn’t the word Ilya would use afterward. Clinical, maybe. Necessary, definitely. His father believes that sex is like violence — better to learn it controlled, taught, managed. Better a prostitute who knows what she’s doing than some fumbling teenage mistake.

Ilya lies in the hotel bed afterward, staring at the water-stained ceiling while the woman showers. He doesn’t feel like a man. He doesn’t feel transformed or initiated or whatever his father expected.

He feels empty.

When she emerges, dressed again, she pauses by the door. “Your father paid for the whole night if you want-”

“No,” Ilya says. “Thank you, but no.”

She studies him for a moment, and something like pity crosses her face. “Good luck, malchik.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Ilya is alone with the knowledge that this is what his life will be. Transactions. Power. Control. Everything measured and calculated, nothing left to chance or feeling.

He gets dressed and goes home. His father asks no questions, just nods with approval at whatever he sees in Ilya’s face.

Ottawa, 2007

The phone call comes in April, during dinner. Shane’s dad answers it, then goes very still in that way that makes Shane’s stomach drop.

“When?” His dad asks. Then: “Right. Of course. Thank you.”

He hangs up and looks at Shane with an expression caught between pride and grief.

“You were drafted,” his mother says. It’s not a question.

“Kingston,” his dad confirms. “First round, second overall. OHL.”

Shane’s fork clatters against his plate. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” his mom says automatically, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright with tears.

The reality settles over dinner like snow, quiet and inevitable. Shane is sixteen years old, and his childhood is over. In September, he’ll move to Kingston to live with a family he’s never met, to play hockey at a level that will either make him or break him.

“We’re so proud of you,” his dad says, and Shane believes him, but he also sees the way his parents look at each other across the table. The silent conversation about losing their son to his dream.

That night, Shane lies in his bedroom and tries to imagine living somewhere else. Waking up in a stranger’s house, eating breakfast with a family that isn’t his, belonging nowhere completely.

His mom knocks softly and comes in without waiting for an answer. She sits on the edge of his bed like she used to when he was little and had nightmares.

“Scared?” She asks in Japanese.

“Terrified,” he admits in the same language.

She smooths his hair back from his forehead. “You’re going to be wonderful. You’re going to be exactly who you’re meant to be.”

Shane wants to ask her who that is, but he’s afraid she doesn’t know either.

Brooklyn, 2007

Ilya’s father doesn’t ask if he wants to go to America. The conversation happens in his father’s study, late at night, after some business that left blood on Grigori’s shirt cuffs.

“Sergei is getting old,” his father says, pouring himself vodka from a crystal decanter. “The North American operations need younger leadership. You’re sixteen now. Time to learn how we operate outside Russia.”

“When?” Ilya asks.

“Two weeks.”

Just like that. Ilya has two weeks to say goodbye to Moscow, to everything he’s ever known, to the calculated brutality of his father’s empire in its country of origin.

His mother cries when he tells her, which surprises him. She so rarely shows emotion anymore, worn down by years of being married to Grigori Rozanov, of looking the other way and keeping silent.

“You’re so young,” she whispers in Russian, holding his face between her hands.

“I’m ready,” Ilya says, and means it. Maybe in America, away from his father’s direct shadow, he can figure out what kind of man he wants to be. Or at least, what kind of Bratva leader he has to become.

His father sends him with Viktor, a scar-faced lieutenant who speaks maybe fifty words of English and trusts nobody. They fly first class to JFK, and Ilya watches Russia disappear beneath clouds and distance.

Brooklyn is nothing like Moscow. The Bratva headquarters in Brighton Beach is smaller, grittier, more desperate. Sergei Grishuk greets them with the kind of embrace that checks for weapons, his eyes calculating even as he smiles.

“Grisha’s boy,” he says in Russian. “You have your father’s eyes.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says, though he’s not sure it’s a compliment.

They set him up in an apartment above a restaurant the Bratva owns. It’s small but clean, and at night, Ilya can hear the ocean, which is something. He enrolls in an American high school — his father insists on maintaining appearances — and starts learning how to blend in while standing out, how to be feared without being obvious.

It’s a different kind of education than his classmates are getting.

On his first day at James Madison High School, a guidance counselor with tired eyes and coffee breath asks him about his interests.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, Ilya?”

The honest answer — the head of the Russian bratva in North America — probably isn’t appropriate.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he says in careful English.

She smiles like she believes him.

Kingston, 2007

The Harrington family is nice. Too nice, maybe, in that aggressive Canadian way that makes Shane feel like he’s constantly disappointing them just by existing.

“Make yourself at home,” Paula Harrington says, showing him to his new bedroom. It’s clean and generic, with a single bed and a desk and nothing that makes it his. “Dinner’s at six. We’re pretty casual, but we do eat together as a family.”

“Sounds great,” Shane says, trying to mean it.

Their actual son, Drew, is fourteen and clearly resentful about having to share his house with a hockey player. Their daughter, Mia, is twelve and barely looks up from her phone when Shane is introduced.

That first dinner is awkward in a way that will become familiar. Shane doesn’t know what to talk about, doesn’t know if he should help clear the table or stay seated, doesn’t know if the way Tom Harrington watches him is protective or evaluative.

“So,” Tom says, cutting into his pork chop with precision. “Big season ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“OHL is serious hockey. You ready for that level of commitment?”

Shane thinks about every early morning practice, every summer spent in training instead of at the beach, every time he chose hockey over friends or parties or anything that normal kids do.

“I’m ready.”

Tom nods slowly. “Good. Because a lot of boys wash out at this level. The ones who make it are the ones who want it more than anything.”

The pressure sits heavy on Shane’s chest. He excuses himself right after dinner and calls his parents from his new bedroom, his voice small.

“It’s only been one day,” his mom says gently. “Give it time.”

But time doesn’t make it easier. Time makes him better at hockey and worse at everything else. He learns to live in-between, belonging fully nowhere — not in the Harrington house, not quite on the team yet, not in his own skin.

His billet brother asks him once, after a team party, “Do you even like girls?”

Shane’s heart stops. “What?”

“You just never … I don’t know, man. You’re weird about it.”

“I like girls,” Shane says, too quickly, too defensive.

Drew shrugs. “If you say so.”

Shane lies awake that night, staring at the ceiling of his not-quite bedroom, and wonders if everyone can see what he’s trying so hard to hide.

Brooklyn, 2007

Ilya learns English by watching American movies and listening to how his classmates talk. He learns the Bratva business by watching Sergei and asking questions his father taught him to ask.

“Why do we use this supplier?”

“What leverage do we have over the dock workers?”

“How much does the police captain cost?”

Sergei appreciates his curiosity in a way his father never did. “You’re smart,” he tells Ilya one night, after they’ve collected tribute from a restaurant in Sheepshead Bay. “Smarter than Viktor. Maybe smarter than your father, though don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t.”

“Your father was always muscle first, brain second. But you … you think. That’s good. That’s what this organization needs in America.”

At school, Ilya is careful to be unremarkable. He does well enough to avoid attention, poorly enough to seem normal. He doesn’t join clubs or sports teams. He eats lunch alone and does his homework in the library and perfects the art of being invisible.

But one day, in the cafeteria, a kid named Dylan decides that Ilya’s quietness is weakness.

“Hey, Russian,” Dylan calls across the lunch room. “Why don’t you go back to Moscow?”

Ilya looks up from his food. Around them, conversations quiet. Everyone loves a spectacle.

“I’m eating,” Ilya says mildly.

“You’re eating here. In America. Maybe you didn’t hear me: go back to Russia.”

Ilya stands slowly. He’s tall for sixteen, and the last year with Viktor has taught him how to move like violence might happen at any moment.

“Sit down,” Ilya says softly. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Dylan is bigger, louder, more American. He’s also stupid enough to swing first.

The fight is over in seconds. Ilya doesn’t need to pull a knife or throw multiple punches. He needs to move exactly right, fast and economical, and suddenly Dylan is on the floor with a broken nose, blood sheeting down his face.

The cafeteria erupts. Teachers rush over. Ilya is dragged to the principal’s office, where he sits calmly while Dylan is taken to the nurse.

“We have a zero-tolerance policy on violence,” Principal O’Keefe says.

“He swung first,” Ilya points out. “I was defending myself.”

She sighs, looking at Ilya like she can see straight through to everything he is. “I’m going to have to call your guardian.”

“Please do.”

Sergei arrives twenty minutes later, all concerned guardian concern, speaking in heavily accented English about how Ilya is a good boy, how he’s been bullied before, how he’s just defending himself.

Money changes hands, quietly. Dylan’s family receives a generous settlement for his medical bills. The incident is smoothed over, forgotten, erased.

In the car afterward, Sergei lights a cigarette and laughs. “Your father will be proud. But maybe next time, try not to make such a mess at school.”

“I’ll try,” Ilya says.

But he won’t. Because the Bratva doesn’t apologize, doesn’t back down, doesn’t let anyone think for even a moment that they’re weak.

It’s the first lesson Ilya really internalizes in America: power is everything, and perception is power.

Kingston, 2008

Shane’s second season in the OHL is when everything clicks. His body catches up to his ambitions. His skating gets faster, his shot more accurate, his hockey sense developing into something almost supernatural.

The scouts start showing up. Shane can feel their eyes on him during games, can sense their evaluation in every shift he takes. His coach pulls him aside after practice one day in January.

“You keep playing like this, you’re going first overall in the draft,” Coach Roy says. “You understand what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not sure you do.” Roy crosses his arms, studying Shane with an intensity that makes him want to squirm. “Every mistake you make from now on, every party you go to, every person you date — it all matters. You’ll be under a microscope. Can you handle that?”

Shane thinks about Miranda Watson and the lingering wrongness of that kiss. He thinks about Drew’s casual question and the fear that lives permanent in his chest. He thinks about all the things he can never say, never be, never want out loud.

“I can handle it.”

“Good. Because kid, you’ve got a real shot at something special.”

Special. The word follows Shane through the rest of the season, through the playoffs where Kingston makes it to the finals, through the summer where he trains harder than ever before.

His parents visit when they can, but Ottawa feels increasingly distant. The Harrington house is still not home, but it’s become familiar — a way station between who Shane was and who he’s becoming.

In March, three months before the NHL draft, Shane goes to a party at one of his teammate’s houses. It’s the usual scene — cheap beer, loud music, girls who want to hook up with hockey players.

Connor Peeke is there. He’s been Shane’s winger for two seasons, and they have that telepathic understanding on the ice that coaches love. Off the ice, they’re friendly but not quite friends.

Shane finds him on the back deck, away from the party noise.

“Not feeling it either?” Connor asks, offering Shane his beer.

Shane takes it, drinks. “Needed some air.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching moths circle the porch light. Then Connor says, very carefully, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are you … I mean, do you ever …” Connor trails off, frustrated. “Fuck. Never mind.”

“What?”

Connor looks at him, and in his eyes Shane sees the same fear he feels every day. The same careful hiding. The same desperate loneliness.

“Nothing,” Connor says. “Forget it.”

But Shane can’t forget it. The question hangs between them, half-asked, maybe half-answered. Two people who might recognize each other if they were brave enough to look.

Connor stands abruptly. “I should get back inside.”

“Connor-”

“See you at practice, Hollander.”

Shane watches him go and feels something like opportunity slip away. He stays on the deck for another hour, drinking too much, thinking too hard about all the things he’ll never say out loud.

Brighton Beach, 2008

By seventeen, Ilya has stopped going to school regularly. His teachers don’t question it — the attendance office has been dealt with, quietly and efficiently. He spends his days learning the family business instead.

Sergei is teaching him about money laundering, about shell corporations and offshore accounts and all the ways to make dirty money clean. It’s more complicated than violence, more interesting in some ways.

“The Americans think we’re just thugs,” Sergei explains over lunch at a restaurant they own. “They think we only understand bullets and threats. But the real power is here.” He taps the ledger between them. “In the numbers. In the system.”

“My father prefers the direct approach,” Ilya observes.

“Your father is old school. And in Russia, that works. But America is different. America is about appearing legitimate while being anything but.”

Ilya absorbs this. He’s good with numbers, good at seeing patterns and connections. His father wanted him to be muscle, but Sergei is teaching him to be a businessman first, a criminal second.

At night, Ilya sometimes walks the boardwalk at Coney Island, watching the Atlantic stretch dark and infinite. He calls his mother once a week, brief conversations where they speak Russian and say nothing important.

“Are you eating well?” She asks.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Are you being careful?”

“Always.”

What she means is Are you becoming your father? And what Ilya can’t tell her is I don’t know who else to be.

He’s seventeen and already halfway to somewhere he can’t escape. The Bratva isn’t just what he does — it’s who he is, encoded in his last name, expected by his father, enforced by every person who knows what Rozanov means.

Sometimes, walking past the legitimate businesses on Brighton Beach Avenue, Ilya sees normal teenagers. Kids his age worrying about homework and prom and college applications. Living lives he’ll never understand.

He doesn’t envy them, exactly. But sometimes he wonders what it would be like to have choices.

Viktor finds him one night on the boardwalk and lights a cigarette, offering one to Ilya.

“You’re thinking too much,” Viktor says in Russian. “I can see it.”

“Maybe.”

“Your father was the same at your age. Always thinking, always planning. It made him dangerous.” Viktor exhales smoke. “Made him successful too.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

Viktor laughs, rare and rough. “No. Just true.”

They stand in silence, watching the waves, and Ilya understands that this is his future. Brighton Beach and boardwalks, violence and numbers, being his father’s son until there’s nothing else left.

Los Angeles, 2009

Draft day arrives with all the ceremony and terror Shane expected. He sits in the arena in Los Angeles, wearing a suit his father helped him pick out, surrounded by other prospects who all look simultaneously confident and terrified.

His parents are in the stands. The Harringtons came too, which surprised Shane but probably shouldn’t have — they’ve invested two years in him, after all.

When his name is called — “The Montreal Voyageurs are proud to select, from the Kingston Frontenacs of the OHL, Shane Hollander” — the moment feels both eternal and instantaneous. Shane stands, hugs his parents, shakes hands with strangers, pulls on the jersey.

The cameras flash and flash and flash. Someone asks him how it feels, and Shane says something about being honored and working hard and not taking anything for granted. All the right words that mean nothing.

Later, at the hotel, his dad orders room service and they watch highlights of the draft on TV.

“Your mom wanted me to ask,” his dad says carefully. “Are you doing okay? You seem …”

“I’m fine.”

“Shane.”

Shane looks at his father — his kind, normal, utterly oblivious father — and feels the distance between them like a physical thing.

“I’m just tired, Dad. It’s been a long day.”

His father studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “Get some rest. Big summer ahead.”

Alone in his hotel room, Shane lies on the bed and stares at his phone. He has seventy-three unread messages, most from people he barely knows, all congratulating him on becoming exactly what everyone always said he should be.

He thinks about Connor Peeke and that unasked question. He thinks about Miranda Watson and artificial strawberry lip gloss. He thinks about locker rooms and stolen glances and all the parts of himself he’s learned to lock away.

Shane Hollander, first overall pick, franchise center, future of the Montreal Voyageurs.

He wonders if that person has room for anything real.

Brooklyn, 2009

The call comes while Ilya is reviewing accounts in Sergei’s office. His personal cell, the one only family has the number for.

His father’s voice is tight with something Ilya recognizes as barely controlled rage.

“Your brother fucked up,” Grigori says in Russian. “Badly.”

Ilya’s older brother, Andrei, has always been reckless. Violent where he should be strategic, emotional where he should be cold.

“What happened?”

“He killed someone he shouldn’t have. A prosecutor’s son. The FSB is involved. I need to send him away until things calm down.”

Ilya understands immediately. “You’re sending him here.”

“You’ll keep him out of trouble. Teach him how we operate in America. If he stays in Moscow, he’ll be arrested or killed.”

It’s not a request. Ilya closes his eyes briefly, imagining the chaos Andrei will bring to his carefully managed operation.

“When does he arrive?”

“Tomorrow.”

Of course. No warning, no preparation. Just Grigori Rozanov deciding and everyone else dealing with the consequences.

“I’ll handle it,” Ilya says, because what choice does he have?

Andrei arrives at JFK looking hungover and angry, his expensive suit rumpled from the flight. He barely speaks English and has no interest in learning. He sneers at Brighton Beach, at Sergei, at the “pathetic” American operation.

“This is what Father sent me to?” Andrei says in Russian. “This is nothing. In Moscow-”

“In Moscow you murdered a prosecutor’s son and started a war we can’t afford,” Ilya cuts him off. “Here, you’ll do what I tell you. Understand?”

Andrei is older by three years, but Ilya has been running the American operation for two years. He has Sergei’s respect and, more importantly, the loyalty of the men who matter.

“You’ve gotten arrogant,” Andrei observes. “America has made you soft.”

“America has made me successful. Which is more than you can say.”

They glare at each other in the apartment above the restaurant, and Ilya knows this is going to be a problem. Andrei doesn’t know how to be subtle, doesn’t understand that power in America is about discretion as much as force.

Within a week, Andrei has alienated half the organization and started a fight with a rival crew that takes Ilya three days and significant money to resolve.

“Your brother is going to get us all killed,” Sergei says bluntly. “Send him back.”

“I can’t. My father-”

“Your father isn’t here. You are. And you’re in charge, not Andrei.”

It’s the first time someone has said it so directly. You’re in charge. Not learning, not training, not preparing. In charge. Now. At eighteen.

Ilya looks at Sergei and makes a decision. “Set up a meeting with our friends in the NYPD. I need to know what they know about Andrei. And find out what it would take to make any problems disappear.”

Sergei smiles slowly. “Now you sound like a boss.”

That night, Ilya calls his father and tells him, very carefully, that Andrei needs to go somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Maybe Mexico or South America.

“He’s your brother,” Grigori says.

“He’s a liability,” Ilya counters. “And you didn’t send me to America to fail because of his mistakes.”

There’s a long silence. Then: “Handle it however you need to. But don’t disappoint me, Ilya.”

The line goes dead.

Ilya stares at his phone and understands that he’s just made his first real decision as a leader. Not following his father’s orders, but superseding them. Doing what’s necessary rather than what’s expected.

He’s eighteen years old, and he’s just chosen the Bratva over his own brother.

It should feel worse than it does.

Montreal, 2010

Shane’s first NHL season is everything and nothing like he imagined. The hockey is faster, harder, more precise. His teammates are professionals who’ve been doing this for years. The pressure is constant and crushing.

He scores his first goal in his third game, a wrist shot top shelf that makes the Bell Centre explode. In the locker room afterward, the veterans razz him good-naturedly, and Shane feels, for a moment, like he might actually belong here.

But belonging in the locker room doesn’t mean belonging in his own skin. He’s careful — so careful — about where he looks, how long he looks, what he says and doesn’t say. He dates a model named Chantal for three months because his agent suggests it would be good for his image. They break up quietly, and Shane feels nothing but relief.

The media loves him. Young, talented, wholesome. The perfect face for a franchise. They write articles about his work ethic, his humility, his dedication. They speculate about his future and his potential and all the great things he’ll accomplish.

Nobody asks about the things that matter.

In December, the team has a holiday party. Shane shows up dutifully, makes small talk, drinks exactly enough to be social but not enough to be stupid.

He’s on the balcony of the venue, escaping the noise, when one of his teammates joins him.

“Not a party person?” Hayden Pike asks in that particular Saskatchewan accent.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.” Hayden takes a sip of beer, offers the bottle to Shane, who declines. “You’re doing good this season. Really good.”

“Thanks.”

“But you look tired. Stressed, maybe.”

Shane tenses. “Just adjusting to the NHL.”

“Sure,” Hayden says, but his tone suggests he doesn’t quite believe it. “You know, if you ever need to talk … about anything … some of us are easier to talk to than others.”

There’s something in the way he says it. An offer, maybe. Or recognition.

Shane wants desperately to ask what he means, but fear stops the words in his throat. “I’m fine. Really.”

Hayden studies him for a moment longer, then shrugs. “Okay. But the offer stands.”

He drains his beer and goes back inside, leaving Shane alone with his cowardice and the cold Montreal night.

Brighton Beach, 2010

Ilya is nineteen when Sergei has a heart attack during a meeting with the Italians. One moment he’s negotiating territory in Bensonhurst, the next he’s on the floor, clutching his chest, his face grey.

They get him to the hospital — a doctor they own, quiet and discrete — but the damage is done. Sergei survives but barely, and the message is clear: he can’t run the organization anymore.

Which means Ilya is in charge. Not temporarily, not theoretically. Actually in charge of the Bratva’s entire North American operation at nineteen years old.

His father calls with congratulations that sound more like warnings. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“I won’t.”

“Sergei was soft. Too American. You’ll need to remind people what Rozanov means.”

Ilya understands what his father is really saying: prove yourself with blood.

The opportunity comes two weeks later. A crew in the Bronx has been skimming profits, thinking that the leadership transition means weakness. Thinking that a nineteen-year-old can’t possibly command respect.

Ilya takes Viktor and three other men to the Bronx. They find the crew boss, a man named Kirill who’s been with the organization for twenty years, in his social club playing cards.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Kirill says, not standing. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“You’ve been stealing from us,” Ilya says calmly in Russian.

“Stealing? I would never-”

“Don’t lie to me.” Ilya pulls out a folder of evidence — bank records, witness statements, security footage. He’s learned from Sergei that information is as powerful as violence. “You’ve taken approximately two hundred thousand dollars over the past six months.”

Kirill’s face hardens. “So what? You’re going to cry to your father? You’re just a boy playing at being a boss.”

Ilya shoots him.

Not immediately fatal — in the shoulder, painful but survivable. Kirill screams, falling backward off his chair. His men reach for their guns, but Viktor and the others already have weapons drawn.

“I am not my father,” Ilya says softly, standing over Kirill. “I am worse. Because my father has rules, has limits, has things he cares about. I have the Bratva. That’s all. So when you steal from us, you’re not stealing from an organization or a leader. You’re stealing from the only thing I give a fuck about. Do you understand?”

Kirill nods frantically, bleeding on the floor of his own social club.

“Good. You have one week to return what you took, plus fifty percent interest. If you don’t, I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t aim for your shoulder.”

They leave Kirill bleeding but alive. The message spreads through the organization faster than Ilya expected: the young Rozanov is not to be underestimated. He’s not his father, but that might make him more dangerous, not less.

That night, alone in his apartment, Ilya washes Kirill’s blood off his hands and stares at himself in the mirror. Nineteen years old. A murderer at least a dozen times over, if you count the people who’ve died on his orders. The head of an empire built on fear and money and violence.

He thinks about the five-year-old boy who received a gun for his birthday and wonders when that child stopped existing entirely.

His phone rings. His mother, calling from Moscow.

“Hello, Mama.”

“I heard about Sergei,” she says softly. “You’re in charge now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you …” She pauses. “Are you all right, Ilyusha?”

The diminutive, the pet name she hasn’t used since he was small, nearly breaks something in him.

“I’m fine, Mama. I’m exactly what Father wanted me to be.”

She’s quiet for a long moment: “That’s what I was afraid of.”

They talk for a few more minutes about nothing — the weather, her garden, his uncle’s health. Normal family conversation that feels absurd given everything Ilya is and does.

When they hang up, Ilya stands at his window and watches Brighton Beach below. His empire. His responsibility. His entire world.

He’s nineteen years old, and this is his life. This is all his life will ever be.

And somewhere in Montreal, Shane Hollander is nineteen years old too, living a completely different existence, and neither of them knows the other exists.

Not yet.

Montreal, 2016

Shane wakes up at 5 AM because his body won’t let him sleep past dawn anymore, even on off days. Six years in the NHL has rewired his circadian rhythm entirely. He lies in his king-sized bed in his downtown Montreal condo — minimalist, expensive, impersonal — and stares at the ceiling.

Three Stanley Cups. Two Hart Trophies. One Conn Smythe. At twenty-five, he’s already accomplished more than most players manage in their entire careers.

He’s also profoundly, crushingly lonely.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from his agent. Vogue wants to do a profile. Thoughts?

Shane types back: Sure.

Another interview where he’ll talk about dedication and teamwork and the honor of playing for Montreal. Another opportunity to perform the person everyone thinks he is.

He gets up, makes coffee, goes through his morning routine with the mechanical precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Gym at 6, skate at 8, team meeting at 10. They’re playing in Brooklyn tonight — a relatively easy game, the Scouts are having a rebuilding year — but Coach Theriault doesn’t believe in easy games.

At the rink, his teammates filter in with the usual mix of exhaustion and energy. Shane’s been captain for five years now, the C on his chest both an honor and an anchor.

“Hollander,” J.J. Boiziau calls out, grinning. “You see that article about you in Le Journal?”

“No. What’d it say?”

“That you’re Montreal’s most eligible bachelor. They have a whole section speculating about why you’re still single.” J.J. winks. “Maybe you’re too picky, eh?”

“Maybe,” Shane says neutrally, taping his stick with more focus than necessary.

“Or maybe he’s secretly married to hockey,” Hayden adds, walking past. He catches Shane’s eye briefly, and there’s something knowing in his expression that makes Shane’s stomach tighten.

In six years, Hayden has never pushed the conversation they almost had at that holiday party. But the offer still hangs between them sometimes, unspoken but present.

Practice is brutal. Coach Theriault runs them through drills until Shane’s legs burn and his lungs ache. But he’s good at this — the physical pain is almost a relief compared to everything else.

Afterward, in the shower, he’s careful. Always careful. Eyes on the tile, thoughts on the game, nothing that could give him away. Gilbert Comeau is talking about some girl he met at a bar, his voice echoing off the tile, and Shane makes appropriate sounds of interest while thinking about absolutely nothing.

“You coming out with us after the game?” J.J. asks. “Win or lose, we’re hitting that club in Williamsburg.”

“Maybe,” Shane says, which means no. “Depends how I feel.”

“You never come out anymore, man. You’re twenty-five, not forty-five.”

“Captain responsibilities,” Shane deflects.

J.J. laughs. “Whatever you say, grandpa.”

On the charter flight to New York, Shane sits in his usual seat by the window and stares at his reflection in the glass. Twenty-five years old. Three Stanley Cups. Everything he ever wanted.

Except the one thing he can’t have.

Brighton Beach, 2016

Ilya’s morning starts with a call from his accountant about a real estate deal in Miami, followed by a call from Viktor about a shipment issue at the docks, followed by a call from a city councilman who needs a “favor” in exchange for continued cooperation.

By 9 AM, he’s handled three crises and made approximately two million dollars.

By 10 AM, he’s bored.

This is the problem with success, Ilya has learned. Once you’ve achieved everything you set out to achieve, what’s left? He’s twenty-five and runs the most profitable criminal organization in North America. The Bratva under his leadership has diversified into legitimate businesses — real estate, construction, tech investments — while maintaining its traditional revenue streams. He’s untouchable, powerful, wealthy beyond measure.

He’s also fucking miserable.

“You need a vacation,” his assistant, Yevgeny, says, bringing him coffee in his office overlooking Brighton Beach. “When was the last time you took a day off?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Exactly my point.”

Ilya sips his coffee and doesn’t argue. Yevgeny has been with him for three years, ever since Ilya decided he needed someone who could manage his legitimate business interests without asking uncomfortable questions about his other activities. He’s efficient, smart, and refreshingly unimpressed by Ilya’s reputation.

“I have the hockey game tonight,” Ilya says. “That’s practically a vacation.”

Yevgeny rolls his eyes. “Conducting business in your Barclays suite doesn’t count as leisure time.”

“It does if I enjoy hockey.”

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you’re paid so well.”

The truth is that hockey is one of the few things Ilya actually enjoys. He bought the suite three years ago — partially for business, partially because watching the game reminds him of Moscow, of the few good memories he has from childhood. His father took him to CSKA Moscow games sometimes, before everything got complicated. Back when Ilya still thought his father might be someone to admire rather than fear.

Now hockey is just … uncomplicated. Pure. Twenty minutes of watching skilled athletes do something that requires no moral calculus, no threat assessment, no weighing of loyalties and consequences.

His phone buzzes. A text from Sergei, who’s officially retired but still likes to check in: Don’t forget about the thing with the mayor’s office.

Right. Tonight he’s hosting some city officials at the game. Legitimate relationship building, the kind that makes the Bratva’s operations run smoothly. The mayor’s deputy chief of staff, the city comptroller, a few other functionaries who benefit from Ilya’s contributions to their campaigns and want to be seen as his friends.

Politics is just organized crime with better PR, Ilya has learned. Everyone has a price, everyone has leverage, everyone is playing the same game with different pieces.

At 4 PM, Ilya goes home to his penthouse in DUMBO to change for the game. The apartment is all glass and steel and views of Manhattan, decorated by someone he paid to make it look like a human lives here. It’s beautiful and cold and entirely impersonal.

He stands in his closet — bigger than his first apartment in Brooklyn — and considers his options. The game is business, which means a suit, but not so formal that it looks like he’s trying too hard. He settles on Tom Ford, dark grey, no tie. The kind of outfit that says money without screaming it.

His phone rings. A woman he’s been casually sleeping with for the past two months.

“Ilya? I was thinking maybe I could come over tonight-”

“I have plans,” he says, not unkindly.

“Tomorrow?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He hangs up before she can protest. She’s beautiful, successful, exactly the kind of woman who looks good on his arm at events. She’s also boring. They all are, eventually — the models and lawyers and entrepreneurs who see Ilya Rozanov and think they can be the one to crack him open, to find something real underneath the power and money.

They never do, because there’s nothing underneath. Just more calculation, more strategy, more of the same.

He’s tried men too, because Ilya learned young that desire doesn’t follow convenient lines. The Bratva doesn’t care — not when he’s as successful as he is, not when he’s Grigori Rozanov’s son. Power buys a lot of latitude. But those relationships are just as empty. Just as transactional.

Sometimes Ilya wonders if he’s even capable of wanting something real. Or if the Bratva burned that out of him somewhere between his fifth birthday and his sixteenth.

At 6 PM, he arrives at Barclays Center through the VIP entrance. His guests are already in the suite — Roger Daniels from the comptroller’s office, Christina Polizzi from the mayor’s deputy staff, and Noah Steiner, some city council aide whose actual job Ilya doesn’t care about.

“Mr. Rozanov,” Christina gushes, shaking his hand. “Thank you so much for having us.”

“My pleasure,” Ilya says smoothly. “Please, help yourselves to food and drinks. The game starts in thirty minutes.”

The suite is catered by one of his restaurants, the alcohol top-shelf, the seats perfect. This is what three million dollars a year buys you — the ability to conduct business while pretending to watch hockey.

But Ilya does watch hockey. Even as he makes small talk with Roger about a zoning issue in Sunset Park, even as he laughs at Noah’s terrible jokes, part of his attention is always on the ice.

The Scouts are warming up, skating in circles, taking practice shots. The arena is filling up — not sold out, the Scouts haven’t been good enough for that in years — but respectable.

Then Montreal takes the ice, and the energy shifts. Montreal is good. Montreal has Shane Hollander, arguably the best center in the NHL right now. The kind of generational talent that makes other teams look like they’re playing a different sport.

Ilya has watched Hollander play before, of course. You can’t follow hockey without knowing who he is. Three Stanley Cups by twenty-five. The face of the franchise. Canadian golden boy with the improbable success story.

But Ilya has never been to a game where Hollander was playing in person.

“You follow hockey, Mr. Rozanov?” Christina asks, noticing his attention.

“I’m Russian,” Ilya says with a slight smile. “It’s genetic.”

She laughs, delighted. “Do you have a team?”

“I appreciate good hockey, regardless of the team.”

“Very diplomatic.”

The game starts, and Ilya tries to focus on the conversation. Roger wants to talk about a development project in Crown Heights that needs some regulatory flexibility. Christina wants to discuss a charity event she’s organizing that could use a “generous sponsor.” Noah mostly just wants to seem important.

Ilya handles all of it with practiced ease, making commitments and extracting promises, building the web of obligation and mutual benefit that keeps his empire functioning.

But his eyes keep drifting to the ice. To number 24 in the white Montreal away jersey.

Shane Hollander plays hockey the way Ilya imagines great artists paint — with instinct and precision combined, making the impossible look effortless. His skating is smooth, his passes are perfect, his hockey sense is almost supernatural. He always seems to know where everyone else is going to be before they know themselves.

It’s beautiful, in its way. The kind of mastery that comes from absolute dedication.

Ilya finds himself watching Hollander even when the puck is on the other side of the ice. The way he positions himself, the way he communicates with his teammates, the way he-

“Everything all right?” Roger asks.

Ilya realizes he’s been staring. “Fine. Just appreciating the game.”

“Hollander is incredible,” Noah says. “I mean, three Cups by twenty-five? That’s Jordan-level dominance.”

“Different sport,” Roger corrects. “But your point stands.”

At the end of the first period, Montreal is up 2-0, both goals assisted by Hollander. The suite empties out during intermission — his guests heading to the bathroom, getting more food, making phone calls.

Ilya stands at the glass, watching the ice crew resurface the rink, and allows himself a moment of honesty: he’s more interested in the hockey player than he’s been in anyone in years.

Which is stupid. Shane Hollander is straight, probably. Famous, definitely. Completely inaccessible and inappropriate for about a thousand reasons.

But there’s something about him. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself — confident on the ice but oddly hesitant off it, if the few interviews Ilya has seen are any indication. Maybe it’s the careful way he answers questions, like every word is measured and considered.

Maybe Ilya is just desperately bored and projecting onto someone who represents everything he’s not: legitimate, admired, living a life with clear rules and recognizable success.

The second period starts, and Ilya forces himself to focus on business. There are deals to be made, relationships to cement, the whole careful dance of corruption and cooperation.

But then, midway through the period, there’s a stoppage in play. Hollander is on the bench, and his helmet strap has apparently broken. He takes the helmet off while a trainer works on it, and suddenly his face is on the jumbotron.

Ilya’s breath catches.

Hollander is beautiful. Not in a classical way — his features are a little sharp, his jaw a little too defined — but in a way that hits Ilya like a physical thing. Dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, sharp cheekbones, intense eyes even in the blown-up jumbotron image. And his mouth-

Ilya stops that thought before it can fully form. This is not the time or place to be thinking about Shane Hollander’s mouth, or what it might look like doing things that have nothing to do with hockey.

But the thought persists anyway. Because Ilya knows submission when he sees it, and there’s something in Hollander’s body language, in the way he defers to his coach, in the careful way he exists in space, that reads as deeply, fundamentally submissive.

Not weak. Ilya has never confused submission with weakness. But the kind of person who would thrive under the right kind of control, who would give up power willingly to someone they trusted.

The kind of person who would look perfect on their knees.

“Mr. Rozanov?” Christina is talking to him. “What do you think about the proposal?”

Ilya forces his attention back to the conversation, back to business, back to reality. “I think it has merit. Send me the details and I’ll have my people review it.”

“Wonderful!” She beams. “I knew we could count on you.”

The game continues. Montreal wins 4-1, Hollander with a goal and two assists. The suite empties out, his guests thanking him profusely, promising follow-up meetings, cementing the relationships that make everything else possible.

Viktor appears after everyone else has left, his scarred face impassive. “How was the game?”

“Profitable,” Ilya says.

“Just profitable?”

Ilya glances at him. Viktor has known him for ten years. Viktor knows when Ilya is lying.

“Montreal’s center is very good,” Ilya says carefully.

“Hollander? Sure. If you like that pretty boy type.”

“I don’t have a type,” Ilya lies.

Viktor smiles slightly. “Of course not, boss.”

They leave through the VIP exit, Ilya’s driver waiting with the Mercedes. As they pull away from Barclays Center, Ilya looks back at the arena and allows himself one moment of impossible fantasy.

What would it be like to have someone like Shane Hollander in his life? Someone real, someone who existed for reasons other than what Ilya could give them? Someone who might understand what it’s like to live entirely in the public eye while hiding who you really are?

Stupid thoughts. Impossible thoughts.

Ilya puts them away and goes back to being exactly who he’s supposed to be.

Brooklyn, Later That Night

Shane skips the team outing. He tells them he’s tired, that he wants to get back to the hotel and rest before they fly out tomorrow. It’s not entirely a lie — he is tired. He’s always tired these days.

But mostly he just can’t face another night of performing heterosexuality in a Brooklyn nightclub, pretending to be interested in women who approach him, deflecting questions about his personal life.

In his hotel room, he orders room service and opens his laptop. There are emails from his agent, his mom, a few sponsorship requests. He answers them mechanically, his mind elsewhere.

The game was good. He played well. They won. Everything went according to plan.

So why does he feel so empty?

His phone buzzes. A text from Hayden: You sure you don’t want to come out? We’re having a good time.

Shane texts back: I’m sure. Have fun.

Then Hayden sends: You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.

Shane stares at the message for a long time. Part of him desperately wants to take Hayden up on that offer, to finally tell someone the truth about who he is and what he wants.

But the risk is too great. Even if Hayden is safe — and Shane thinks he probably is — the act of saying it out loud would make it real in a way Shane isn’t ready for.

He types: I know. Thank you.

Then he closes his messages and opens Instagram instead. It’s a mistake — social media is always a mistake — but he can’t help himself. He scrolls through his feed, seeing other players out at bars, at dinners, with girlfriends and wives and families.

Living lives that Shane will never have.

He thinks about tonight’s game, about the moment when his helmet strap broke and he was on the bench, aware of the camera on him, aware of the thousand ways he has to control his expression. Always performing, always careful, always hiding.

Sometimes Shane wonders what it would be like to just … stop. To tell the truth. To live openly as the person he actually is.

But he knows what would happen. The endorsements would disappear, the media narrative would shift, his parents would be disappointed even if they tried not to show it. He’d become “the gay hockey player” instead of “Shane Hollander, elite center.” Everything he’s worked for would be filtered through that single fact.

And maybe, worst of all, he doesn’t actually know if there’s a real person underneath all the performance. Maybe he’s spent so long being who everyone else needs him to be that there’s nothing left that’s authentically his.

His room service arrives — a burger and fries he’ll eat half of before his discipline kicks in. He eats at the desk, staring at his laptop screen without really seeing it, and tries not to think about how lonely he is.

Somewhere in Brooklyn, Ilya Rozanov is probably at some exclusive club or expensive restaurant, surrounded by beautiful people who all want something from him, living a life of glamour and danger that Shane can barely imagine.

And neither of them has any idea that they’re both lying awake tonight, thinking about the same game, the same moment, the same impossible what-ifs.

Not yet.

But they will.

The club is called Tsaritsa, which Shane learns from the neon sign outside means “queen” in Russian. It’s the kind of place that screams exclusivity — velvet ropes, a clipboard-wielding bouncer who looks like he could break someone in half, and a line of hopefuls stretching down the block.

Hayden grins at Shane as they bypass the entire line, the bouncer nodding them through without a word.

“See? This is what happens when you’re with Montreal’s starting lineup,” Hayden says. “We get treated like royalty.”

“Someone recognized us,” Shane says.

“Someone always recognizes us, captain.” J.J. claps him on the shoulder. “Now stop looking like you’re going to a funeral and have some fun.”

Inside, Tsaritsa is all dark wood and darker lighting, expensive leather and expensive people. The music is loud enough to feel in Shane’s chest, the bass line thrumming through the floor. Bodies press together on the dance floor, and the air smells like high-end cologne and top-shelf liquor.

Shane already wants to leave.

“First round’s on me!” Pierre shouts over the music, heading toward the bar.

Shane follows his teammates deeper into the club, trying to look relaxed. Trying to look like he belongs here, in this space designed for people who are confident in their desires and unashamed of pursuing them.

The vodka Pierre hands him is smooth and probably costs more than Shane’s first car. He sips it slowly, watching his teammates scatter across the club like they’re claiming territory. J.J. is already talking to a blonde woman in a dress that looks painted on. Drapeau is doing shots with their backup goalie. Even Pierre, usually reserved, is laughing with a brunette at the bar.

Shane stands at the edge of the dance floor and feels like he’s watching all of this from underwater.

“You good?” Hayden appears at his elbow, concerned.

“Yeah, just taking it all in.”

“You sure? Because you look like you’re about to bolt.”

Shane forces a smile. “I’m fine. Go have fun.”

Hayden studies him for another moment, then squeezes his shoulder and disappears back into the crowd.

Shane finds a quieter corner near the bar and tries to look occupied. He checks his phone — nothing important. He watches the door like he’s memorizing exits. He counts the minutes until he can leave without his teammates giving him shit about it.

Across the club, bodies move together with a confidence Shane has never felt. Men and women, some men and men, some women and women, all of them comfortable in their skin in ways Shane can’t imagine. He watches a man press another man against the wall and kiss him hard, and something hot and shameful twists in Shane’s stomach.

That could be him. If he were different. If he were brave. If he were anything other than what he is.

He downs the rest of his vodka and signals the bartender for another.

“The shipment arrives at 4 AM,” Viktor says, pointing to the manifest on Ilya’s computer screen. “But the dock supervisor is being difficult about the payment.”

“How difficult?” Ilya asks, rubbing his temples.

“He wants double.”

“Then remind him what happened to the last person who tried to renegotiate our arrangements.”

Viktor nods. “Should I be subtle?”

“Is that even a question you need to ask?”

They go through the rest of the logistics — where the shipment is going, who’s receiving it, how much money needs to move through which accounts to keep everything appearing legitimate. It’s tedious work, the kind that makes Ilya miss the simpler days when problems could be solved with violence instead of spreadsheets.

By the time they finish, Ilya has a headache building behind his eyes. He glances at his watch. 11:30 PM. The club below is probably packed now, the Friday night crowd spending money and creating the kind of atmosphere that makes Tsaritsa one of the most profitable legitimate businesses in his portfolio.

“I’m getting a drink,” Ilya announces, standing. “Want anything?”

“I’m working,” Viktor says pointedly.

“So am I. That’s why I need the drink.”

Ilya leaves his office and heads downstairs, taking the private staircase that opens near the back of the bar. The club is indeed packed, the music and heat and energy hitting him like a wave. He nods at the bartender — Valeriy, who’s worked for him for three years and knows better than to ask questions.

“Beluga Gold Line,” Ilya says. “Double.”

Valeriy pours the vodka with the reverence it deserves — this particular bottle costs five thousand dollars and Ilya keeps it here specifically because nowhere else in New York can he get it. He takes the glass and downs half of it immediately, feeling the burn and the blessed emptiness that follows.

He’s turning back toward the stairs when he sees him.

Shane Hollander. In Ilya’s club. Looking lost and uncomfortable and so completely out of place that Ilya’s brain takes a moment to process what he’s seeing.

The Montreal center is standing near the edge of the dance floor, holding a glass of vodka like it’s a shield, his eyes tracking the crowd with the wariness of someone who doesn’t want to be here. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and even in civilian clothes he looks expensive. Put together. Perfect.

And utterly miserable.

Ilya looks around and spots the rest of the Montreal players scattered through the club — their wing at the bar with a woman, their goalie doing shots, others on the dance floor. Celebrating their win against the Admirals, probably. Team bonding. Normal hockey player shit.

But Shane Hollander looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Ilya should go back upstairs. This is stupid. This is the vodka and the stress and the lingering fantasy from the other night making him consider things he has no business considering. Shane Hollander is an NHL player, probably straight, definitely off-limits for about a thousand reasons.

Ilya downs the rest of his vodka and walks toward him anyway.

Shane is debating whether he can fake food poisoning convincingly when an arm slides around his waist from behind.

His entire body locks up. The touch is confident, possessive, and comes from someone tall enough that Shane can feel their presence like heat against his back.

“You look like you could use better company,” a voice says in his ear. Russian accent, smooth and dark and doing something complicated to Shane’s nervous system.

Shane spins around and finds himself staring at possibly the most attractive man he’s ever seen in person.

Tall — six-two, maybe six-three. Curly hair styled with casual precision. Sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. Eyes so hazel they look like autumn leaves in the shifting light, currently fixed on Shane with an intensity that makes his mouth go dry. Expensive suit, no tie, the kind of careless elegance that comes from having money and knowing exactly how good you look.

“I-” Shane’s brain has stopped forming words.

The man smiles slightly. “You’re Shane Hollander.”

“Yeah.” Jesus, he needs to say something better than that. “Yes. I am.”

“I know.” The man’s hand is still on Shane’s waist, thumb pressing through the fabric of his shirt in a way that should probably feel presumptuous but instead feels like an anchor. “I’m Ilya.”

“Hi.” Brilliant, Shane. Very articulate.

“You played well the other night. Against Brooklyn.”

“You were there?” Shane manages.

“I’m Russian. We take our hockey seriously.” Ilya’s eyes travel down Shane’s body slowly, appreciatively, then back up. “Among other things.”

Shane should step back. Should make some excuse and find his teammates. Should do literally anything other than stand here while this stranger — this man — looks at him like he’s something Ilya wants to devour.

Instead, Shane hears himself say, “What other things?”

Ilya’s smile widens. “Many things. Would you like me to elaborate?”

“I-” Shane’s heart is hammering so hard he’s surprised it’s not visible through his shirt. “Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Ilya repeats, amused. He steps closer, and Shane can smell his cologne — something dark and expensive that makes Shane’s head spin. “You’re very tense.”

“I’m not really a club person.”

“No?” Ilya’s hand slides from Shane’s waist to the small of his back, guiding him away from the crowd, toward a quieter corner. “Then why are you here?”

“My teammates. They insisted.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

“I’m the captain. I’m supposed to …” Shane trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Be what they expect,” Ilya finishes. “Yes, I understand that.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Shane look at him more carefully. Ilya doesn’t look like someone who spends much time being what other people expect. He looks like someone who does exactly what he wants and dares anyone to question it.

“Do you?” Shane asks.

“More than you might think.” Ilya’s thumb traces a small circle against Shane’s lower back, and Shane’s breath catches. “But tonight, maybe we both stop being what people expect. Yes?”

Shane should say no. Should make an excuse, find his teammates, go back to the hotel. This is dangerous — not just because Ilya is a man, although that’s terrifying enough — but because there’s something in Ilya’s eyes that speaks to wants Shane has spent his entire life suppressing.

“I don’t-” Shane starts. “I’m not-”

“Not what?” Ilya asks softly, moving even closer. They’re almost pressed together now, and Shane is acutely aware of how much taller Ilya is, how much broader. How completely outmatched Shane would be if this were any other kind of confrontation.

“I don’t know what you want,” Shane finishes weakly.

Ilya leans in, his mouth brushing Shane’s ear, and says, “I think you do.”

Shane’s entire body goes hot. He looks around frantically, checking if any of his teammates can see them. J.J. is still talking to the blonde. Hayden is on the dance floor. Pierre has his back turned at the bar.

No one is paying attention.

“Come with me,” Ilya murmurs. “Somewhere quieter. Where we can talk.”

“Talk,” Shane repeats, his voice cracking slightly.

“To start.” Ilya pulls back just enough to look Shane in the eyes. “But only if you want to. I’m not in the habit of forcing anyone to do anything they don’t want.”

It’s the way he says it — with absolute confidence that Shane does want this, whatever this is — that breaks through Shane’s paralysis.

“Okay,” Shane breathes.

Ilya’s smile is devastating. He takes Shane’s hand — bold, possessive, claiming — and leads him through the club toward a hallway marked PRIVATE. Shane follows, his heart in his throat, his hand sweating in Ilya’s, his mind screaming warnings that his body is completely ignoring.

The hallway is quieter, lit with soft amber light. Ilya pulls out a key and unlocks a door that opens into an office — large, expensively furnished, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the club below.

They step inside. Ilya closes the door behind them and turns the lock.

The click of the deadbolt is the loudest sound Shane has ever heard.

Then Ilya is on him.

Shane’s back hits the door as Ilya’s mouth finds his, and Shane’s brain short-circuits completely. He’s kissed people before — women, girlfriends, one-night attempts at normalcy — but none of it felt like this. None of it felt like fire and need and every single nerve ending coming alive at once.

Ilya kisses like he’s claiming territory. One hand cups Shane’s jaw, tilting his head to exactly the right angle, while the other pins Shane’s hip to the door. His mouth is confident and demanding, and when his tongue slides against Shane’s lower lip, Shane opens for him without thinking.

The first touch of Ilya’s tongue against his makes Shane moan — actually moan — and he’s instantly mortified. But Ilya just makes a satisfied sound and kisses him harder, deeper, until Shane is drowning in it.

“You taste good,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s mouth. “Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined-” Shane can’t finish the sentence because Ilya is kissing down his jaw, his neck, finding sensitive spots Shane didn’t know existed.

“At the game,” Ilya admits, his voice rough. “When you were on the bench. I couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop thinking about that mouth.”

Shane’s hands have found their way to Ilya’s shoulders, holding on like he might collapse otherwise. “Oh.”

“Tell me,” Ilya says, pulling back to look at Shane. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. “Have you done this before?”

Shane shakes his head mutely.

Ilya’s control visibly cracks. “You’ve never-”

“No.” Shane’s face is burning. “Never with … I’ve never …”

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes. He looks at Shane like he’s something precious and dangerous. “You’re sure you want this?”

“Yes.” Shane has never been more sure of anything in his life. “Please.”

The please does something to Ilya. He groans and kisses Shane again, harder this time, consuming. His hands slide under Shane’s shirt, and Shane gasps at the feeling of skin on skin, of Ilya’s rough palms against his stomach and ribs.

“I’ve thought about this,” Ilya says, working on Shane’s shirt buttons. “About what you’d look like. How you’d sound. Whether you’d beg.”

“I don’t-” Shane starts, but Ilya gets his shirt open and bends to kiss his collarbone, his chest, and Shane loses the thread entirely.

“Get on your knees,” Ilya orders softly.

Shane freezes. His entire body flushes hot with want and fear and something else he can’t name. “I’ve never … I don’t know how to …”

Ilya’s eyes go impossibly darker. “I’ll teach you.” He guides Shane down with a hand on his shoulder, patient and firm. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Shane’s knees hit the floor, and suddenly he’s eye-level with Ilya’s belt, his expensive pants, the obvious evidence of his arousal. Shane’s mouth goes dry.

“Look at me,” Ilya commands gently.

Shane does. Ilya is looking down at him with an expression that makes Shane feel simultaneously worshipped and owned.

“You’re perfect like this,” Ilya says, running his thumb over Shane’s lower lip. “Exactly what I imagined.”

Shane’s brain is offline. He’s operating on pure instinct now, every fantasy he’s ever had and immediately felt guilty about coming to life. Ilya’s thumb presses into his mouth, and Shane sucks on it without thinking.

“Blyat,” Ilya mutters. He removes his thumb and starts working on his belt. “Open your mouth for me.”

Shane does, trembling, as Ilya frees himself. He’s big — Shane knew he would be but seeing it is different — and Shane has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

“Start slow,” Ilya instructs, one hand threading into Shane’s hair. “Just the tip. Get used to the weight of it. I’ll guide you.”

Shane leans forward and takes Ilya into his mouth tentatively. The taste is unfamiliar but not bad, masculine and clean. Ilya’s hand tightens in his hair, encouraging.

“That’s good,” Ilya breathes. “Take a little more. Use your tongue.”

Shane does, experimenting, learning what makes Ilya’s breath catch. Every small sound of pleasure Ilya makes sends heat straight to Shane’s groin. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and no one is even touching him.

“You’re a natural,” Ilya says, his voice strained. “Or maybe you’re just that eager to please. Either way, it’s perfect.”

Shane takes him deeper, and Ilya’s hand guides him into a rhythm. It’s messy and unpracticed, and Shane gags slightly when Ilya hits the back of his throat, but Ilya just pulls him back with a soothing sound.

“Breathe through your nose. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

The praise makes Shane dizzy. He doubles his efforts, wanting to hear more, wanting to make Ilya feel as out of control as Shane feels right now.

“Enough,” Ilya says suddenly, pulling Shane off. “If you keep going, I’ll come, and I’m not done with you yet.”

He hauls Shane to his feet and kisses him hard, not seeming to care about where Shane’s mouth has been. Then he’s walking Shane backward toward the desk, his hands everywhere at once — Shane’s jeans, his zipper, under his waistband.

“Have you ever come from someone else touching you?” Ilya asks.

“Women,” Shane gasps. “But it wasn’t … it never felt …”

“Like this?” Ilya gets Shane’s jeans open and wraps his hand around him. Shane nearly buckles. “Like you might die if you don’t get it?”

“Yes.” The word comes out as a moan.

Ilya sweeps everything off his desk with one arm — papers and pens and a laptop scattering — and lifts Shane onto it easily. Shane should probably be worried about the laptop or the mess, but Ilya is yanking his jeans and boxer briefs down his legs, and Shane stops thinking about anything else.

“Lie back,” Ilya orders.

Shane does, his heart hammering. The desk is cold against his bare skin, and the position makes him feel incredibly exposed. Vulnerable. Exactly what some hidden part of him has always craved.

Ilya stands between his legs, still fully dressed except for his open pants, and just looks at Shane for a long moment.

“You’re beautiful,” Ilya says. “I’m going to make you feel so good you forget your own name.”

Then he drops to his knees.

The first touch of Ilya’s mouth makes Shane cry out. It’s so much better than anything Shane has ever felt, better than his own hand in the shower, better than the fumbling attempts with girlfriends who never quite figured out what he needed.

Ilya knows exactly what Shane needs.

He takes his time, alternating between long, slow pulls and quick flicks of his tongue, reading Shane’s responses like a map. When Shane gets close, Ilya backs off, drawing it out, making him desperate.

“Please,” Shane finally begs, his hands fisted in his own hair because he doesn’t know where else to put them. “Ilya, please.”

“Please what?” Ilya asks, pulling off just enough to speak. “Tell me what you want.”

“I need—I can’t-”

“Use your words.”

“I need to come,” Shane gasps. “Please let me come.”

Ilya smiles against him. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He takes Shane deep and does something with his tongue that makes every nerve ending in Shane’s body ignite at once. Shane comes harder than he ever has in his life, his vision whiting out, Ilya’s name on his lips like a prayer.

Ilya works him through it, gentling as Shane becomes sensitive, until Shane is boneless and shaking on the desk.

“Good?” Ilya asks, standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Shane laughs breathlessly. “I think you broke something in my brain.”

“Then I did it right.” Ilya leans down and kisses him, soft and sweet and completely at odds with everything they just did. “You should probably get dressed. Your teammates will wonder where you’ve gone.”

Reality crashes back. Shane sits up quickly, looking around for his clothes, his mind racing. He just—they just—oh god, what did he just do?

“Hey.” Ilya catches his face between his hands. “Breathe. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“I don’t—this was-” Shane can’t finish any sentence.

“This was good,” Ilya says firmly. “This was what you wanted. Yes?”

“Yes, but-”

“No buts. You’re allowed to want things, Shane.”

Shane stares at him. This confident, dangerous, beautiful man who just gave him the best orgasm of his life is telling him it’s okay to want this. To want men. To want Ilya.

“I should go,” Shane says, though he doesn’t move.

“You should.” Ilya helps him find his clothes, patient as Shane fumbles with buttons and zippers. “But take this first.”

He pulls out his phone and types something, then shows Shane the screen. A phone number.

“In case you want to do this again,” Ilya says. “Or talk. Or anything.”

Shane takes out his own phone with shaking hands and saves the contact. Just “Ilya” — no last name, no context. A secret.

“I’m not-” Shane starts. “I can’t be open about …”

“I know,” Ilya says. “I’m not asking you to be. This stays between us.”

Shane nods, overwhelmed with gratitude and guilt and the lingering heat of what they just did.

Ilya kisses him one more time, slow and thorough. “Go back to your team. Act normal. Text me when you get home.”

“Okay.”

“And Shane?” Ilya smiles. “You were perfect.”

Shane leaves the office in a daze, his legs unsteady, his mind blown. The club hasn’t changed — same music, same crowd, same teammates — but Shane feels like a completely different person than who walked in two hours ago.

Hayden spots him and waves him over. “There you are! Where’d you disappear to?”

“Bathroom,” Shane lies. “Long line.”

“Sure, man.” Hayden is too drunk to question it. “Come do a shot with us!”

Shane does the shot, makes small talk, pretends everything is normal. But his phone is heavy in his pocket, Ilya’s number saved under a single name, and Shane knows with absolute certainty that everything just changed.

Ilya locks the office door behind Shane and leans against it, his heart still racing. The room smells like sex and Shane’s cologne — something clean and expensive that Ilya wants to chase down and bottle.

He’s still achingly hard, his body thrumming with unsatisfied need. Normally he’d take care of it himself quickly, efficiently, just another physical necessity. But this time feels different.

Shane Hollander — perfect, beautiful, submissive Shane Hollander — was just on his knees in this office. Just spread out on Ilya’s desk like an offering. Just came apart so completely that Ilya felt it like a victory.

Ilya walks back to the desk and runs his hand over the surface where Shane was lying minutes ago. The wood is still warm. Some of the papers he swept off are scattered across the floor, and Ilya leaves them there, evidence of something he’s not quite ready to erase.

He undoes his pants properly and wraps his hand around himself, closing his eyes.

The image of Shane on his knees comes immediately — those sharp brown eyes looking up at him, uncertain but willing. That perfect mouth stretched around him, learning, adapting, trying so hard to please. The small sounds he made when Ilya praised him, like validation was oxygen and he’d been drowning.

Ilya strokes himself faster, remembering the taste of Shane on his tongue, the way his whole body trembled when he came. The desperate little “please” that came out like Shane had never begged for anything in his life but would beg for this, for Ilya, for more.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, his other hand braced against the desk. He imagines what it would be like to have Shane here regularly. To teach him everything, to watch him learn how to take pleasure, to own that surrender.

He imagines Shane in his bed, in his apartment, in his life in ways that have nothing to do with a single night in a club office.

The thought sends him over the edge. He comes hard, Shane’s name on his lips, making a mess he’ll have to clean up later.

In the aftermath, standing in his office with his pants open and his mind blown, Ilya realizes something terrifying: he wants more. Not just more sex — though he definitely wants that — but more of Shane. More of that careful vulnerability, that desperate need to please, that person Shane is when he’s not performing for the world.

This is dangerous. This is stupid. Shane Hollander is an NHL player with a public life and a career that would implode if anyone found out he was sleeping with men. Especially men like Ilya, whose legitimate business interests are a thin veneer over the very illegal empire he actually runs.

Getting involved with Shane is asking for complications Ilya doesn’t need.

Ilya cleans himself up, straightens his clothes, and makes a decision that he’ll probably regret.

He opens his office door and calls down the hallway, “Yevgeny!”

His assistant appears moments later, tablet in hand, looking mildly annoyed at being summoned at nearly midnight. “Yes?”

“I need you to find out where Shane Hollander lives.”

Yevgeny blinks. “The hockey player?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“No.”

“Is this for business or-” Yevgeny pauses, studying Ilya’s face. “Oh. Oh. Really?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Shane Hollander,” Yevgeny repeats, a smile playing at his lips. “The most famous closeted athlete in professional sports. You’re going after him.”

“I’m not going after anyone. I’m sending flowers.”

“You’ve never sent flowers to anyone in your life.”

This is unfortunately true. Ilya has sent many things to many people — money, threats, expensive gifts that are really just power plays — but never flowers. Flowers are personal. Flowers are romantic. Flowers suggest caring about someone’s feelings.

“First time for everything,” Ilya says. “Find his address. And find me a florist that can deliver tomorrow — no, wait. Make it three days. Give him time to get home from the road trip.”

“You want me to track the NHL schedule?”

“You’re my assistant. Assist.”

Yevgeny sighs but makes notes on his tablet. “Anything else?”

“Make sure the arrangement is …” Ilya pauses, trying to find the right word. “Impressive. Expensive. The kind that makes a statement.”

“What statement would that be?”

“That I’m thinking about him.”

“Subtlety isn’t really your strong suit, is it?”

“Get out of my office, Yevgeny.”

His assistant leaves, still smiling, and Ilya returns to his desk. He has work to do — the shipment, the logistics, a hundred other things that require his attention.

But his mind keeps drifting back to Shane. To the way he looked on his knees, to the sounds he made, to the desperate way he said “please” like he’d finally found something worth begging for.

Ilya picks up a pen and a clean piece of paper. If he’s sending flowers, he’s sending a note. And if he’s sending a note, he might as well make it count.

He writes:

You looked perfect on your knees. I can’t stop thinking about how good you tasted, how beautifully you fell apart for me. Next time — and there will be a next time — I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you shake, every limit you think you have so I can push you past it.

Until then, remember: you’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to want me.

 - I

He reads it over once, decides it’s either perfect or completely insane, and folds it carefully. Tomorrow he’ll give it to Yevgeny with instructions to include it with the flowers.

Tonight, he’s going to go home and try not to obsess over a hockey player who just turned his world sideways.

Shane’s apartment feels too quiet after the road trip. The team flew back this morning, and Shane went straight home, exhausted and wired in equal measure.

They won both games in New York, but Shane can barely remember either game. His mind has been stuck in a loop for three days, replaying every moment in Ilya’s office. The kiss, the desk, the way Ilya looked at him like Shane was something precious and consumable at the same time.

He’s texted Ilya exactly once: Made it back to the hotel safely.

Ilya’s response came thirty seconds later: Good. Sleep well.

Nothing since then. No follow-up, no pressure, no demands. Shane doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

He’s unpacking his bag, separating dirty clothes from clean, when his doorbell rings.

Shane frowns. He’s not expecting anyone — his mom usually calls first, and his teammates know better than to drop by unannounced during the season. He considers ignoring it, but the bell rings again, insistent.

Through the peephole he sees a delivery driver in a green vest, holding an absolutely massive floral arrangement. It’s gorgeous — white roses and dark greenery and something purple Shane doesn’t recognize, all arranged in a elegant crystal vase.

Shane opens the door. “Can I help you?”

“Delivery for Shane Hollander,” the driver says cheerfully.

“I think you have the wrong address.”

The driver checks his paperwork. “You’re Shane Hollander?”

“Yes, but I didn’t order-”

“Someone ordered them for you, then. Sign here, please.”

“Wait, I really think-”

“Sir, I’ve got twelve more deliveries today. Are you Shane Hollander or not?”

“I am, but-”

“Great. Here you go.” The driver thrusts the arrangement into Shane’s hands — it’s heavier than it looks — and is already walking back to his truck before Shane can protest further.

Shane stands in his doorway, holding roughly five hundred dollars worth of flowers, completely confused. He backs into his apartment and kicks the door shut, then sets the vase on his dining table.

The arrangement is stunning. Objectively the most beautiful flowers Shane has ever seen in person. White roses, deep purple flowers that might be irises, dark green eucalyptus, all arranged with the kind of casual elegance that costs money.

There’s a small card tucked among the stems.

Shane’s hands shake slightly as he pulls it out and opens it.

The handwriting is masculine, confident, each letter precisely formed.

You looked perfect on your knees. I can’t stop thinking about how good you tasted, how beautifully you fell apart for me. Next time — and there will be a next time — I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you shake, every limit you think you have so I can push you past it.

Until then, remember: you’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to want me.

 - I

Shane reads it three times, his face getting hotter with each pass. The note is filthy and romantic and possessive all at once. It’s also completely insane — what if someone else had opened his door? What if his mother had been visiting? What if-

But underneath the panic is something else. Something warm and wanting that makes Shane’s whole body flush.

Ilya sent him flowers. Ilya, who runs a club and wears five-thousand-dollar suits and made Shane come so hard he saw stars, sent him flowers. With a note that makes it very clear Ilya isn’t done with him.

Shane sinks into one of his dining chairs and stares at the arrangement. He should be terrified. He should throw the flowers away and block Ilya’s number and pretend that night never happened.

Instead, he pulls out his phone.

Shane: You sent me flowers.

The response is immediate.

Ilya: I did. Do you like them?

Shane: They’re beautiful. They’re also completely insane. What if someone saw?

Ilya: The delivery driver?

Shane: Anyone. My neighbors. My teammates. What if someone asks who sent them?

Ilya: Tell them an admirer. Tell them it’s none of their business. Tell them whatever you want. The flowers are for you, not them.

Shane: The note …

Ilya: Was also for you.

Shane: It’s

Shane deletes that and starts again.

Shane: I can’t stop thinking about it either.

Ilya: Good.

Shane: This is crazy. I don’t do things like this.

Ilya: Maybe you should start.

Shane stares at his phone, at the flowers, at the note he’s already read five times. His entire life has been about control — controlling his image, his reactions, his desires. Presenting the version of Shane Hollander that everyone expects.

But in that office, with Ilya, he wasn’t in control at all. He gave it up willingly, desperately, and it felt like the first real thing he’s done in years.

Shane: When can I see you again?

Ilya: Whenever you want. I’m very flexible for the right person.

Shane: I have practice tomorrow and a game the next day. We’re home for six days after that.

Ilya: Come to New York. I’ll send my driver.

Shane: I can’t just disappear to New York.

Ilya: Why not? You’re a grown man. You’re allowed to have a personal life.

Shane: Not this kind of personal life.

There’s a pause.

Ilya: I understand if this is too much. If you want to stop before it goes further, tell me now. I won’t be offended.

Shane looks at the flowers again. At the note. At Ilya’s number in his phone.

Shane: I don’t want to stop.

Ilya: Then come to New York. Stay at my place. No one will know except us.

Shane: This is insane.

Ilya: Yes. So?

Shane laughs despite himself. When was the last time he did something insane? Something just for himself, consequences be damned?

Shane: Okay. I’ll come to New York.

Ilya: Friday?

Shane: Friday.

Ilya: I’ll send you the details. And Shane?

Shane: Yeah?

Ilya: Wear something easy to take off.

Shane’s entire body goes hot. He sets his phone down and presses his hands to his face, trying to calm his racing heart.

This is happening. He’s going to New York to see Ilya again. To do … whatever Ilya wants to do to him. With him.

The thought should terrify him. Instead, it makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t in years.

The flowers sit on his dining table for two days, impossible to ignore. Every time Shane walks past them, he thinks about Ilya’s note. About what “next time” might mean.

At practice, Pierre pulls him aside after a drill.

“You seem different,” Pierre observes.

“Different how?” Shane tries to keep his voice neutral.

“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe?” Pierre studies him carefully. “Something good happen in New York?”

Shane thinks about Ilya’s hands, Ilya’s mouth, Ilya’s voice telling him he was perfect. “Just a good road trip.”

“Sure,” Pierre says, but his eyes say he doesn’t quite believe it. “Well, whatever it is, it’s good to see you less stressed.”

That night, Shane’s mom calls.

“How was New York, honey?”

“Good. We won both games.”

“I saw. Your father and I watched. You played beautifully.” She pauses. “You sound happy.”

“I am happy.”

“No, I mean really happy. Not just ‘we won the game’ happy. Did something happen?”

Shane looks at the flowers on his table. “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

“That’s cryptic.”

“It’s new. I’m figuring it out.”

“Well,” Yuna says gently, “whatever it is, I hope it’s good for you. You deserve good things, Shane.”

After they hang up, Shane takes a photo of the flowers and sends it to Ilya without comment.

Ilya: Still alive?

Shane: Barely. I keep reading your note.

Ilya: Good. It’s all true.

Shane: Every time I look at them I think about …

Ilya: About what?

Shane takes a breath and types something he’s never said out loud to anyone.

Shane: About what it felt like. To be on my knees for you. To let go like that.

Ilya: How did it feel?

Shane: Like the first real thing I’ve done in my entire life.

Ilya: Then Friday can’t come soon enough.

Shane tells his teammates he’s going to visit a friend in New York for the weekend. Hayden raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. J.J. makes a joke about Shane finally having a social life. Coach Theriault just reminds him to be ready for practice Monday morning.

The lie comes easily, which should probably worry Shane more than it does.

Ilya’s driver picks him up from his building in a black Mercedes that probably costs more than Shane’s first year salary. The driver — a large man with a scar on his neck who introduces himself only as Viktor — says nothing during the three-hour drive except “Mr. Rozanov is expecting you.”

Shane spends the drive trying not to panic. He packed a bag like he’s going on a normal weekend trip — jeans, t-shirts, toiletries — but included the nice boxer briefs his stylist convinced him to buy and never wear. He showered twice this morning. He’s wearing the cologne Ilya complimented at the club, hoping it’s not too obvious.

He feels like a teenager sneaking out to see someone his parents don’t approve of. Except he’s twenty-five and the person is a man who may or may not be involved in organized crime and definitely made him come harder than anyone ever has.

This is fine. This is normal. This is what people do.

Viktor pulls up to a building in DUMBO that’s all glass and modern architecture, the kind of place that probably requires a credit check just to visit. He opens Shane’s door.

“Top floor. Mr. Rozanov is waiting.”

Shane takes the elevator up, his heart in his throat. The elevator opens directly into a penthouse apartment that’s somehow both minimalist and obviously expensive — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River, sleek furniture, art that probably costs more than Shane’s car.

Ilya is standing by the windows, wearing dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that shows off his build. He turns when Shane enters, and his smile is dangerous.

“You came.”

“I said I would,” Shane says, setting his bag down.

“People say a lot of things.” Ilya crosses to him slowly, predatory. “I’m glad you meant it.”

“I-” Shane’s breath catches as Ilya reaches him, one hand cupping his jaw.

“I’ve thought about you every day since that night,” Ilya says softly. “About how you looked, how you tasted. About all the things I want to do to you.”

“Like what?” Shane whispers.

Ilya smiles. “I told you. I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to learn everything.” He leans in, his lips brushing Shane’s ear. “But first, I’m going to kiss you until you forget why you were ever scared of this.”

Shane’s eyes close. “Okay.”

“Good,” Ilya murmurs. “Now stop thinking and let me have you.”

Shane does.

Ilya’s kiss is different this time. Not the desperate claiming of the club office, but slow and thorough, like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. His hands frame Shane’s face, thumbs stroking along his jaw as his mouth explores with patient intensity.

Shane’s bag is still by the elevator. The tour of the apartment hasn’t happened. Everything narrows down to this — Ilya’s mouth, Ilya’s hands, the way Ilya takes and takes and somehow makes Shane feel like he’s the one being given something precious.

“You’re nervous,” Ilya observes, pulling back slightly.

“I’m terrified,” Shane admits.

“Of me?”

“Of this. Of wanting it so much.”

Ilya’s eyes soften. “Come here.” He leads Shane to the couch, settling them both down. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I want to,” Shane says quickly. “I just … I’ve never …”

“I know.” Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s, their fingers lacing together. “We’ll go slow. And if anything doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Ilya lifts their joined hands and kisses Shane’s knuckles. “Now tell me — what do you want? Not what you think you should want. What does Shane Hollander actually want?”

Shane’s face heats. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Try.”

“I want …” Shane swallows hard. “I want what happened at the club. But more. I want to know what it feels like when someone else is in control. When I don’t have to think or plan or be careful.”

“You want to submit,” Ilya says, and there’s no judgment in it, just understanding.

“Yes.” The admission makes Shane feel vulnerable and free at the same time. “Is that weird?”

“Not even a little.” Ilya’s thumb traces circles on the back of Shane’s hand. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“What?”

“Someone who’s been in control their entire life. Captain of teams since you were a teenager. The person everyone depends on. The one who has to have all the answers.” Ilya leans in closer. “That’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes.

“So tonight, you don’t have to be that person. Tonight, I make the decisions. I tell you what to do. And all you have to do is feel. Can you do that for me?”

Shane nods, not trusting his voice.

“Use your words, Shane.”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“Good.” Ilya stands, pulling Shane up with him. “Come with me.”

He leads Shane through the apartment to a bedroom that’s all dark wood and soft lighting. The bed is enormous, the sheets crisp and expensive-looking. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the Manhattan skyline, but Ilya crosses to close the curtains, creating a private world.

“Undress for me,” Ilya says, leaning against the dresser. “Slowly.”

Shane’s hands shake as he reaches for his shirt buttons. He can feel Ilya watching him, assessing, appreciating. It should make him self-conscious — his body is good, he knows that objectively, years of professional athletics have made sure of it — but being watched like this feels different. More intimate than being naked in a locker room full of teammates.

His shirt hits the floor. Then his shoes, his socks. He pauses at his jeans.

“Keep going,” Ilya encourages. “You’re beautiful. I want to see all of you.”

Shane undoes his jeans and pushes them down along with his boxer briefs — the nice ones he bought specifically for this. He stands completely naked in Ilya’s bedroom, exposed and vulnerable and more turned on than he’s ever been in his life.

“Perfect,” Ilya says, his voice rough. He crosses to Shane slowly, still fully clothed. “Absolutely perfect.”

His hands map Shane’s body with possessive appreciation — shoulders, chest, the dip of his waist, his hips. When he brushes against Shane’s erection, Shane gasps.

“Already so hard for me,” Ilya murmurs. “So responsive. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“You’re still dressed,” Shane manages.

“I am. Because this is about you, not me. Tonight is about teaching you what your body can do, what pleasure really feels like.” Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock, and Shane’s knees nearly buckle. “Get on the bed. On your back.”

Shane does, the sheets cool against his overheated skin. Ilya stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at him with an expression that makes Shane feel simultaneously worshipped and owned.

“Hands above your head,” Ilya orders. “Don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Shane complies, his heart racing. This is really happening. He’s naked in Ilya Rozanov’s bed, about to do things he’s only let himself fantasize about in his darkest, most secret moments.

Ilya finally starts to undress, and Shane can’t look away. The t-shirt reveals a torso that’s all lean muscle and smooth skin. The jeans show powerful thighs and the evidence of Ilya’s arousal. When he’s finally naked, Shane makes a small sound he can’t quite suppress.

“Like what you see?” Ilya asks, amused.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Ilya climbs onto the bed, settling between Shane’s legs. “Now, let me show you what I’ve been thinking about all week.”

He starts with kisses — Shane’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. Then lower, to his collarbones, his chest. When Ilya’s mouth closes around one of Shane’s nipples, Shane arches off the bed.

“Sensitive here,” Ilya notes with satisfaction. “Good to know.”

He lavishes attention on Shane’s chest until Shane is panting, overwhelmed by sensations he didn’t know were possible. Every touch feels electric, every kiss burns. When Ilya’s hand wraps around him again, Shane nearly comes from that alone.

“Not yet,” Ilya says, his grip tightening just enough to pull Shane back from the edge. “You don’t come until I say you can.”

“I can’t-” Shane gasps. “It’s too much.”

“You can. You will. Because I’m going to teach you control. I’m going to teach you how to wait, how to take everything I give you and hold it until I let you fall apart.”

Ilya’s mouth moves lower, kissing down Shane’s stomach, his hip bones. Shane’s hands fist in the sheets above his head, every muscle tense with need.

“Breathe,” Ilya instructs. “Let your body relax. Trust me.”

Shane tries, forcing his muscles to loosen even as every nerve ending screams for release. When Ilya’s mouth finally — finally — closes around him, Shane makes a sound he’s never made before, something desperate and broken.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs against him. “Let me hear you. No one’s here but us. You can be as loud as you want.”

He works Shane with skilled precision, learning his responses, finding the spots that make him gasp and shake. Every time Shane gets close, Ilya pulls back, drawing it out, building the need higher and higher until Shane is incoherent with want.

“Please,” Shane begs. “Ilya, please, I need-”

“What do you need?”

“I need to come. Please let me come.”

“Not yet.” Ilya sits up, reaching for the nightstand. “First, I want to see how you take me.”

Shane watches as Ilya pulls out lubricant and condoms, his mind spinning. This is it. This is actually happening.

“Have you ever-” Ilya starts.

“No. Never.”

Ilya’s eyes flash dark with desire. “I’ll be careful. I’ll make it good. But you have to tell me if anything hurts, if anything is too much. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good boy.”

The praise makes Shane’s whole body flush. Ilya coats his fingers with lube and settles back between Shane’s legs.

“Relax,” he says softly. “This might feel strange at first, but I promise it gets better.”

The first touch of Ilya’s finger makes Shane tense. It does feel strange — foreign and invasive and not at all sexy. But Ilya takes his time, working slowly, carefully, murmuring encouragement as Shane’s body gradually adjusts.

“There we go,” Ilya says when he adds a second finger. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Then he does something — presses against some spot inside Shane — and pleasure explodes through Shane’s entire body.

“Oh god,” Shane gasps. “What was—how did you-”

“That’s your prostate.” Ilya strokes against it again, and Shane nearly levitates off the bed. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Jesus, yes.”

Ilya works him open with patient thoroughness, hitting that spot over and over until Shane is writhing, desperate, completely lost to sensation. When he finally withdraws his fingers, Shane actually whimpers at the loss.

“I know,” Ilya soothes, tearing open a condom. “I’ll fill you up. Give you what you need.”

He positions himself carefully, one hand on Shane’s hip, the other guiding himself into place. “Look at me,” he orders. “I want to see your face when I’m inside you for the first time.”

Shane meets his eyes as Ilya starts to push in. The stretch burns, overwhelming despite all the preparation. Shane’s breath comes in short pants, his hands gripping the sheets white-knuckled.

“Breathe,” Ilya reminds him. “Push out against me. That’s it. Good.”

Inch by inch, Ilya fills him. It’s too much, impossibly full, bordering on painful. But then Ilya’s hips are flush against him, and something about the complete connection makes Shane’s vision blur.

“You okay?” Ilya asks, holding perfectly still.

“I’m-” Shane can barely form words. “I feel so full.”

“You feel perfect. So tight around me. So good.” Ilya leans down to kiss him, slow and deep. “I’m going to move now. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

He pulls back and thrusts in carefully, and Shane gasps as the angle hits that spot inside him that makes stars explode behind his eyes.

“There it is,” Ilya says with satisfaction. “Right there.”

He sets a steady rhythm, each thrust precise and controlled, hitting Shane’s prostate with devastating accuracy. Shane has never felt anything like this — the fullness, the pleasure that radiates from his core through his entire body, the way Ilya’s weight pins him down and makes him feel safe and claimed all at once.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya orders. “I want to feel you come around me.”

Shane wraps his hand around his cock, already so close he can barely stand it. Three strokes and he’s there, pleasure building impossible and bright and-

“Now,” Ilya commands. “Come for me now, Shane.”

Shane does, his orgasm ripping through him with an intensity that whites out his vision. He feels himself clenching around Ilya, feels Ilya’s groan of pleasure, feels like his entire body is coming apart and being rebuilt all at once.

When he comes back to himself, Ilya is moving faster, chasing his own release. Shane watches through half-lidded eyes as Ilya’s control finally breaks, his face transforming with pleasure as he finishes.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, collapsing beside Shane. “That was …”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, unable to form more complex sentences.

They lie there breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Ilya pulls out carefully and disposes of the condom, then returns with a warm washcloth to clean Shane up with gentle efficiency.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks, settling back beside him.

“I don’t have words,” Shane admits. “I didn’t know … I never thought it could be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything. Like the only real thing I’ve ever felt.”

Ilya pulls him close, and Shane goes willingly, tucking himself against Ilya’s chest. They fit together perfectly, like they were designed for this.

“You were perfect,” Ilya says quietly. “So responsive. So trusting. Everything I imagined and more.”

“I’ve never-” Shane pauses. “With the women I’ve been with, I could never stop thinking. Never just feel it. But with you …”

“You could let go.”

“Yes.”

Ilya kisses the top of his head. “Good. That’s what this should be. What it should always be.”

They lie together as the city lights come on outside, as the evening turns to night, as Shane processes that his entire understanding of himself just shifted on its axis.

“Can we do that again?” Shane asks eventually.

Ilya laughs, warm and genuine. “Yes. But first you’re going to eat something and rest. I told you, I’m taking my time with you.”

They order Russian food and eat it in Ilya’s bed, sprawled out naked and comfortable in a way Shane has never been with anyone. Ilya asks him about hockey, about Montreal, about what it’s like being captain. Shane asks about Ilya’s businesses — carefully, sensing there are questions he shouldn’t ask — and learns that Ilya runs restaurants and real estate investments and several other ventures that sound legitimate and probably are, mostly.

“Do you ever wish you did something else?” Shane asks. “Something normal?”

Ilya considers this. “I don’t know what normal would look like for me. This is all I’ve ever known.”

“That’s sad.”

“Maybe. But everyone’s trapped by something. Your trap just looks prettier than mine.”

Shane thinks about his closet, his careful performance, the way he monitors every word and glance. “I guess that’s true.”

“The difference is,” Ilya says, “in here, with me, you don’t have to be trapped. You can just be Shane. Whoever that is.”

“I’m not sure I know who that is anymore.”

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

It’s a promise Ilya probably shouldn’t make, and Shane probably shouldn’t believe, but in this moment, in this bed, Shane lets himself hope it might be true.

Later, Ilya shows him what it’s like when he really takes his time. He maps every inch of Shane’s body, finding places Shane didn’t know were sensitive, drawing out pleasure until Shane is begging again, desperate and incoherent.

“You’re so beautiful when you beg,” Ilya says, holding Shane on the edge for what feels like hours. “So perfect when you give yourself to me like this.”

“Please,” Shane gasps. “I can’t—I need-”

“I know what you need.” Ilya’s hand works him with practiced skill. “I’m going to make you come untouched. Just from this. Just from knowing that I own your pleasure right now.”

He works Shane’s prostate with his fingers while carefully avoiding touching his cock. The pleasure builds impossibly, too much and not enough, and Shane is shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

“Let go,” Ilya commands. “Come for me, Shane. Show me what your body can do.”

It happens — pleasure exploding through him without any touch to his erection, his body convulsing as he comes harder than he did before. He hears himself crying out, Ilya’s name and fragments of pleas and sounds that don’t resemble words at all.

“Perfect,” Ilya breathes, working him through it. “So fucking perfect. You’re amazing, do you know that? The way you respond to me, the way you trust me with this. You’re incredible.”

The praise makes Shane shudder with aftershocks. He’s never felt anything like this — this complete surrender, this total pleasure, this bone-deep satisfaction.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya murmurs, gathering Shane against his chest as he comes down. “You’re safe. You’re perfect. I’ve got you.”

Shane believes him.

Shane wakes up to sunlight streaming through gaps in the curtains and Ilya’s arm around his waist. For a moment he panics. Where is he, what happened, who-

Then it all comes back. New York. Ilya. The most intense night of his life.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Ilya mumbles against his shoulder.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ilya pulls him closer. “What’s running through that head of yours?”

“Everything. This. What it means.”

“It means you spent the night with someone who wants you. Who likes you. Who thinks you’re pretty incredible in bed.” Ilya kisses his shoulder. “Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be.”

“My entire life is complicated.”

“Then let this be simple.” Ilya rolls Shane onto his back, hovering over him. “I want you. You want me. Everything else is just noise.”

He kisses Shane slow and deep, morning breath and all, and Shane feels something ease in his chest. Maybe Ilya is right. Maybe it can be this simple.

“Now,” Ilya says, pulling back with a wicked grin. “Let me show you what morning sex feels like with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Shane laughs, pulling him back down. “Okay.”

And for the next hour, Shane doesn’t think about anything except how good it feels to be wanted, to be touched, to finally be himself.

Viktor arrives at 3 PM to drive Shane back to Montreal. Shane has already showered and dressed, packed his bag, tried to memorize every detail of Ilya’s apartment so he can replay it later when this weekend feels like a dream.

Ilya walks him to the elevator, his hand warm on the small of Shane’s back.

“When can I see you again?” Shane asks.

“Soon. I’ll figure out my schedule and let you know.” Ilya pulls him close, kissing him thoroughly despite Viktor’s presence. “Thank you for trusting me with this weekend.”

“Thank you for-” Shane pauses, not sure how to finish. “For everything.”

“Text me when you’re home safe.”

“I will.”

One more kiss, and then Shane steps into the elevator. The doors close on Ilya’s face, and Shane feels the loss like a physical thing. Two days. Just two days, but somehow Ilya has become essential in a way Shane can’t quite explain.

The drive back to Montreal passes in a blur. Viktor remains silent, which Shane appreciates — he’s not ready to make small talk, not when his mind is full of the weekend. Of Ilya’s hands, Ilya’s voice, the way Ilya looked at him like Shane was something precious and filthy all at once.

Back in his apartment, the flowers Ilya sent are still on his dining table, slightly wilted but still beautiful. Shane sends a text. Home safe. Thank you for this weekend.

He waits for a response, but none comes immediately. That’s fine — Ilya is probably busy. Running multiple businesses seems like it would be time-consuming.

Shane orders dinner, unpacks, tries to focus on the game tape his coach sent over. But his mind keeps drifting back to New York, to Ilya’s bed, to discoveries about himself he never thought he’d make.

He checks his phone before bed. Still nothing from Ilya.

That’s fine. Everything is fine.

Ilya’s phone rings at 2 AM. He’s in bed — alone, Shane left hours ago and the apartment feels too empty now — and he considers ignoring it. But the caller ID shows Mikhail, and Mikhail never calls unless it’s important.

“Da?” Ilya answers in Russian.

“Your father is dead.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Ilya sits up, suddenly wide awake. “What?”

“An aneurysm. In his sleep. The housekeeper found him this morning.” Mikhail’s voice is carefully neutral. “You need to come home.”

“How-” Ilya stops. His father has been battling Alzheimer’s for three years, his mind deteriorating slowly but inexorably. He’d refused to step down, refused to acknowledge his weakness, continued making decisions even when he couldn’t remember making them minutes later. “When?”

“Tonight. I’ve already arranged the flight. Someone will pick you up in two hours.”

“The business-”

“Is in chaos. The old guard is circling. Everyone knows Grigori was weak at the end, and now they think there’s an opportunity.” Mikhail pauses. “They’re wrong, of course. You’re his heir. But you need to come establish that fact. Preferably before someone gets ambitious.”

Ilya is already out of bed, his mind switching into crisis mode. “I’ll be ready.”

He hangs up and calls Viktor. “My father is dead. We’re going to Moscow. Pack for at least two weeks.”

“Understood, boss.”

Next, Yevgeny. “Cancel everything. Reschedule all meetings indefinitely. I’m going to Russia.”

“How long-”

“I don’t know. However long it takes.”

He packs efficiently — suits for the funeral, clothes for work, his father’s signet ring that Mikhail will undoubtedly give him. He doesn’t bring much else. Russia isn’t home anymore, hasn’t been for years. But he’s about to become the head of the entire Bratva, not just the North American operation, and that requires his presence.

His phone buzzes. A text from Shane. Home safe. Thank you for this weekend.

Ilya stares at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should respond. Should tell Shane what’s happening, that he’ll be gone, that-

But there’s no time. Viktor is already at the door. The car is waiting. Russia is calling him back to claim his birthright in blood and power.

Ilya pockets his phone and leaves without responding.

The Rozanov estate outside Moscow is exactly as Ilya remembers — imposing, cold, a monument to power that feels more like a mausoleum than a home. His father’s body is already at the funeral home. The house is full of Bratva lieutenants, all watching Ilya with varying degrees of respect and speculation.

Mikhail greets him in his father’s study. The old man looks exhausted.

“It’s good you came quickly,” Mikhail says in Russian, embracing Ilya briefly. “The vultures are already gathering.”

“Who?”

“Pavel Gankin thinks he has a claim because Sergei was his cousin. Boris Ivanov believes he’s earned it through loyalty. Ruslan Boyarsky simply thinks he’s strong enough to take it.” Mikhail pours them both vodka. “They’re all fools, but dangerous fools.”

Ilya downs the vodka. “Where do you stand?”

“With you. Where I’ve always stood. You’re Grigori’s blood. You’ve proven yourself in America. The position is yours by right.” Mikhail refills their glasses. “But you’ll have to prove you can hold it.”

“I can hold it.”

“I believe you. But they need to believe it too.” Mikhail slides a folder across the desk. “These are the major players who might cause problems. I suggest you deal with them before the funeral. Send a message that the transition of power is not negotiable.”

Ilya opens the folder. Photographs, dossiers, details on every potential threat. This is why Mikhail has survived so long in the Bratva — he understands that information is as valuable as violence.

“I’ll handle it,” Ilya says.

“Good.” Mikhail raises his glass. “To your father. He was a hard man, but he built something that will outlast him.”

They drink.

Over the next three days, Ilya works systematically through the list. Pavel Gankin receives a visit from Viktor and three other men. The conversation is brief. Pavel agrees that Ilya is the rightful heir and pledges his loyalty. The alternative — made clear by Viktor’s presence — is unacceptable.

Boris Ivanov requires a more personal touch. Ilya meets him at a restaurant the Bratva owns, just the two of them in a private room.

“You think you can walk in here after years in America and just take what your father built?” Boris says, his face red with vodka and indignation.

“I don’t think,” Ilya says calmly. “I know. Because I’ve done in ten years what you couldn’t do in thirty. I’ve made the American operation more profitable than it’s been since the Soviet Union fell. I’ve built legitimate businesses that make us untouchable. I’ve proven I’m my father’s son in every way that matters.”

“You’re just a boy-”

“I’m the boy who will kill you if you challenge me.” Ilya’s voice doesn’t rise. He doesn’t need to shout. “My father was old school. Violent, obvious, proud. I learned from him. But I also learned from America. I know how to make problems disappear without anyone noticing. So you can pledge loyalty, or you can disappear. Choose.”

Boris stares at him for a long moment. Then he stands and extends his hand. “You have my loyalty.”

Ilya shakes it, knowing that loyalty will last exactly as long as Ilya remains powerful. That’s fine. The Bratva has never run on trust, only fear and mutual benefit.

Ruslan Boyarsky is a different problem. He’s young and ambitious. He actually believes he’s strong enough to take control. Which means he won’t back down through conversation or threats.

Ilya has him killed on Wednesday night. Quick, clean, his body found in his apartment with evidence of a heart attack. Natural causes. No one will question it.

The message is clear: Ilya Rozanov is not his father. He’s more dangerous because he’s smarter, more patient, willing to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

By Thursday, everyone in the Russian Bratva understands that the transition is complete. Ilya is in charge. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to join Ruslan Boyarsky.

No one takes him up on the offer.

Shane hasn’t heard from Ilya in three days. He’s tried not to panic — Ilya is a busy man, maybe he got caught up in work, maybe he lost his phone, maybe a thousand different reasonable explanations.

But the silence feels wrong. After a weekend like that, after the intimacy they shared, for Ilya to just … disappear? It doesn’t make sense.

Shane texts again. Hey, is everything okay?

No response.

At practice, Pierre notices his distraction.

“You all right, Holls? You seem off.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes.”

“I’m waiting for an important message.”

“Must be very important.” Pierre studies him. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with whatever made you so happy after New York, would it?”

Shane’s stomach drops. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t.” Pierre claps him on the shoulder. “Just remember — whatever it is, whoever it is, you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

“I know. Thanks.”

But Shane can’t talk to anyone. Can’t explain that he spent the weekend in New York having the best sex of his life with a man who now won’t return his messages. Can’t admit that he’s falling for someone who might have just used him for a weekend and moved on.

That night, lying in bed, Shane types out a longer message.

I don’t know what happened or if I did something wrong. If you need space, I understand. But please just let me know you’re okay. The silence is kind of killing me.

He stares at it for five minutes, then deletes it. Too needy. Too clingy. Too much.

Instead, he sends: Hope everything’s good.

Still no response.

The funeral is a production. Half of Moscow’s criminal underworld attends, along with politicians and businessmen and various other people whose involvement with the Bratva is supposed to be secret. Ilya stands at the front in a black suit, accepting condolences with the appropriate gravity.

His mother is there, small and broken-looking. She hugs Ilya tightly.

“You look so much like him,” she whispers in Russian.

“I’m not him, Mama.”

“No. You’re smarter. More dangerous.” She pulls back, studying his face. “He would be proud. Terrified, but proud.”

After the service, there’s a reception at the estate. Ilya moves through the crowd, accepting pledges of loyalty, making promises, establishing the new order. Every conversation is a negotiation. Every handshake is a contract written in blood and old vodka.

Mikhail pulls him aside around midnight. “The old guard is satisfied. They see you as a worthy successor. Strong enough to lead, smart enough to keep us profitable.”

“And young enough to threaten them,” Ilya adds.

“That too. But they’ll fall in line. The question is what now? Everyone expects you to move back to Moscow permanently. To run things from here like your father did.”

Ilya has been thinking about this for days. “No.”

Mikhail blinks. “No?”

“The future of the Bratva is in diversification. In being global, not just Russian. I’ll keep a presence here, visit regularly, maintain relationships. But the real money, the real power, is in America and Europe. In legitimate businesses that make us untouchable.” Ilya meets his uncle’s eyes. “I’m not abandoning Moscow. I’m dragging it into the 21st century.”

“Your father-”

“Is dead. And his way of doing business died with him.” Ilya softens slightly. “I respect what he built. I’m grateful for the foundation. But I’m not going to run the Bratva like it’s 1995. We either evolve or we die.”

Mikhail is quiet for a long moment. Then he laughs. “You really are his son. Just as arrogant, just as certain you’re right.”

“I am right.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” Mikhail raises his glass. “To the new leader of the Bratva. May you be smarter than your father and luckier than your enemies.”

They drink.

Over the next week, Ilya consolidates his power. He meets with every major player in the Russian operation, establishes expectations, makes it clear that he’s in charge even if he’s not physically present. He sets up new communication structures, new reporting systems, new ways to keep control from five thousand miles away.

It’s exhausting. Every day is meetings and negotiations and subtle threats. Every night is paperwork and phone calls and contingency planning. Ilya barely sleeps, barely eats, certainly doesn’t have time to think about anything except the empire he’s just inherited.

His phone sits in his hotel room, charging. He’s seen the messages from Shane — five of them now, ranging from casual to concerned. He should respond. Should explain what happened, why he disappeared.

But every time Ilya picks up his phone to text back, another crisis demands his attention. Another problem needs solving. Another person needs to be reminded why challenging Ilya Rozanov is a fatal mistake.

On the tenth day, Viktor finds him in the hotel bar at 3 AM, working through reports.

“You need to sleep, boss.”

“I need to finish this.”

“You need to sleep,” Viktor repeats. “You’re no good to anyone dead from exhaustion.”

Ilya looks up at him. Viktor’s been with him for ten years. Viktor was there when Ilya first came to America, when he built the Brooklyn operation from near-collapse to dominance. Viktor has earned the right to speak bluntly.

“What do you think I should do?” Ilya asks.

“About what?”

“All of it. The Bratva. Russia. America.” Ilya pauses. “My life.”

Viktor sits down across from him. “I think you should do what you’ve always done — make the decision that serves your interests, then make everyone else live with it. You want to run the Bratva from America? Run it from America. Anyone who doesn’t like it can be replaced.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. You’re making it complicated because you think you owe your father something. But you don’t. He’s dead. You’re alive. Build the empire you want, not the one he wanted for you.”

Ilya considers this. Viktor is right — he’s been trying to honor his father’s memory by doing things his father’s way. But Grigori Rozanov is gone. Ilya is in charge now. He gets to decide what the Bratva becomes.

“I’m going back to New York,” Ilya says. “Next week. After I finish establishing the new structure here.”

“Good. America suits you better anyway.” Viktor stands. “Now get some sleep. You have a meeting with the St. Petersburg operation in six hours.”

After Viktor leaves, Ilya finally looks at his phone. Six messages from Shane now. The last one was sent two days ago. I get it. It was just a weekend. Thanks for that, at least.

Ilya’s chest tightens. Shane thinks he was used and discarded. Thinks that weekend meant nothing. Thinks Ilya is just another powerful asshole who takes what he wants and moves on.

He types out a response. It wasn’t just a weekend. I’ll explain everything when I’m back. I’m sorry for the silence.

He stares at it, finger hovering over send.

Then another call comes through — a problem in St. Petersburg, urgent, needs his immediate attention.

Ilya deletes the message and takes the call. The explanation will have to wait. Right now, he has an empire to secure.

Shane will understand. Eventually.

On his last night in Russia, Ilya stands in his father’s study — his study now — and looks at the portrait of Grigori Rozanov that dominates one wall. His father stares back, stern and uncompromising, the man who built an empire through violence and will.

“I’m not you,” Ilya says to the portrait. “I’m going to do things differently.”

The portrait doesn’t answer, but Ilya feels lighter for saying it out loud.

He’s accomplished what he came to do. The Russian Bratva acknowledges him as their leader. The old guard has been neutralized — some through negotiation, some through violence, all through making it clear that Ilya Rozanov is not to be challenged. The structure is in place for him to run things remotely, with trusted lieutenants handling day-to-day operations.

Moscow is secure. The transition is complete.

And Ilya can finally go home. To New York, to Brooklyn, to the life he’s built for himself rather than the one he inherited.

To Shane, if Shane will still have him after two weeks of silence.

On the plane back to New York, Ilya finally lets himself think about that weekend. About Shane in his bed, Shane on his knees, Shane giving himself over so completely. About the way Shane looked at him like Ilya was someone worth trusting, worth wanting, worth more than just fear and power.

Ilya pulls out his phone and looks at Shane’s last message again. I get it. It was just a weekend.

He types: It wasn’t just a weekend. I had a family emergency and had to leave the country. I’m back now. Can we talk?

This time, he hits send.

Then he leans back in his seat and tries not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. He’s just become the head of the global Bratva. He’s one of the most powerful criminals in the world. He’s dangerous and damaged and exactly the kind of person someone like Shane Hollander should stay far away from.

But Ilya has never been good at staying away from things he wants.

And he wants Shane more than he’s wanted anything in a very long time.

Shane is in his kitchen making dinner — chicken breast and vegetables, the same boring macrobiotic meal he eats four times a week — when his phone buzzes on the counter.

He ignores it. He’s been ignoring Ilya’s messages for three days now, ever since that first text came through. It wasn’t just a weekend. I had a family emergency and had to leave the country. I’m back now. Can we talk?

A family emergency. For two weeks. Without a single text saying “hey, something came up” or “I’ll explain later” or literally anything to indicate Shane wasn’t just a convenient weekend distraction.

His phone buzzes again. Then again.

Shane flips the chicken breast with more force than necessary.

The thing is, he believed Ilya. Believed it when Ilya said Shane could trust him, could let go with him, could be himself. Shane gave Ilya something he’d never given anyone — complete vulnerability, total submission, the truth of who he is underneath all the performance.

And Ilya responded by disappearing without a word.

Shane’s phone starts ringing. Ilya’s name flashes on the screen.

Shane declines the call and goes back to his dinner.

It rings again.

Decline.

Again.

Shane turns his phone face-down and tries to focus on eating, but everything tastes like ash and disappointment.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at his door.

Shane frowns. He’s not expecting anyone. His neighbors know better than to drop by unannounced, and his teammates would text first.

He looks through the peephole and his heart stops.

Ilya is standing in the hallway of his building, wearing an expensive coat and an expression that’s half-determined, half-desperate.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters.

He considers not answering. Pretending he’s not home. Waiting until Ilya gives up and leaves.

But Ilya knocks again, harder this time. “Shane. I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathing through the door.”

“Go away,” Shane says.

“No.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“That’s fine. You can listen while I talk.” Another knock. “Please. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You don’t get to disappear for two weeks and then show up at my door,” Shane says, his voice rising. “You don’t get to-”

He stops talking because he’s opening the door, not fully thinking through what he’s doing, just wanting to say this to Ilya’s face instead of through wood and drywall.

Big mistake.

The second the door cracks open, Shane sees Ilya’s eyes — dark and intense and fixed on him like Shane is the only thing in the world that matters — and he tries to slam it shut again.

Ilya’s foot wedges in the gap.

“Move your foot,” Shane demands.

“No.”

“Ilya-”

Ilya pushes against the door, and Shane is strong — professional athlete strong — but Ilya is bigger and apparently not above using his size advantage. He muscles his way inside, and Shane stumbles backward, caught between fury and the traitorous part of his body that’s responding to Ilya’s proximity.

“Get out,” Shane says, backing further into his apartment. “You can’t just-”

“I can and I did.” Ilya closes the door behind him, locking it. “Now you’re going to listen to me.”

“I don’t have to listen to anything-”

“My father died.”

Shane stops. “What?”

“Two weeks ago. The night you went home from New York.” Ilya’s voice is flat, controlled. “An aneurysm. I got the call at 2 AM and was on a plane to Moscow by 4. I spent two weeks dealing with his funeral, taking over his business, and making sure everyone understood that I was in charge now.”

Shane’s anger wavers. “You could have texted me.”

“I should have.” Ilya moves closer, and Shane holds his ground even though every instinct says to either run or close the distance. “You’re right. It would have taken thirty seconds to send a message explaining what happened. I have no excuse except that I’ve never had to explain myself to anyone before. Never had someone who actually cared where I was or what I was doing.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know. It’s a reason, not an excuse. There’s a difference.” Ilya is close enough now that Shane can smell his cologne, can see the exhaustion around his eyes. “I fucked up. I hurt you. I made you think that weekend meant nothing when it meant-” He stops, seeming to struggle with the words. “It meant everything.”

Shane’s chest tightens. “You ghosted me for two weeks.”

“I did.”

“You made me feel used.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel stupid for trusting you.”

“Shane-” Ilya reaches for him, but Shane steps back.

“Do you have any idea what these two weeks were like for me? Wondering if I did something wrong? If I wasn’t good enough? If you just wanted a weekend with someone who’d never been with a man before and then moved on once you got it?” Shane’s voice cracks. “I gave you everything. Everything. And you disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.” Ilya looks wrecked, and some vindictive part of Shane is glad. “I’m not good at this. At relationships, at caring about someone, at any of it. The Bratva doesn’t exactly encourage emotional vulnerability.”

“The Bratva?” Shane repeats.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “My father’s business. My business now. The family organization I inherited.”

“What kind of organization?”

“The kind that requires I occasionally disappear without explanation and handle things that can’t be texted about.” Ilya meets his eyes. “I can’t give you details. For your safety and mine. But I can tell you that what happened wasn’t about you. It was about me dealing with something I couldn’t avoid.”

Shane processes this. The expensive clothes, the private driver, the club Ilya owns, the way Viktor looks like someone who’s very familiar with violence. “You’re in the mafia.”

“Russian Bratva, technically. But yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Shane runs his hands through his hair. “You’re a criminal.”

“A very successful one.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Ilya takes a step closer, and this time Shane doesn’t move away. “I understand if this is too much. If you want me to leave and never contact you again. But I’m asking you to give me another chance. To let me prove that weekend wasn’t just about sex. That you matter to me in ways I’m still figuring out.”

Shane wants to say no. Wants to protect himself from the inevitable heartbreak of getting involved with someone this dangerous, this complicated, this fundamentally incompatible with the life Shane is supposed to lead.

Instead, he hears himself say, “Why should I?”

“Because I flew to Montreal on a private jet the second I realized you weren’t answering my calls. Because I forced my way into your apartment like a caveman because the thought of you thinking I don’t want you is unbearable. Because-” Ilya stops, swallows hard. “Because I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I’m terrified of losing it before I even understand what it is.”

Shane’s anger is fading, replaced by something more complicated. “You hurt me.”

“I know. Let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

Ilya’s eyes darken. He closes the distance between them, one hand sliding around Shane’s waist, the other cupping his jaw. “However you want.”

“That’s not an answer,” Shane says, but his breath is coming faster.

“Isn’t it?” Ilya’s thumb traces Shane’s lower lip. “Tell me what you need. Tell me how to fix this.”

Shane should push him away. Should demand Ilya leave. Should protect himself from falling deeper into something that can only end badly.

But Ilya is looking at him like Shane is precious and essential, and Shane has never been good at denying himself what he really wants when it’s right in front of him.

“I need-” Shane starts, then stops. “I need to know this is real. That I’m not just some novelty to you.”

“You’re not a novelty.” Ilya leans in, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below Shane’s ear. “You’re an obsession.”

Shane shivers. “Ilya-”

“I thought about you every day in Russia. Every meeting, every negotiation, every moment I had to myself.” Ilya’s mouth moves to Shane’s neck, kissing, sucking gently. “I kept remembering how you looked in my bed. How you sounded when you came for me. How perfectly you submitted.”

“Stop,” Shane gasps, but he’s tilting his head to give Ilya better access.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ilya’s hand slides under Shane’s shirt, warm against his skin. “Or do you want me to keep going until you forgive me?”

“I haven’t forgiven you.”

“Then I’ll have to work harder.” Ilya pulls back just enough to look at Shane’s face. “Bedroom. Now.”

“You don’t get to order me around-”

“Don’t I?” Ilya’s smile is wicked. “Your body is already responding to me. I can feel your heart racing. See your pupils dilating. You want this as much as I do.”

Shane hates that he’s right. Hates that his body has already betrayed him, already decided that Ilya’s presence is enough to override every rational thought.

“Fine,” Shane says, trying to sound reluctant. “But this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“Understood.” Ilya takes his hand and leads him toward the bedroom like he owns the place. Like he owns Shane.

The worst part is how much Shane wants him to.

In the bedroom, Ilya turns to face him. “Strip.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Take off your clothes. Slowly.”

Shane’s face heats. “You can’t just-”

“I can. I am.” Ilya sits on the edge of Shane’s bed, looking infuriatingly composed. “You said I hurt you. Said I made you feel used. So now I’m going to spend the next hour proving that you’re not used, you’re worshipped. That every inch of you matters to me. But first, you’re going to let me look at you.”

Shane’s hands shake as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. This feels different than the first time — more vulnerable somehow, like he’s giving in to something he shouldn’t want.

He pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor.

“Good,” Ilya says. “Keep going.”

Shane undoes his jeans, pushes them down along with his boxer briefs. Stands naked in his own bedroom while Ilya looks at him with undisguised hunger.

“Perfect,” Ilya murmurs. “Come here.”

Shane crosses to him, and Ilya pulls him close, face level with Shane’s stomach. He presses kisses to Shane’s abs, his hip bones, everywhere except where Shane is getting rapidly hard.

“Ilya, please-”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.” Ilya’s hands map Shane’s thighs, his ass, his lower back. “Be specific.”

“You know what I want.”

“Say it anyway.”

Shane closes his eyes. “I want you to touch my cock. Please.”

“That’s better.” But Ilya still doesn’t touch him there. Instead, he stands up and walks Shane backward until his knees hit the bed. “Lie down.”

Shane does, his heart hammering. Ilya stands at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed, just looking.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed this?” Ilya asks. “How many times I jerked off in Moscow thinking about you?”

“You could have texted me that,” Shane points out.

“True.” Ilya starts undressing, finally. “But then we wouldn’t be here now, and I wouldn’t get to make it up to you properly.”

“How are you planning to do that?”

Ilya’s smile is pure sin. “By not letting you come until you accept my apology.”

Shane’s cock twitches at that. “That’s cruel.”

“That’s the point.” Ilya climbs onto the bed, settling between Shane’s legs. “You’re going to be desperate and needy and so far gone that when I finally let you come, you’ll forget why you were angry in the first place.”

“That’s not how apologies work-”

Ilya’s mouth closes around him, and Shane’s protest dies in a moan.

For the next twenty minutes, Ilya proves he meant every word. He brings Shane to the edge over and over, using his mouth and hands with devastating skill, then pulling back just before Shane can finish.

“Please,” Shane begs, his whole body shaking. “Ilya, I need-”

“What do you need?” Ilya asks, his hand stroking slowly.

“I need to come. Please let me come.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“That’s not, fuck, that’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.” Ilya’s thumb swipes over the head of Shane’s cock, collecting moisture. “Do. You. Forgive. Me.”

“Yes!” Shane gasps. “Yes, I forgive you, just please-”

“Good boy.” Ilya takes him deep, adding fingers to work him open at the same time, hitting that spot inside that makes Shane see stars.

Shane comes so hard he actually blacks out for a second, pleasure whiting out every thought except Ilya’s name. When he comes back to himself, Ilya is holding him through the aftershocks, murmuring praise in Russian and English.

“So perfect for me,” Ilya says, kissing Shane’s temple. “So beautiful when you let go like that.”

“I hate you,” Shane mumbles, boneless and satisfied.

“No you don’t.” Ilya pulls him close, arranging them so Shane is tucked against his chest. “You hate that you can’t stay mad at me.”

“Same thing.”

“Not even close.” Ilya’s hand strokes through Shane’s hair, gentle in a way that makes Shane’s chest ache. “I really am sorry. For not texting, for disappearing, for making you doubt that weekend meant something.”

“It’s okay,” Shane says, and realizes he means it. “I get it. Sort of. Family emergencies are complicated.”

“Especially in my family.”

“Do I want to know details?”

“Probably not.” Ilya kisses the top of his head. “But I can tell you that I’m in charge now. Which means I have more control over my schedule, more ability to make choices about what matters to me.”

“And I matter to you?”

“More than I expected.” Ilya tilts Shane’s face up to look at him. “This is new for me. Caring about someone. Wanting to see them again. Missing them when they’re not there. I’m going to fuck it up sometimes. But I’m trying.”

Shane studies his face — the exhaustion, the sincerity, the vulnerability Ilya is trying to hide. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll give you another chance. But if you ghost me again-”

“I won’t.” Ilya kisses him softly. “Next time something comes up, I text. Even if it’s just ‘something came up, talk later.’ Deal?”

“Deal.”

They lie together in Shane’s bed, skin to skin, the anger and hurt from the past two weeks fading into something more complicated. Shane knows this is messy, knows getting involved with a criminal is possibly the worst decision he’s ever made. But in this moment, wrapped in Ilya’s arms, it feels right in a way nothing else in his carefully controlled life ever has.

“Stay the night?” Shane asks.

“If you want me to.”

“I do.”

Ilya pulls him impossibly closer. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

And for tonight, that’s enough.

Shane wakes up to the feeling of Ilya’s mouth on his neck, kissing and sucking in a way that’s definitely going to leave a mark.

“What are you doing?” Shane mumbles, still half-asleep.

“Marking what’s mine,” Ilya says against his skin, then bites down gently.

Shane’s eyes fly open. “Ilya-”

“Shh. Hold still.”

Ilya works methodically, alternating between sucking and biting, focusing on a spot high on Shane’s neck that’s definitely, absolutely not going to be covered by a collar. Shane should stop him — he has practice in three hours, his teammates are going to see — but Ilya’s other hand is wrapped around Shane’s morning erection, and rational thought becomes increasingly difficult.

“You’re insane,” Shane gasps as Ilya sucks harder.

“Maybe.” Ilya pulls back to admire his work, then goes back to it. “But now everyone will know you’re taken.”

“I can’t—my teammates-”

“Will think you had a very good night with someone.” Ilya’s hand speeds up. “Let them think whatever they want. You’ll know the truth.”

He brings Shane off with efficient skill, swallowing his moans with a deep kiss, then sits back looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

Shane touches his neck gingerly. “How bad is it?”

“Go look in the mirror.”

Shane stumbles to the bathroom and turns on the light. The hickey is prominent and dark purple, sitting high enough on his neck that no amount of strategic collar positioning is going to hide it. It’s possessive and obvious and completely inappropriate for someone whose entire life depends on maintaining a carefully cultivated image.

“I hate you,” Shane calls out.

“No you don’t.” Ilya appears in the doorway, already dressed in his suit from yesterday. “You like that everyone will see it. You like that they’ll know someone wants you enough to mark you like that.”

The worst part is he’s right. Some hidden part of Shane is thrilled by the visible evidence of Ilya’s claim, even as his rational brain spirals about the complications.

“I have to leave,” Ilya says, checking his watch. “Meetings in New York this afternoon. But I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay.”

Ilya crosses to him, tilting Shane’s face up for a thorough kiss. “Remember whose you are.”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are.” Ilya’s thumb traces the hickey, and Shane shivers. “Mine. Say it.”

“This is ridiculous-”

“Say it.”

Shane meets his eyes. “Yours.”

“Good.” Ilya kisses him again, softer this time. “I’ll talk to you later. Try not to miss me too much.”

“Arrogant asshole,” Shane mutters, but there’s no heat in it.

After Ilya leaves, Shane stares at himself in the mirror. The hickey is already darkening, impossible to ignore. His teammates are going to lose their minds.

He considers calling in sick to practice, but that would be more suspicious than just facing the music. Instead, he showers, gets dressed in his practice gear, and tries to come up with a plausible story about who gave him that hickey.

The problem is, Shane has never been a good liar.

Shane barely makes it through the door before J.J. spots him.

“Holy shit!” J.J. practically shouts across the locker room. “Hollander got some!”

Every head turns. Shane’s face burns as his teammates crowd around, craning to see his neck.

“Damn, Holls,” Hayden says, grinning widely. “Someone really went to town on you.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Pierre asks, though his eyes are knowing in a way that makes Shane’s stomach flip.

“None of your business,” Shane mutters, heading for his locker.

“Come on, you can’t show up with a hickey like that and not give us details!” J.J. follows him. “Is she hot? How’d you meet her? When do we get to meet her?”

“You don’t.”

“Protective of her, huh?” Hayden waggles his eyebrows. “Must be serious if you’re keeping her secret.”

“It’s not—it’s just new. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Jinx it?” J.J. laughs. “Dude, she marked you like a territory. That’s already past the jinxing stage.”

“Can we please focus on practice?” Shane tries desperately.

“Absolutely not,” one of the wingers chimes in. “This is way more interesting than practice. Our captain finally got laid and someone clearly rocked his world.”

The chirping continues through the entire practice. Every time there’s a water break, someone makes a comment. Coach Theirault raises an eyebrow when he sees Shane’s neck but mercifully says nothing.

Pierre skates up to Shane during a drill. “You good?”

“Define good.”

“You seem happy. Under all the embarrassment, I mean. You seem really happy.”

Shane glances at him. “I am. I think.”

“Good. You deserve that.” Pierre pauses. “Just be careful, okay? Whatever this is, whoever they are, just … be careful.”

“I will.”

In the shower afterward — where Shane is extra careful about where he looks — J.J. won’t shut up about it.

“Seriously though, she must be amazing. I haven’t seen you this relaxed in years. Even with the chirping, you’re not as wound tight as usual.”

“She’s-” Shane stops himself. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Well, whoever she is, tell her thank you from the team. Happy Hollander is way easier to play with than stressed Hollander.”

After practice, Shane escapes to his car before anyone can corner him for more interrogation. His phone has three texts from Ilya:

Ilya: How’s practice going?

Ilya: Your teammates notice yet?

Ilya: Tell them I said you’re welcome.

Shane takes a photo of his neck in the rearview mirror and sends it.

Shane: They think I hooked up with some crazy girl.

Ilya: Technically not wrong. I am crazy. Just not a girl.

Shane: Not funny.

Ilya: A little funny.

Shane: I got chirped for the entire practice.

Ilya: Good. Let them think whatever they want. I know the truth.

Shane: Which is?

Ilya: That you’re mine. And I’m the only one who gets to mark you like that.

Shane’s entire body heats up at the possessiveness in those words.

Shane: Possessive much?

Ilya: You have no idea. I spent the entire flight back to New York thinking about all the other places I want to mark you.

Shane: Ilya …

Ilya: What? You don’t like thinking about it? About my mouth on your skin? About everyone seeing evidence that someone wants you?

Shane shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in his jeans.

Shane: I’m in a parking lot.

Ilya: So? Touch yourself. Think about me.

Shane: I’m not doing that in public.

Ilya: Then go home. We have unfinished business from this morning.

Shane: What unfinished business?

Ilya: I gave you an orgasm. You didn’t return the favor. That seems unfair, don’t you think?

Shane’s face burns.

Shane: I didn’t exactly have the opportunity.

Ilya: Call me when you get home. I’ll give you the opportunity then.

Shane drives home way faster than he should, his mind spinning with what Ilya is suggesting. Phone sex. They’re going to have phone sex. This is happening.

In his apartment, he paces nervously before finally hitting Ilya’s contact.

Ilya answers on the first ring. “Took you long enough.”

“I drove as fast as I could,” Shane says.

“Good. Are you home? Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Go to your bedroom.”

Shane does, his heart racing. “Now what?”

“Now you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do. And I’m going to talk you through it.” Ilya’s voice is low and commanding. “Are you hard yet?”

“Getting there.”

“Good. Take off your clothes. All of them.”

Shane sets the phone on speaker and strips, acutely aware that Ilya can hear every rustle of fabric. When he’s naked, he says, “Done.”

“Lie down on your bed. Get comfortable.”

Shane does, staring at the ceiling, feeling absurdly exposed even though Ilya can’t actually see him.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya orders. “Start slow. Just your chest, your stomach. Get used to it.”

Shane’s hand moves over his skin, and he feels ridiculous for about thirty seconds before Ilya speaks again.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You,” Shane admits. “This morning. Your mouth on my neck.”

“What else?”

“How it felt. Being marked like that. Knowing everyone would see it.”

“Did you like that?” Ilya asks. “Knowing your teammates would know someone claimed you?”

“Yes.” The admission comes out breathless.

“Good. Now touch your cock. Slowly. I want you to make it last.”

Shane wraps his hand around himself, already fully hard just from Ilya’s voice.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Ilya demands.

“I’m, fuck, I’m stroking myself. Thinking about you.”

“What about me specifically?”

“Your hands. How they felt on me. How you knew exactly where to touch, what I needed.”

“You need me to tell you what to do,” Ilya says. “You need me to take control so you can just feel. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly. Use my name.”

“Yes, Ilya. I need you to tell me what to do.”

“Perfect.” Ilya’s breathing has changed, gotten heavier. “Speed up. Get your hand wet first. I know you have lube in your nightstand.”

Shane fumbles for it one-handed, slicking himself up. The glide is instantly better, and he moans without meaning to.

“That’s it,” Ilya encourages. “Let me hear you. Pretend my hand is on you instead of yours. Pretend I’m there, touching you, owning your pleasure.”

“Ilya-”

“Are you close?”

“Getting there.”

“Not yet. Slow down.” Ilya’s command is absolute. “You don’t come until I say so.”

Shane whimpers, slowing his hand despite every instinct screaming to go faster.

“Good boy. You take direction so well.” Ilya pauses. “Now, I want you to use your other hand. Touch yourself the way I did last night.”

Shane’s breath catches. “I don’t know if I can-”

“You can. Get more lube. Take your time. I’ll walk you through it.”

With shaking hands, Shane does, following Ilya’s patient instructions. It feels strange doing it to himself, nowhere near as good as when Ilya did it, but Ilya’s voice in his ear makes it bearable.

“Find that spot,” Ilya murmurs. “You know the one. Where I pressed that made you see stars.”

Shane does, and pleasure shoots through him. “Oh god.”

“That’s it. Now stroke yourself with one hand while you work yourself open with the other. Imagine it’s me. Imagine my fingers inside you, my hand on your cock, my voice telling you how perfect you are.”

Shane follows orders, the dual sensation overwhelming. “I’m so close-”

“I know. Hold it. Just a little longer.”

“I can’t-”

“You can. You will. Because I’m telling you to, and you do what I say. Don’t you, Shane?”

“Yes.” It comes out as a sob. “Yes, I do what you say.”

“Such a good boy for me. So obedient. So perfect.” Ilya’s own breathing is ragged now. “I’m touching myself too. Thinking about you on your bed, desperate and needy, doing exactly what I tell you. Wishing I was there to take care of you myself.”

The mental image nearly sends Shane over the edge.

“Ilya, please-”

“Okay,” Ilya says, his voice strained. “Okay, you can come. Come for me, Shane. Let me hear you fall apart.”

Shane does, pleasure crashing over him in waves, Ilya’s name torn from his throat. He can hear Ilya finishing too, can hear the groans and Russian curses, and somehow that makes it even better.

In the aftermath, Shane lies boneless and spent on his bed, the phone beside him on speaker.

“You still there?” Ilya asks after a moment.

“Barely.”

Ilya laughs, warm and satisfied. “How was that?”

“Possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Also possibly the most embarrassing.”

“Nothing embarrassing about it. That was perfect. You were perfect.”

Shane rolls onto his side, staring at his phone. “When can I see you again?”

“Missing me already?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll check my schedule. We have a few things to handle this week, but I should be able to come to Montreal next weekend. Or you could come to New York.”

“I have a game Saturday. But Sunday I’m free.”

“Then Sunday. I’ll fly up Saturday night after your game, watch from somewhere anonymous, then take you home with me afterward.”

“That sounds-” Shane pauses. “You’d come to my game?”

“Of course. I like watching you play. Besides, I want to see my mark on you in person before it fades.”

Shane touches his neck automatically. “It’s going to fade.”

“Then I’ll just have to give you a new one.” Ilya’s voice is pure promise. “Somewhere even more visible next time.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like me anyway.”

Shane smiles despite himself. “Unfortunately.”

They talk for another hour about nothing important — Ilya’s meetings, Shane’s practice, plans for next weekend. Normal conversation that feels extraordinary because it’s with Ilya, because it’s real, because Shane is finally letting himself have something he wants without overthinking it.

When they finally hang up, Shane lies in his bed staring at the ceiling, touching the hickey on his neck, and allows himself to feel happy.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

But for the first time in his life, Shane feels like he might actually be figuring out who he is when he’s not performing for everyone else.

And that person? He’s falling for a Russian criminal who marks him possessively and talks him through orgasms over the phone and makes him feel more real than anything else in his carefully constructed life.

His phone buzzes with one last text from Ilya.

Ilya: Sweet dreams. And Shane? You’re mine. Don’t forget it.

Shane saves the message and lets himself believe it might actually be true.

Ilya has been seeing Shane for four months now, and he’s learned several important things.

One: Shane takes his coffee with too much oat milk and not enough sugar.

Two: Shane talks in his sleep, mostly about hockey plays and occasionally about his mother’s cooking.

Three: Shane makes this small satisfied sound when Ilya kisses the spot just behind his ear that makes Ilya want to wreck him every single time.

Four: Ilya is absolutely, catastrophically falling in love with him, which is inconvenient for about a thousand reasons but apparently unavoidable.

He’s in Boston for the weekend to meet with the Irish — the O’Malley family controls most of South Boston’s criminal operations, and maintaining good relationships with them is essential for smooth East Coast business. The fact that Montreal is playing the Bears on Saturday night is just convenient timing.

Or maybe Ilya arranged his schedule specifically so he’d be in Boston when Shane was. He’s not examining that too closely.

The suite he bought out for the game is ostentatious even by his standards — private bar, catered food, perfect sightlines to the ice. Viktor stands by the door, keeping watch, while Ilya settles into his seat with a vodka and watches warmups.

Shane is easy to spot — number 24, captain’s C on his chest, skating with the fluid grace that makes him one of the best centers in the league. He takes a practice shot that goes top shelf, and Ilya allows himself a small smile of possessive pride.

That’s his. That perfect, talented, secretly submissive hockey player is his.

Four months, and Shane has gotten more comfortable with what they are. Still closeted, still careful, but less afraid. He comes to New York every chance he gets, and Ilya flies to Montreal whenever his schedule allows. They’ve settled into something that feels almost like a relationship, even if neither of them has used that word yet.

The game starts, and Ilya watches with the focus he usually reserves for business negotiations. Montreal is faster, more skilled. Boston is physical and mean, playing the kind of grinding hockey that’s designed to frustrate finesse players.

By the end of the first period, Montreal is up 2-1, both goals assisted by Shane. Ilya watches him skate off the ice, hair plastered to his forehead, and thinks about peeling off that uniform later. About the shower they’ll share, the bed in Ilya’s hotel room, all the ways Ilya plans to reward him for a good performance.

The second period is more of the same. Boston gets physical, throwing hits every chance they get. Montreal responds with speed and skill, extending their lead to 4-2. Shane picks up another assist, and the Boston crowd boos every time he touches the puck.

“They hate him,” Viktor observes.

“They’re jealous,” Ilya says. “He makes it look easy.”

Third period starts, and Montreal scores again early. 5-2. The game feels decided, the last ten minutes just running out the clock.

Ilya is already thinking about after — the hotel suite he’s booked, the bottle of wine he had sent up, whether Shane will want to go slow or if he’ll be keyed up from the win and want it fast and rough.

Then, with 6:51 left in the third period, everything changes.

Shane is skating along the boards in the Boston zone, the puck on his stick, when Cliff Marlow charges at him from behind.

It happens in slow motion and too fast simultaneously. Marlow doesn’t even pretend to play the puck. He launches himself at Shane, driving him into the boards with sickening force from at least ten feet away. Shane’s head snaps back, his body crumples, and he goes down in a heap.

And doesn’t get up.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, on his feet immediately.

On the ice, the reaction is instantaneous. The referee’s whistle screams. Every Montreal player on the ice converges on Marlow. Shane’s teammates are throwing punches before the linesmen can react, and within seconds both benches empty into a full-scale brawl.

But Ilya isn’t watching the fight. He’s watching Shane, who still hasn’t moved, lying motionless on the ice while trainers sprint toward him.

“Boss,” Viktor says quietly.

“I see him.” Ilya’s hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white. “Why isn’t he moving?”

The trainers reach Shane and immediately signal for the medical team. More people rush out — doctors, paramedics, the team physician. They carefully roll Shane onto his back, checking his neck, his spine, his head.

The brawl is still going on. Marlow is being escorted off the ice, blood streaming from his nose where one of Montreal’s players connected. But Shane hasn’t moved at all.

“He needs to move,” Ilya says, and he can hear the edge of panic in his own voice. “He needs to-”

Shane’s hand twitches.

Ilya releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Shane is conscious, at least. That’s something. But he’s not getting up, not skating off, and the medical team is calling for a stretcher.

A fucking stretcher.

“I need to go,” Ilya says, already heading for the door.

“Boss, they won’t let you in-”

“I don’t care. I need to know where they’re taking him.” Ilya is moving fast, Viktor following. “Call Yevgeny. Tell him to find out which hospital. And get me everything on Cliff Marlow. Everything.”

They reach Ilya’s car — a BMW he’s using for the weekend — and Ilya’s phone is already ringing Yevgeny before the door closes.

“I need information,” Ilya says without preamble. “Shane Hollander just got injured. Find out where they’re taking him. Now.”

“On it,” Yevgeny says, and Ilya can hear typing. “Give me five minutes.”

Ilya hangs up and stares at his phone, willing it to ring, willing Shane to be okay, willing the universe to cooperate for once in his goddamn life.

He realizes with sudden, absolute clarity that he’s in love with Shane. Not falling, not mostly there, but completely, irrevocably in love with a hockey player who’s supposed to be temporary, supposed to be simple, supposed to be just physical.

Except nothing about Shane has ever been simple, and the thought of him being seriously hurt makes Ilya feel like he’s been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.

“Boss,” Viktor says carefully. “He’ll be okay. Hollander’s tough.”

“He better be.” Ilya’s voice is cold, flat, dangerous. “Because if Marlow’s hit ends Shane’s career, I’m going to end Marlow’s life.”

Viktor doesn’t argue. He just nods and drives.

Ilya’s phone rings. Yevgeny.

“They’re taking him to Massachusetts General,” Yevgeny reports. “Best trauma center in Boston. I’m sending you the address now.”

“Good. Now I need everything on Cliff Marlow. Where he lives, where his family is, his financials, his habits, everything. I want to know more about him than he knows about himself.”

There’s a pause. “How detailed should I be?”

“Extremely. And Yevgeny? This is priority one. Everything else waits.”

“Understood.”

Ilya hangs up and gives Viktor the address. “Massachusetts General. Fast as you can without getting pulled over.”

They make it to the hospital in twelve minutes. Ilya abandons the car at the emergency entrance and strides inside, Viktor at his heels.

The reception area is chaos — the usual emergency room crowd plus reporters who’ve already gotten wind that Shane Hollander is being brought in. Ilya approaches the desk with the kind of authority that makes the nurse look up immediately.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says. “He’s being brought in from the Boston Garden. I need to know where he is.”

“Are you family?”

“Yes.” The lie comes easily.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out patient information to-”

Ilya leans in, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “Let me be very clear. Shane Hollander is extremely important to me. I need to know where he is, how he is, and when I can see him. Now, you can help me with this, or I can make a very large donation to this hospital in exchange for someone who will.”

The nurse’s eyes widen. “I—let me check with my supervisor.”

“You do that.”

She scurries off, and Viktor murmurs, “Subtle.”

“I’m not interested in subtle right now.”

The supervisor arrives — an older woman who looks exhausted and unimpressed by Ilya’s presence. “Mr …”

“Rozanov. I’m here for Shane Hollander.”

“And you are?”

Ilya makes a split-second decision. “His partner.”

The supervisor’s expression softens slightly. “He’s being evaluated now. Head trauma, possible spinal injury. We won’t know more until the doctors complete their assessment.”

“I need to see him.”

“Right now, that’s not possible. He’s in the trauma bay, and only medical personnel are allowed. Once he’s stable and moved to a room, we can discuss visitation.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know. Could be an hour, could be longer.” She softens further. “I understand you’re worried. But he’s in good hands. Dr. Roberts is one of the best trauma specialists in the country.”

Ilya forces himself to nod. “I’ll wait.”

He finds a seat in the waiting area, ignoring the curious looks from other people. Viktor takes up position nearby, scanning the room for threats out of habit.

His phone rings. Yevgeny again.

“I have the information on Marlow,” Yevgeny says. “Sending it to your encrypted email now. But the summary: he’s 28, been in the NHL for six years, known for aggressive play. Three suspensions for dirty hits, two fines. Lives in Southie when he’s in Boston, has an apartment in Miami for the offseason. Single, no kids. Parents are in Worcester.”

“Keep digging. I want to know his habits, his routines, where he’s vulnerable.”

“Boss … what are you planning?”

“Nothing yet. But if Shane is seriously hurt, Marlow is going to learn what happens when you touch something that belongs to me.”

“Understood. One more thing — Marlow has a younger brother. College student at UMass. Just thought you should know.”

“Noted. Keep working.”

Ilya hangs up and opens the encrypted email, scanning through Marlow’s information. The man has a history of borderline dirty play, but nothing like what Ilya just witnessed. That hit was deliberate, dangerous, the kind of thing that ends careers.

If it ends Shane’s career …

Ilya forces himself to breathe. Shane is young, healthy, a professional athlete. He’ll recover. He has to recover.

An hour passes. Then another. Ilya sits in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, his mind running through scenarios, his heart doing something it hasn’t done since he was a child — genuinely worrying about someone other than himself.

Finally, a doctor approaches. “Mr. Rozanov?”

Ilya is on his feet immediately. “Yes. How is he?”

“Mr. Hollander is stable. He has a concussion — grade two, possibly grade three pending further evaluation. No spinal damage, thankfully, but significant bruising and a possible shoulder separation. We’re keeping him overnight for observation.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s asking for you, actually.” The doctor looks curious. “He said to tell Ilya that he’s okay and to stop threatening hospital staff.”

Despite everything, Ilya almost smiles. “That sounds like him.”

“Follow me.”

The doctor leads him through the emergency department to a private room where Shane is lying in a hospital bed, looking small and vulnerable in a way that makes Ilya’s chest hurt. There’s a bandage on his head, his arm is in a sling, and he looks exhausted.

But he’s alive. He’s conscious. He’s okay.

“Hey,” Shane says, his voice rough. “You came.”

“Of course I came.” Ilya crosses to the bed, taking Shane’s uninjured hand carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” Shane squeezes his hand weakly. “They said you told the nurses you were my partner.”

“I panicked.”

“It’s okay. I told them the same thing when they asked for my emergency contacts.” Shane’s eyes are glassy from pain medication. “Is the game over?”

“I have no idea. I left when they brought out the stretcher.”

“We were winning.”

“I don’t care about the game. I care about you.”

Shane’s eyes water slightly. “I’m okay. It looks worse than it is.”

“You’re in a hospital bed with a concussion and a broken collarbone. It’s exactly as bad as it looks.”

“But I’m okay,” Shane insists. “I’ll heal. I’ll play again.”

Ilya wants to argue, wants to wrap Shane in protective layers and never let him near a hockey rink again. But that’s not who Shane is, and Ilya knows it.

“What happened to Marlow?” Shane asks.

“Game misconduct, I assume. Maybe a suspension.” Ilya’s voice goes cold. “Beyond that, I’m still deciding.”

“Ilya-”

“He could have ended your career. Could have ended worse than that.”

“It’s hockey. These things happen-”

“Not to you. Not if I can prevent it.”

Shane studies his face. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing yet.” Ilya leans down and kisses Shane’s forehead carefully. “Right now, I’m just focused on making sure you’re okay.”

“I am okay. Promise.”

But Ilya knows Shane is lying — he can see the pain in his eyes, the way he’s holding himself carefully, the tremor in his hand. And somewhere in Boston, Cliff Marlow is walking around thinking he got away with it.

Ilya’s phone buzzes. A text from Yevgeny: Marlow frequents a bar in Southie. O’Malley territory. Might be useful information.

Ilya types back: Very useful. Thank you.

He looks at Shane, who’s starting to drift off from the pain medication. “Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” Ilya squeezes his hand gently. “Sleep, Shane. I’ve got you.”

Shane’s eyes close, and within minutes his breathing evens out. Ilya sits in the uncomfortable hospital chair, holding Shane’s hand, and makes a decision.

Cliff Marlow is going to pay for this. Not immediately — Ilya is patient, and revenge is a dish best served cold. But eventually, Marlow will understand that there are consequences for hurting people Ilya cares about.

And Ilya cares about Shane more than he’s cared about anyone in his entire life.

That’s a dangerous thing to acknowledge, but as Ilya sits in the hospital room watching Shane sleep, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Some things are worth the risk.

Even if the risk is falling in love with someone who plays a violent sport and lives a public life and could never truly be his in any way that matters to the outside world.

Shane is worth it.

And Ilya is going to make damn sure nothing like this ever happens to him again.

The locker room is tense. Boston lost 5-3, and Cliff Marlow is sitting in his stall with an ice pack on his knuckles from the fight that followed his hit on Shane Hollander. Reporters crowd around him, cameras rolling, recorders thrust forward.

“Cliff, can you talk us through what happened on that hit?”

Marlow shrugs, affecting nonchalance. “It was a clean hit. Hockey play. Maybe a little high, but that’s what happens when you go into the boards without your head up.”

“Shane Hollander left on a stretcher-”

“That’s unfortunate. But he should’ve been more aware. If you’re skating with your head down in the NHL, you’re going to get hit. That’s the game.”

“The league is reviewing it for possible supplemental discipline-”

“Let them review whatever they want. I was playing hockey. If Hollander can’t handle physical play, maybe he should reconsider his career choice.”

A reporter near the back speaks up. “You don’t feel any responsibility for injuring another player?”

Marlow’s face hardens. “I didn’t injure him. He injured himself by not protecting himself. You want to play at this level, you need to keep your head up and be ready for contact. That’s not on me.”

The media coordinator ends the scrum shortly after, but the damage is done. Clips of Marlow’s comments spread across social media within minutes. Hockey fans are divided — some agreeing it was a hockey play gone wrong, others calling for Marlow’s head.

In a hospital room across the city, Ilya watches the interview on his phone, his expression carved from ice.

Viktor glances over his shoulder. “He’s not apologizing.”

“No. He’s not.” Ilya’s voice is dangerously quiet. “He’s blaming Shane.”

“You want me to-”

“Not yet. Shane needs to recover first. And this needs to be handled carefully.” Ilya looks at Shane, still sleeping in the hospital bed. “But Marlow just made a very serious mistake.”

Shane’s apartment feels too quiet after a week in the hospital. The Voyageurs flew him back on a private medical charter, accompanied by the team doctor and strict orders to rest. His shoulder is immobilized in a sling, the concussion symptoms are finally manageable, and he’s been cleared to do basically nothing except sleep and watch TV.

Ilya had to return to New York for business — something urgent he couldn’t delegate — but he calls twice a day and has sent enough food deliveries to Shane’s apartment that Shane’s freezer is completely full.

“You need to stop sending food,” Shane said during their last call.

“You need to eat properly while you recover,” Ilya countered. “So I’ll keep sending it.”

Now, Shane is attempting to heat up one of the pre-made meals — some kind of Italian chicken dish that smells amazing — when he turns on the TV for background noise. SportsCenter is on, covering the intermission of an Ottawa-Toronto game.

Shane only half-listens while he struggles one-handed with the microwave. The commentators are discussing playoff implications, injury reports, trade rumors. Standard stuff.

Then the tone shifts.

“In other news, Boston Bears forward Cliff Marlow has been reported missing after failing to appear at two consecutive practices …”

Shane’s attention snaps to the TV.

“… Marlow, who was recently at the center of controversy following his hit on Montreal’s Shane Hollander, hasn’t been seen since Tuesday. The Bears organization released a statement saying they’re concerned for his welfare and are cooperating with local authorities …”

Shane stares at the screen. Missing? That’s … odd. But Marlow is also the kind of player who parties hard, who’s been fined for conduct detrimental to the team before. He probably just went on a bender and lost track of time.

Still, something about it sits uncomfortably in Shane’s stomach.

He texts Ilya: Did you see the news about Marlow?

The response comes thirty seconds later: What news?

Shane: He’s been reported missing.

Ilya: Interesting.

Shane frowns at his phone. That’s not the reaction he expected. Not concern, not surprise, just … interesting.

Shane: Do you know something about this?

Ilya: I know many things. You’ll have to be more specific.

Shane: Ilya.

Ilya: Rest, Shane. Doctor’s orders. I’ll call you tonight.

Shane stares at the message, unease building in his chest. But his head is starting to ache — too much screen time, too much thinking — so he takes his medication and lies down, pushing thoughts of Marlow away.

Probably nothing. Probably just coincidence.

Shane has been cleared for non-contact skating, which feels like a victory even though he’s still weeks away from playing. The ice feels good under his skates again, familiar and right in a way nothing else has been since the injury.

After the skating session, he joins his teammates in the gym for a light cooldown workout. The TV is on — it always is, usually playing highlights or old games. But today, the broadcast cuts to a special report.

“We’re interrupting our regular programming to bring you breaking news from Boston …”

The gym goes quiet. Several players look up from their exercises.

“Boston Bears left wing Cliff Marlow has been found dead. His body was discovered this morning by a whaling tour group off the coast near Boston Harbor. Police have confirmed that Marlow’s vehicle was located underwater, approximately fifty feet from shore …”

Shane’s blood runs cold.

“… Initial reports suggest Marlow may have been driving under the influence and lost control of his vehicle, going off the road and into the water. The medical examiner estimates the body had been in the water for approximately two weeks …”

The gym is completely silent now. Every player is staring at the screen.

“… Marlow, twenty-eight, had been missing since early March, shortly after the controversial hit that injured Montreal Voyageurs captain Shane Hollander. The NHL released a statement expressing condolences to Marlow’s family and teammates …”

J.J. speaks first. “Holy shit.”

“That’s terrible,” Pierre says quietly. “I mean, he was an asshole, but that’s … that’s terrible.”

Hayden looks at Shane. “How are you feeling?”

Shane can’t answer. His mind is spinning, connecting dots he doesn’t want to connect.

Marlow disappeared the week Shane was in the hospital. The week Ilya was in Boston. The week after Marlow gave that interview blaming Shane for his own injury.

Drunk driving accident. Lost control of his vehicle. Went into the water.

Shane wants to believe it. Wants to accept the official story, the neat explanation that ties everything up.

But he knows who Ilya is. What Ilya is. What Ilya is capable of.

I’m going to make damn sure nothing like this ever happens to you again, Ilya had said in the hospital.

Shane’s phone feels heavy in his pocket. He excuses himself from the gym, citing headache — not a lie, his head is suddenly pounding — and makes his way to an empty hallway.

He calls Ilya.

“Shane,” Ilya answers, his voice warm. “How was skating?”

“Did you kill Cliff Marlow?”

Silence.

“Shane-”

“Answer the question. Did you kill him?”

“Where are you right now?”

“The practice facility. Answer me.”

“Not on the phone. I’m flying to Montreal tonight. We’ll talk then.”

“Ilya-”

“Tonight, Shane. I promise we’ll talk. But not like this.”

The line goes dead.

Shane leans against the wall, his heart racing. Part of him wants to call the police, to do the right thing, to be a good person who doesn’t cover up murder.

But another part — a larger part that terrifies him — doesn’t want to know for sure. Because if Ilya did this, if Ilya killed someone for hurting Shane, that means everything between them just became infinitely more complicated.

And Shane isn’t ready to lose what they have, even if what they have is built on something dark and dangerous.

Ilya arrives at 9 PM, using the key Shane gave him last month. Shane is sitting on his couch, the TV off, the apartment dark except for one lamp.

“Shane-”

“Did you do it?” Shane asks without looking at him. “I need to know. Did you kill Cliff Marlow?”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. “Yes.”

The confirmation hits like a physical blow, even though Shane was expecting it. “Why?”

“Because he hurt you. Because he showed no remorse. Because he blamed you for his own violence.” Ilya sits on the coffee table in front of Shane, forcing eye contact. “Because no one gets to hurt what’s mine and walk away from it.”

“I’m not yours,” Shane says weakly.

“Yes, you are. We both know it.” Ilya’s voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “I told you what I am, Shane. What my business is. You knew this was a possibility.”

“Knowing in theory is different than knowing you actually murdered someone.”

“I’ve murdered many people. Marlow was just one more.”

Shane flinches. “How can you say that so casually?”

“Because it’s my reality. It’s who I am. I thought you understood that.”

“I don’t know what I understood.” Shane runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I knew you were in the Bratva. I knew that meant illegal things. But actually killing someone? Making it look like an accident? That’s …”

“That’s what I do,” Ilya finishes. “I protect what’s mine. I eliminate threats. I make problems disappear.” He leans forward. “Marlow nearly ended your career. Could have killed you with that hit. And he showed zero remorse. What did you expect me to do?”

“Not murder him!”

“Why not? He deserved it.”

“That’s not how the world works, Ilya. You can’t just kill people because you think they deserve it.”

“I can, actually. I do it regularly. The only difference is that this time, it was personal.”

Shane stands up, pacing. “I can’t—I don’t know how to process this.”

“Then don’t. Let me carry this burden. You don’t need to know the details, don’t need to worry about the consequences. I handled it. Marlow is gone. You’re safe.”

“Safe?” Shane laughs bitterly. “I’m in a relationship with a murderer. How is that safe?”

“I would never hurt you.” Ilya stands too, moving into Shane’s space. “Everything I do, I do to protect what matters to me. And you matter more than anything.”

“Don’t.” Shane steps back. “Don’t make this romantic. You killed someone.”

“I’ve killed many people. This bothers you because you knew his name. Because you saw his face. But he’s no different than any other threat I’ve eliminated.”

“He was a person. He had family, friends-”

“He was a violent asshole who hurt you and felt no remorse. His family will mourn him, yes. But the world is not worse off without Cliff Marlow in it.”

Shane sits back down, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Ilya goes very still. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t know if I can be with someone who kills people. Who thinks murder is an acceptable response to someone hurting me.”

“And if I promise never to kill anyone for you again?”

“Can you make that promise?”

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. “No. If someone threatens you, threatens us, I will eliminate that threat. That’s who I am. I won’t apologize for protecting what’s mine.”

“I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m asking you to understand why this is terrifying for me.”

“I do understand.” Ilya sits beside him, careful not to touch. “But Shane, think about it rationally. Marlow was going to get a suspension, maybe a few games. Then he’d come back and play against you again. Maybe target you again. Maybe hurt you worse next time. Would you prefer that outcome?”

“I’d prefer that no one died.”

“That wasn’t an option. Not in the world I live in.” Ilya finally reaches for Shane’s hand. “I’m not asking you to approve. I’m asking you to accept it. To accept me, including the parts that are dark and violent and wrong by normal standards.”

Shane looks at their joined hands. “And if I can’t?”

“Then we end this now. I walk away, you never hear from me again, and you go back to your safe, normal life.” Ilya’s voice is strained. “But I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“How do you know what I want?”

“Because I know you. You’re not built for safe and normal. You’re built for hockey, for intensity, for pushing limits. You’ve spent your entire life hiding who you really are, and with me, you don’t have to hide.” Ilya squeezes his hand. “Yes, I’m dangerous. Yes, I do terrible things. But I’m real, and what we have is real, and that’s more than most people ever get.”

Shane wants to argue. Wants to say that murder crosses a line, that there are things even love can’t excuse.

But Ilya is right — Shane has spent his whole life being safe, being careful, being exactly what everyone expected. And with Ilya, he’s finally felt like himself. Felt alive. Felt wanted for exactly who he is, darkness and all.

“I need time,” Shane says finally. “To think about this. To figure out if I can live with knowing what you’re capable of.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. A few days. A week maybe.”

Ilya nods slowly. “I can give you that. But Shane? Whatever you decide, know that I did it because I care about you. Because the thought of someone hurting you and getting away with it was unbearable.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Maybe not. But it’s the truth.”

Ilya stands, heading for the door. Shane watches him go, torn between wanting him to stay and needing him to leave.

At the door, Ilya pauses. “For what it’s worth, I’d do it again. I’d do anything to keep you safe, even if you hate me for it.”

Then he’s gone, and Shane is alone with the knowledge that the man he’s falling in love with is capable of murder.

And worse — that some part of Shane understands why he did it.

Ilya doesn’t text. Doesn’t call. Doesn’t send flowers or food or any of the small gestures that have become routine over the past four months.

He’s giving Shane space, exactly like Shane asked for.

Shane hates it.

Day one, he tells himself he’s relieved. That the silence is necessary, that he needs time to process the revelation that his boyfriend — are they boyfriends? — is a murderer. That he needs to think rationally about whether this is something he can live with.

Day two, he catches himself checking his phone constantly. Hoping for a text that doesn’t come. The apartment feels too empty without the promise of Ilya’s arrival, without the anticipation of his voice.

Day three, Shane wakes up hard and aching from a dream where Ilya had him pressed against a wall, voice low and commanding, saying “You’re mine, and I protect what’s mine.”

He takes care of himself in the shower, forehead braced against the tile, Ilya’s name on his lips as he comes. Afterward, he stands under the spray and acknowledges what he’s been avoiding: he’s not actually upset that Ilya killed Marlow.

He should be. Any reasonable person would be horrified, would run, would call the police.

But Shane keeps thinking about that hit. About the fear he felt as medical staff surrounded him, the pain radiating through his skull, the possibility that his career might be over. About Marlow’s smug face during that post-game interview, blaming Shane for his own injury, showing zero remorse.

And then he thinks about Ilya in the hospital, the genuine fear in his eyes, the way he held Shane’s hand like he was the most precious thing in the world.

I did it because I care about you.

Shane is in love with a man who kills people. A man who runs a criminal empire. A man who is dangerous and possessive and completely wrong for him in every objective way.

And Shane wants him desperately.

He’s doing laundry when he admits it to himself. Folding his practice gear, putting away clothes, and suddenly he’s thinking about Ilya’s hands. The way they feel on his skin, the way they command without question, the way they make Shane feel owned in the best possible way.

He’s working out in his home gym — careful, non-contact exercises — when he thinks about Ilya’s voice. The accent that gets thicker when he’s aroused, the way he says Shane’s name like a prayer and a possession all at once.

He’s making dinner when he remembers Ilya’s mouth. The things it can do, the places it’s been, the promises it’s made.

By day four, Shane is a mess. He’s checked his phone maybe two hundred times. He’s started three different text messages and deleted them all. He’s argued with himself about whether going back to Ilya makes him complicit in murder or just honest about what he needs.

The rational part of his brain says he should end this. That getting involved with someone this dangerous is asking for disaster. That he has a career to protect, an image to maintain, a life that can’t accommodate a criminal boyfriend.

The rest of his brain — and every part of his body — doesn’t care about any of that.

He wants Ilya. Wants him with an intensity that’s only gotten worse with the silence. Wants him despite the murder, maybe even because of the murder, because it means Ilya cares enough to destroy anyone who hurts him.

That last thought should scare Shane. Instead, it turns him on so much he has to take himself in hand right there in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, imagining Ilya bending him over it.

He comes hard and fast, unsatisfied in a way that only Ilya can fix.

That night, Shane lies in bed and acknowledges the truth: he’s going to go back to Ilya. Not because he’s forgiven the murder — he’s not sure forgiveness is the right framework — but because the alternative is living without him, and that’s worse.

Montreal has three days before their next game. Just an optional skate tomorrow, nothing mandatory. Shane is still on light duty anyway, not cleared for full practice.

He could stay in Montreal. Could keep waiting for Ilya to break first.

Or he could stop pretending this distance is what he wants.

Shane grabs his phone and books a flight to New York for tomorrow morning.

Ilya is in his home office dealing with a shipment issue when his building’s concierge calls.

“Mr. Rozanov, you have a visitor. A Mr. Hollander?”

Ilya’s heart stops. “Send him up.”

He’s at the door before the elevator arrives, watching the numbers climb. When the doors open and Shane steps out — wearing jeans and a hoodie, a bag over his shoulder, looking uncertain and determined all at once — Ilya feels something in his chest unlock.

“Hi,” Shane says.

Ilya doesn’t answer. He crosses the distance in three strides, pulls Shane into the apartment, and kisses him hard enough to bruise.

Shane makes a surprised sound that turns into a moan, his bag dropping to the floor, his good arm coming up to wrap around Ilya’s neck. They kiss like they’re starving for it, desperate and rough and perfect.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Shane gasps when they break apart. “I tried. I wanted to be rational about this, but I can’t-”

“Shut up,” Ilya says, already working on Shane’s hoodie. “Bedroom. Now.”

“We should talk-”

“We’ll talk after. Right now, I need you naked and in my bed.”

Shane’s pupils dilate. “Okay.”

Ilya practically drags him to the bedroom, peeling off Shane’s clothes with barely controlled urgency. Shane’s collar bone is still healing, so Ilya is careful with that arm even as he’s rough with everything else.

“I missed you,” Shane admits as Ilya gets his jeans open. “God, I missed you so much.”

“Good.” Ilya pushes him onto the bed. “You were supposed to miss me. You were supposed to realize that walking away isn’t what you actually want.”

“I did realize that. That’s why I’m here.”

“Then stop talking and let me fuck you.”

Shane’s breath hitches. “Yes.”

Ilya strips efficiently, grabbing supplies from the nightstand, and settles between Shane’s legs. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine. I can handle it.”

“If anything hurts-”

“I’ll tell you. I promise.” Shane pulls him down for another kiss. “Please, Ilya. I need this. I need you.”

Ilya works him open with practiced efficiency, relearning the sounds Shane makes, the way his body responds. Four days apart shouldn’t feel like an eternity, but Ilya has spent every moment of those days thinking about this — Shane in his bed, Shane submitting to him, Shane choosing him despite everything.

“You came back,” Ilya says, adding a third finger. “Even knowing what I am. What I did.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” Shane gasps. “I tried, but I, fuck, I kept thinking about you.”

“What did you think about?”

“Everything. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you look at me like I’m yours.”

“You are mine.” Ilya finds Shane’s prostate, pressing hard. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” Shane moans. “God, Ilya, please-”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. I need to feel you. Need to remember why I can’t walk away from this.”

Ilya pulls his fingers out and lines himself up. “You can’t walk away because this is real. Because what we have is more than whatever moral objections you think you should have.”

He pushes in slowly, watching Shane’s face contort with pleasure and the stretch of it. Shane’s good arm clutches at the sheets, his head thrown back, and Ilya has never seen anything more perfect.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs, bottoming out. “Take all of me. You were made for this. Made for me.”

“Yes,” Shane breathes. “Move. Please move.”

Ilya does, setting a steady rhythm that has Shane gasping beneath him. He leans down, bracing himself on one arm, and speaks directly into Shane’s ear.

“I’m not sorry,” he says, punctuating each word with a thrust. “I’m not sorry I killed him. I’m not sorry I protected you. I would do it again without hesitation.”

Shane makes a broken sound.

“You know why?” Ilya continues, his voice rough. “Because you’re mine, Shane. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to fuck. And no one gets to hurt what belongs to me and walk away from it.”

“Ilya-” Shane’s voice is wrecked.

“You understand that now, don’t you? You understand that this is what being mine means. It means I will destroy anyone who threatens you. It means your safety matters more to me than morality or consequences or anything else.”

“Oh god-”

“Tell me you understand.” Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Tell me you accept what I am. What we are.”

“I understand,” Shane gasps. “I accept it. I accept you.”

“Good.” Ilya speeds up, feeling his own control starting to fray. “Because I’m never letting you go. You’re mine for as long as you’ll have me, and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Shane’s entire body goes taut. “Ilya, I’m going to-”

“Then come. Come from my words, from knowing that you belong to someone who will kill to keep you safe. Come knowing that you’re claimed, owned, mine.”

Shane does, his release hitting hard and unexpected, coating Ilya’s hand and his own stomach. The sight and sound of it sends Ilya over the edge too.

He finishes buried deep inside Shane, Shane’s name torn from his throat like a confession.

In the aftermath, they lie tangled together, breathing hard, Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest.

“I can’t believe I just came from you telling me you’re not sorry for murdering someone,” Shane says eventually.

Ilya laughs, surprised and genuine. “Is that a problem?”

“It should be. It’s definitely deeply fucked up.”

“And yet?”

“And yet here I am.” Shane tilts his head to look at Ilya. “I’m in love with you. I think I have been for a while. And I’m choosing to accept all of it — the violence, the danger, the possessiveness. All of it.”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “I love you too. More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.”

“Even though I’m a professional athlete with a public life who can never acknowledge you exist?”

“Even though. We’ll figure it out. We’ll be careful.” Ilya kisses his forehead. “But I’m not giving you up, Shane. Not for anything.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to be given up.”

They lie there for a long time, the afternoon light filtering through the windows, wrapped in each other and the certainty that what they have is worth protecting.

Eventually, Shane speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Did he suffer? Marlow.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment. “Do you actually want to know?”

“Yes.”

“He was unconscious when the car went into the water. Sedated. He didn’t feel it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a sadist. I don’t take pleasure in suffering. I just eliminate threats efficiently.” Ilya’s hand traces patterns on Shane’s back. “If that matters to you.”

“It does. I don’t know why, but it does.”

“Because you’re a good person who’s in love with a bad man. And you’re trying to reconcile those two things.”

Shane laughs softly. “Something like that.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ll try to avoid killing anyone else for you. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“That’s probably the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Your standards are concerning.”

“Says the murderer.”

“Says the man who just came from hearing about said murder.”

They dissolve into laughter, and it feels absurdly normal given the circumstances. But that’s what they are now — absurdly normal despite everything. Two people who love each other despite all the reasons they shouldn’t.

“Stay the weekend,” Ilya says. “You don’t have practice until Monday.”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good.” Ilya pulls him closer. “Then let me show you all the other ways I’ve missed you.”

Shane grins. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both.”

And for the rest of the weekend, Ilya makes good on it — showing Shane exactly what it means to be loved by someone who would burn the world down to keep him safe.

It’s not healthy. It’s not normal. It’s probably not sustainable long-term.

But it’s theirs, and that’s enough.

They’re lying in bed, sated and lazy, when Shane’s phone buzzes with a text from Hayden: Where did you disappear to this weekend? You good?

Shane types back: Yeah. Just needed to clear my head. See you at practice tomorrow.

“Your teammates asking questions?” Ilya asks.

“Hayden. He worries.”

“Does he know about us?”

“I think he suspects something. But he’s not pushing.” Shane sets his phone aside. “How long can we do this? The sneaking around, the secrets?”

“As long as we need to.” Ilya pulls him close. “I know it’s not ideal. I know you can’t acknowledge me publicly. But I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“You deserve more than that.”

“I deserve nothing. But I have you, which is more than I ever expected to have.”

Shane kisses him softly. “When this is all over — when my career is done, when I don’t have to worry about sponsors and image — I want to be public with you. I want people to know you’re mine too.”

“I’ll still be a criminal.”

“I know. But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.” Shane smiles. “Because apparently I’m willing to overlook murder for good dick.”

Ilya laughs. “Is that all I am to you? Good dick?”

“The best dick. Also the love of my life. But mostly the dick.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Ilya agrees. “I really do.”

When Shane finally leaves for the airport, they kiss at the door like they’re normal boyfriends in a normal relationship. Like one of them isn’t hiding his sexuality from the world and the other isn’t running a criminal empire.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Shane promises.

“You better.”

Shane heads to the elevator, and just before the doors close, he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For protecting me. Even if your method was insane.”

The doors close on Ilya’s smile, and Shane heads back to Montreal feeling more settled than he has in weeks.

He’s in love with a murderer. He’s complicit in covering up a crime. He’s risking everything he’s built for a relationship that can never be public.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s never been happier.

Shane arrives at the rink feeling lighter than he has in weeks. His collar bone is healing as expected, the concussion symptoms are gone, and the doctors have cleared him to return to non-contact practice starting next month. More importantly, he spent the weekend with Ilya and worked through the complicated feelings about dating someone who kills people.

He’s in love with a murderer and somehow okay with it. His therapist would have a field day.

“Well, well, well,” Hayden calls out as Shane enters the locker room. “Look who finally decided to show up looking happy.”

“I’m always happy,” Shane protests, dropping his bag by his stall.

“You’re always pleasant,” J.J. corrects. “There’s a difference. But right now? You’re actually happy. Glowing, even.”

“I’m not glowing.”

“You’re definitely glowing,” Pierre agrees, a knowing smile on his face. “That mystery woman from before still in the picture?”

Shane’s face heats. “Maybe.”

“Oh, it’s serious,” Hayden says gleefully. “Look at him blushing! Shane’s got himself a whole girlfriend.”

“Can we focus on practice?”

“Absolutely not. This is way more interesting.” J.J. leans forward. “Come on, give us something. What’s she like?”

Shane thinks about Ilya — six-foot-three of dangerous, possessive, incredible sex wrapped in designer suits. “Intense.”

“Intense how?”

“Just … intense. Very confident. Knows what they want.”

“They?” Pierre catches the pronoun, his eyes sharp.

Shane recovers quickly. “She. Knows what she wants.”

The locker room fills with teammates getting ready for practice, and Shane escapes to the bathroom before anyone can ask more questions. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Ilya: Good morning. Still thinking about this weekend. Specifically about you on your knees in the shower.

Shane’s entire body flushes. He types back: You can’t send me messages like that when I’m at the rink.

Ilya: Why not? I like thinking about you getting flustered at work.

Shane: I have to go train in five minutes.

Ilya: Then you better think fast. Because I’m also remembering the sounds you made when I fucked you against the window. How you begged me to let you come. How perfectly you fall apart for me.

Shane adjusts himself in his jeans, arousal hitting hard and inappropriate: You’re evil.

Ilya: You love it. Now go to practice. I’ll call you tonight and we can continue this conversation properly.

Shane: Properly?

Ilya: With you touching yourself while I tell you all the things I want to do to you when I see you again.

Shane has to take several deep breaths before he’s composed enough to return to the locker room. Even then, his teammates notice.

“You good?” Hayden asks. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine. Just warm.”

“Sure you are,” J.J. smirks. “Mystery woman texting you?”

“Drop it.”

Training is good, low intensity but at least it’s something to keep his mind and body busy. Shane loses himself in the familiar rhythm of stretching, pedaling the stationary bike, and the few yoga poses he can successfully do one-armed. For ninety minutes, he’s just an athlete doing what he does best.

During the cooldown after, his phone buzzes again.

Shane checks it surreptitiously.

Ilya: I’ve been hard all morning thinking about you. About that thing you did with your tongue. About how good you taste.

Shane types back one-handed: You need to stop. I’m surrounded by my teammates.

Ilya: Are you hard?

Shane: Ilya.

Ilya: That’s not an answer. Are you hard right now, surrounded by your teammates, thinking about me?

Shane: … yes.

Ilya: Good. Remember that feeling. Tonight, when I call, I’m going to make you come three times.

Shane nearly drops his phone. Hayden notices and leans over.

“Dude, you’re checking your phone every five seconds. She must really have you whipped.”

“I’m not whipped.”

“You’re totally whipped. It’s actually kind of cute. Captain Shane Hollander, brought to his knees by some woman.”

If only you knew, Shane thinks, remembering very literally being on his knees for Ilya.

In the locker room afterwards, Shane makes the mistake of checking his phone again while getting dressed. Ilya has sent another message: I want to tie you up next time. Want to see you completely at my mercy, unable to do anything except take what I give you. Would you like that?

Shane is typing a response when J.J. suddenly lunges across the locker room and snatches the phone out of his hands.

“Hey!” Shane protests, reaching for it.

J.J. dances away, holding the phone high. “Oh no, you’ve been glued to this thing all day. I want to see what’s so fascinating about-” He looks at the screen and his eyes go wide. “Holy shit!”

“Give it back,” Shane demands, his heart racing.

“Guys!” J.J. calls out. “GUYS! You need to hear this!”

The locker room goes quiet. Shane feels his face burning.

“Boiziau, I swear to god-”

“Captain’s girlfriend sent him the dirtiest text I’ve ever seen in my life,” J.J. announces gleefully. “And I’ve seen a lot of dirty texts.”

“Read it!” Someone shouts.

“No!” Shane tries to grab the phone again, but Hayden blocks him.

J.J. clears his throat dramatically. “Ahem. ‘I want to tie you up next time. Want to see you completely at my mercy, unable to do anything except take what I give you. Would you like that?’ From Lily.”

The locker room explodes. Whistles, cheers, chirping from every direction.

Shane’s brain catches on one detail. “Lily?”

“Yeah, that’s what it says. Lily.” J.J. squints at the phone. “She sounds fun, Hollsy.”

Shane realizes what happened — J.J. is dyslexic, and he misread “Ilya” as “Lily.” Relief floods through Shane, followed by the need to play this off.

“Can I have my phone back now?” Shane asks, trying to sound annoyed rather than panicked.

“Not until you tell us about this Lily,” Hayden says. “She sounds wild.”

“She’s-” Shane thinks fast. “Private. I told you, it’s new. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Jinx it? Bro, she wants to tie you up. That’s past the jinxing stage.”

“We’re just exploring things,” Shane mutters, finally managing to snatch his phone back from J.J.. “Can we please drop this?”

“Absolutely not,” Pierre says, though his eyes are sympathetic. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened all season. Captain Shane, secretly kinky.”

“I’m not-” Shane stops. “You know what? Yes. I’m kinky. She’s kinky. We’re both very kinky together. Happy?”

“Delighted,” J.J. grins. “When do we get to meet her?”

“Never.”

“Come on-”

“She’s private. I’m private. This is my personal life, and I’d appreciate if you all respected that.”

The tone is captain-voice, the one that means the conversation is over. Most of his teammates back off, but Shane catches Pierre’s thoughtful expression as he heads to the showers.

In the shower — where Shane is very careful about where he looks, especially now that he’s actively thinking about Ilya — Pierre appears at the shower head next to him.

“You good?” Pierre asks quietly.

“Fine. Just embarrassed.”

“J.J. didn’t mean anything by it. You know how he is.”

“I know.”

Pierre is quiet for a moment. “Lily seems great.”

“She—yeah. She is.”

“Just be careful, okay? I know you’re private about this stuff, and that’s your right. But if you ever need to talk …” Pierre trails off meaningfully.

Shane meets his eyes and sees understanding there. Not full knowledge, but suspicion. Acceptance.

“Thanks,” Shane says. “I mean it.”

“Anytime, captain.”

Later, in his car before driving home, Shane texts Ilya: My teammates think I have a girlfriend named Lily who wants to tie me up.

The response is immediate: Lily?

Shane: J.J. is dyslexic. He misread your name when he stole my phone and read your message out loud to the entire team.

Ilya: He read what?

Shane: The message about tying me up. The entire locker room heard it.

There’s a pause: And they think you have a girlfriend?

Shane: Yeah. J.J. misread “Ilya” as “Lily” and now I apparently have a kinky girlfriend.

Ilya: I don’t know whether to be amused or insulted. I’m much better looking than any Lily could be.

Shane: It’s not funny. They’re going to be asking me about her constantly now.

Ilya: So tell them about “Lily.” Make up a story. Say she’s in finance. Works in New York. Very private. Explain why they’ll never meet her.

Shane: You want me to create an elaborate fake girlfriend?

Ilya: I want you to have cover for why you’re constantly texting and sneaking off to New York. Lily is perfect. She’s me, just with different pronouns.

Shane considers this. It’s actually kind of brilliant. A fake girlfriend gives him an excuse for his behavior, explains his happiness, and provides cover for his relationship with Ilya.

Shane: This is insane.

Ilya: This is practical. Besides, now I can send you filthy messages and blame it on Lily.

Shane: You’re enjoying this way too much.

Ilya: I’m enjoying the image of you getting flustered reading them in front of your teammates. Speaking of which, are you still hard from earlier?

Shane: I’m in my car in the parking lot.

Ilya: That’s not an answer.

Shane: … yes.

Ilya: Good. Go home. Get comfortable. I’ll call you in thirty minutes and we’ll take care of that.

Shane: You said three times tonight.

Ilya: I did. And I always keep my promises. Thirty minutes, Shane. Don’t keep me waiting.

Shane drives home possibly breaking several traffic laws, his mind already racing ahead to what Ilya has planned.

Shane is barely through his door when his phone rings. Ilya, right on schedule.

“Hi,” Shane answers, already heading to his bedroom.

“Are you home?”

“Just walked in.”

“Good. Get undressed. Lie down on your bed. I want you comfortable for this.”

Shane obeys, stripping efficiently and settling onto his bed. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now you’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you. And I’m going to talk you through it until you’re so desperate you can’t think straight.”

Shane’s cock is already hard, anticipating. “Okay.”

“Start with your chest. Run your hands over your skin. Imagine they’re my hands.”

Shane does, his palms sliding over his pecs, his abs. “This is torture.”

“It’s foreplay. There’s a difference.” Ilya’s voice is rough, intimate. “Are your nipples sensitive?”

“You know they are.”

“Then touch them. Pinch them a little. Not too hard, just enough to feel it.”

Shane gasps as he follows instructions, pleasure shooting straight to his groin.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs. “That sound you just made? That’s what I want to hear all night. Now move lower. Touch your stomach, your thighs. Everywhere except your cock.”

“Ilya-”

“Patience. You’re going to learn patience tonight.”

For twenty minutes, Ilya directs Shane’s hands over his body, building the need higher and higher without allowing any real relief. By the time Ilya finally says, “Now you can touch your cock,” Shane is shaking with want.

“Slowly,” Ilya instructs. “Make it last. I want you to think about this weekend. About my mouth on you. About the way you came on my tongue.”

Shane strokes himself, the pleasure almost too much after all the buildup. “I can’t—I’m too close-”

“Then stop. Hands off.”

Shane obeys with a whimper, his cock throbbing. “This is mean.”

“This is training. You’re going to learn to control yourself. To wait for my permission.” Ilya pauses. “Okay, you can touch again. But slow. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You. Your hands. The way you held me down in your bed.”

“What else?”

“The things you said. About me being yours. About protecting me.”

“Did you like that? Knowing I killed for you?”

Shane shouldn’t find that hot. It’s fucked up that he does. “Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“I liked knowing you killed for me. That you’d do anything to protect what’s yours.”

“And what am I protecting?”

“Me. I’m yours.”

“Perfect.” Ilya’s breathing is heavier now. “I’m touching myself too. Thinking about you spread out on your bed, desperate and needy, following my orders like the good boy you are.”

Shane moans at the praise, his hand moving faster.

“Not yet,” Ilya commands. “Stop again.”

“I can’t keep doing this-”

“Yes, you can. Because I’m telling you to. Because you trust me to take care of you.”

They go through the cycle two more times — building Shane up to the edge, pulling him back, making him wait. By the third time, Shane is incoherent with need, begging outright.

“Please, Ilya, please let me come, I can’t take anymore-”

“Okay,” Ilya says, his voice strained. “Okay, come for me. Come knowing that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this. That you’re mine completely.”

Shane comes with a shout, pleasure crashing over him so intensely he sees stars. He can hear Ilya finishing too, can hear the Russian curses and his name.

In the aftermath, Shane lies boneless on his bed, his phone on speaker beside him.

“That’s one,” Ilya says eventually, catching his breath.

“One?”

“I promised you three orgasms tonight. We’re just getting started.”

“You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They talk while Shane recovers, normal conversation about their days, Shane’s practice, Ilya’s meetings. Then Ilya says, “Ready for round two?”

“Already?”

“I’m very motivated. Besides, I want to try something different this time.”

“Different how?”

“Get your laptop. I want to see you.”

Shane’s heart races as he grabs his laptop from his desk, setting it up on his nightstand. They switch to a video call, and suddenly Ilya’s face fills the screen — sharp cheekbones, darkened eyes, that mouth that can destroy Shane with words alone.

“There you are,” Ilya says, and Shane can see he’s shirtless, probably naked beneath the frame. “Beautiful.”

“I’m a mess.”

“You’re perfect. Now let me see all of you.”

Shane adjusts the camera angle, suddenly self-conscious even though Ilya has seen every inch of him.

“Better,” Ilya approves. “Now, for round two, I want to watch you. I want to see exactly what my words do to you.”

What follows is possibly the most intense experience of Shane’s life — following Ilya’s instructions while Ilya watches, unable to hide any reaction, completely exposed and vulnerable.

“Touch yourself,” Ilya orders. “Slowly. I want to watch you get hard for me again.”

Shane does, his eyes locked on the screen, watching Ilya watch him.

“That’s it. You’re so responsive. Already getting hard again just from my voice.”

“It’s not just your voice,” Shane gasps. “It’s everything. The way you look at me. The way you tell me what to do.”

“You like being told what to do.”

“By you, yes.”

“Only by me,” Ilya corrects, possessive. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make you fall apart.”

“Only you,” Shane agrees breathlessly.

Ilya talks him through the second orgasm, slower and more deliberate than the first, drawing it out until Shane is trembling and desperate. When he finally comes, Ilya comes too, and they watch each other fall apart in real-time.

“That’s two,” Ilya says afterward, looking thoroughly satisfied. “Think you can handle one more?”

“I don’t know if I can physically-”

“You can. Trust me.”

For the third round, Ilya is gentler, almost tender. His instructions are softer, his praise more generous, and when Shane finally comes for the third time — smaller, almost painful, but still good — he feels wrung out and completely satisfied.

“Perfect,” Ilya murmurs. “You did so well for me.”

“I’m destroyed.”

“In the best way.”

“In the only way.” Shane yawns. “I’m going to sleep for twelve hours.”

“Good. You’ve earned it. And Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. Even if your teammates think you’re dating someone named Lily.”

Shane laughs tiredly. “I love you too. Even if you’re a possessive murderer who can’t text appropriately.”

“I’ll try to be more subtle.”

“No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Ilya agrees, smiling. “Sleep well. Dream about me.”

“Always do.”

They end the call, and Shane falls asleep instantly, sated and happy and completely in love with a man whose name his teammates can’t even read correctly.

It’s messy and complicated and probably unsustainable.

But it’s his, and that makes it perfect.

Shane’s first game back from injury is electric. The Bell Centre crowd roars when his name is announced during starting lineups, and his teammates mob him during warmups like he’s returned from war rather than a month-to-month absence.

The game itself is intense — Nashville is physical and fast, and Shane feels every moment he missed in his timing, his conditioning, the split-second decisions that separate good plays from great ones. But his body remembers what to do, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought falters.

He picks up an assist in the second period, a perfect saucer pass to Hayden that results in a goal. The celebration is overwhelming — his teammates pile on him, the crowd screams his name, and for a moment everything is exactly as it should be.

Montreal wins 4-2. Shane finishes with one assist, three shots on goal, and a plus-two rating. Not spectacular, but solid. A good return.

In the post-game interviews, reporters ask the expected questions: How does it feel to be back? Was the injury as bad as it looked? Any lingering effects?

Shane gives the expected answers: Great to be back. It was scary but I had excellent medical care. No, I feel completely healthy.

No one asks about Lily, thank god, though that particular fiction has taken on a life of its own over the past few weeks. J.J. keeps making jokes about Shane’s “mysterious kinky girlfriend,” and the team group chat occasionally features messages like “Lily letting you out tonight?” when Shane declines to join them somewhere.

It’s exhausting maintaining the lie, but it’s necessary. And Ilya finds it hilarious, which somehow makes it bearable.

Shane showers quickly, dresses, and heads out to the parking garage. His phone has been buzzing with congratulations texts — from his parents, his agent, various friends and former teammates. But nothing from Ilya yet, which is unusual.

He checks his messages again as he reaches his car.

Ilya: Congratulations on your first game back. You played beautifully.

Shane: Thank you. Felt good to be out there again.

Ilya: I’m sure it did. I have a surprise for you at your apartment.

Shane: What kind of surprise?

Ilya: The kind you don’t want to keep waiting. Drive safely.

Shane’s heart rate picks up. Ilya is in Montreal. Ilya is at his apartment. Ilya has been planning something.

He drives home faster than he probably should, anticipation building with every block. When he pulls into his building’s garage, his hands are actually shaking slightly as he locks his car.

The elevator ride to his floor feels interminable. Shane fumbles with his keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock his door.

The apartment is dim, just a few lamps lit. And there, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, is Ilya.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that shows off his build, his arms crossed as he turns to look at Shane. The smile on his face is predatory.

“Welcome home,” Ilya says.

Shane drops his bag by the door. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to prepare.” Ilya crosses to him slowly. “Congratulations on your first game back. You were excellent.”

“You watched?”

“Of course I watched. I watch all your games.” Ilya cups Shane’s face, kissing him thoroughly. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Shane melts into the kiss, the tension from the game finally releasing. “You said something about a surprise?”

“I did.” Ilya pulls back, his eyes dark with promise. “Do you remember those texts from a few weeks ago? About tying you up?”

Shane’s breath catches. “Yes.”

“I’d like to make good on that tonight. If you’re interested.”

“I-” Shane’s mouth goes dry. “Yes. I’m interested.”

“Good. But first, we need to talk about boundaries.” Ilya leads him to the couch, sitting down and pulling Shane beside him. “This is something we haven’t done before. I need to know your limits.”

“I trust you.”

“I know. But trust isn’t the same as consent. So I need you to tell me — are there any hard nos? Anything you absolutely don’t want to try?”

Shane thinks about it. “I don’t want to be gagged. I need to be able to talk to you.”

“Understood. What else?”

“Nothing that leaves marks that can’t be hidden. I can’t show up to practice looking like …” Shane trails off.

“Like you’ve been thoroughly fucked and bound? Fair enough.” Ilya’s thumb traces Shane’s lower lip. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you if something doesn’t feel right.”

“That’s exactly what I need to hear. We’ll use the stoplight system — green for good, yellow for slow down or check in, red for stop immediately. Say red.”

“Red.”

“Good. You say that word, everything stops. No questions, no judgment. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Perfect.” Ilya stands, pulling Shane up with him. “Now, go take a shower. Take your time. When you come out, I want you naked and ready for me.”

Shane’s entire body flushes with heat. “Okay.”

In the shower, Shane takes his time like Ilya instructed, washing away the sweat and tension from the game. His mind races with possibilities — what Ilya has planned, how it will feel, whether he can actually handle being completely restrained.

But underneath the nervousness is excitement. Trust. The certainty that Ilya will take care of him.

When Shane emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist, Ilya is in the bedroom. He’s laid out supplies on the nightstand — restraints that look expensive and soft, a bottle of lube, condoms. The bed has been stripped down to just the fitted sheet.

“Drop the towel,” Ilya orders without looking up from his phone. “I want you completely naked.”

Shane does, suddenly feeling vulnerable standing in his own bedroom.

Ilya finally looks up, and his expression makes Shane feel like he’s being devoured. “Perfect. Come here.”

Shane crosses to him, and Ilya’s hands immediately map his body — shoulders, chest, waist, hips. Possessive and thorough.

“You played well tonight,” Ilya murmurs. “Twenty-three minutes of ice time. One assist. Several beautiful defensive plays. I was very impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ve earned a reward. And I’ve been thinking about this for weeks — having you completely at my mercy, unable to do anything except take what I give you.” Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s cock, which is already half-hard. “Does that excite you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Get on the bed. On your back.”

Shane climbs onto the bed, his heart hammering. Ilya picks up the restraints — they’re leather cuffs, lined with something soft, attached to longer straps.

“Give me your wrist.”

Shane extends his right arm, and Ilya fastens the cuff carefully, checking that it’s secure but not too tight. “How does that feel?”

“Good. A little strange, but good.”

“Tell me if anything gets uncomfortable.” Ilya secures Shane’s other wrist, then both ankles, until Shane is spread out on the bed, restrained but not stretched uncomfortably. “Can you move at all?”

Shane tests the restraints. He has maybe an inch of give in each direction, enough to adjust slightly but not enough to do anything meaningful. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Ilya stands at the foot of the bed, just looking at Shane for a long moment. “You’re beautiful like this. Completely vulnerable. Completely mine.”

Shane pulls at the restraints automatically, some instinct wanting to cover himself or move or do something other than lie here exposed.

“Don’t fight it,” Ilya says softly. “Just breathe. Let yourself feel it — the restraints, the vulnerability, the knowledge that I’m going to take care of you.”

Shane forces himself to relax, his breathing evening out. It’s strange not being able to move, not being able to touch or adjust or control anything. But underneath the strangeness is something else — freedom. He doesn’t have to make decisions, doesn’t have to perform, doesn’t have to do anything except feel.

“There you go,” Ilya approves. “Just like that. Now, let me show you what I have planned.”

He strips slowly, deliberately, letting Shane watch. When he’s finally naked, he climbs onto the bed between Shane’s spread legs.

“I’m going to start by touching you,” Ilya says, his hands already moving over Shane’s thighs. “I’m going to learn every sound you make, every place that makes you gasp. And you’re going to lie here and take it because you can’t do anything else.”

His hands are everywhere — Shane’s legs, his stomach, his chest. Light touches that make Shane’s skin hypersensitive. When Ilya’s thumb brushes over one of his nipples, Shane arches involuntarily.

“Sensitive there,” Ilya notes. He leans down and takes the nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.

Shane gasps, pulling at the restraints. “Fuck-”

“Language,” Ilya murmurs against his skin, but there’s amusement in his voice. He lavishes attention on Shane’s chest until Shane is panting, then moves lower.

“Please,” Shane gasps when Ilya’s mouth hovers near his cock.

“Please what?”

“Touch me. Please touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Use your words, Shane. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want your mouth on my cock. Please.”

Ilya smiles. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He takes Shane in his mouth, and Shane’s entire body tries to arch off the bed. But the restraints hold him in place, forcing him to stay still while Ilya works him with devastating skill.

“Oh god, oh god-” Shane’s hands flex uselessly in the cuffs. He wants to touch Ilya’s hair, wants to guide his movement, wants to do something other than lie here and take it.

But that’s the point. He can’t do anything except feel.

Ilya brings him to the edge, then pulls off completely. Shane makes a sound of protest.

“Not yet,” Ilya says. “We’re just getting started.”

He reaches for the lube and condom, preparing himself while Shane watches, desperate and needy. When Ilya finally positions himself, Shane is so worked up he could cry.

“Please,” Shane begs. “Please, Ilya, I need-”

“I know what you need.” Ilya pushes in slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time. “I know exactly what you need.”

The stretch is perfect, the fullness overwhelming. Shane pulls at the restraints, desperate to touch, to hold on to something.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs. “Feel it. Feel how completely I fill you. How perfectly we fit together.”

He sets a slow, deep rhythm, hitting Shane’s prostate with every thrust. Shane is incoherent with pleasure, words dissolving into sounds.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Ilya says, his voice strained. “Completely helpless. Completely mine. Taking everything I give you because you have no choice.”

“Yes,” Shane gasps. “Yours. I’m yours.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours. Only yours. Please-”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come. I can’t—I need-”

“Not yet.” Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Not until I say so.”

It’s torture. Perfect, overwhelming torture. Shane has never felt anything this intense — the restraints removing any control, Ilya’s body claiming his, the building pleasure with no release.

“Ilya, please-”

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll never leave.”

“I’m yours. I’ll never leave. I promise. Please-”

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you. God, I love you so much. Please let me come-”

“Okay,” Ilya breathes, his own control visibly fraying. “Okay, come for me. Come knowing that you’re completely mine.”

Shane does, his orgasm hitting like a freight train, pleasure so intense it’s almost painful. He can feel Ilya finishing too, can hear his name torn from Ilya’s throat.

In the aftermath, Ilya collapses beside him, both of them breathing hard. After a moment, Ilya starts removing the restraints carefully, checking Shane’s wrists and ankles for any marks or discomfort.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks, massaging Shane’s wrists gently.

“I don’t have words. That was …” Shane trails off. “Intense doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Good intense or bad intense?”

“Incredible intense. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.” Shane rolls onto his side to face Ilya. “Thank you.”

“For tying you up and fucking you senseless?”

“For taking care of me. For knowing what I needed before I knew myself.”

Ilya pulls him close, and they lie tangled together in the dim bedroom. “I love you,” Ilya says quietly. “More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.”

“I love you too.” Shane pauses. “Even if I can’t tell anyone about you.”

“We’ll figure it out. Someday. When your career is stable and you’re ready.” Ilya kisses his forehead. “Until then, I’m content being your secret.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

“Maybe not. But having you like this, in private, completely mine? That’s worth more than any public acknowledgment.”

Shane wants to argue, wants to say that Ilya deserves better than being someone’s secret. But he’s too exhausted, too sated, too wrapped up in the aftermath to have that conversation now.

“Stay the night,” Shane says instead.

“I was planning on it. Someone needs to make sure you’re okay after that.”

“I’m more than okay.”

“You say that now. Wait until tomorrow when you’re trying to explain to your teammates why you’re walking funny.”

Shane laughs. “I’ll blame it on game conditioning. Tell them I’m still getting back into shape.”

“Sure. That’s believable.”

They fall asleep wrapped around each other, the restraints put away, the evidence of their night cleaned up. To anyone looking, it’s just a normal couple sleeping peacefully.

But they’re not normal. They’re a closeted NHL captain and a Russian mob boss, hiding their relationship from the world, stealing moments like this whenever they can.

It’s not enough. But for now, it has to be.

And as Shane drifts off, Ilya’s heartbeat steady beneath his ear, he thinks that maybe not enough is still worth everything.

Ilya wakes up at 6 AM like he always does, reaches for his phone, and sends his usual good morning text to Shane: Good morning. Sleep well?

He goes through his morning routine — shower, coffee, checking overnight reports from his various operations. By 6:45, Shane still hasn’t responded, which is unusual but not alarming. Sometimes Shane sleeps late on off days.

Ilya sends another text: You okay?

He has a meeting at 8 with the heads of his construction division, reviewing bids for a new development in Queens. The meeting runs long — there’s a discrepancy in the numbers that needs investigating — and by the time Ilya checks his phone again, it’s 10:30.

Still nothing from Shane.

Ilya calls. It rings through to voicemail.

A prickle of unease runs down his spine. Shane always answers his calls, or at least texts back explaining why he can’t. Radio silence like this is wrong.

Ilya calls again. Voicemail again.

“Yevgeny,” Ilya calls out, and his assistant appears in the doorway. “I need you to check on Shane Hollander. Call the team’s PR office, say you’re following up on an interview request. Find out if he’s at the facility today.”

“Right away.”

Ilya tries to focus on work, but his mind keeps circling back to Shane. The last time they talked was last night — a normal conversation about Shane’s upcoming game against Ottawa, plans for Ilya to visit Montreal next week. Nothing concerning. Nothing wrong.

Yevgeny returns fifteen minutes later, his expression carefully neutral in a way that makes Ilya’s stomach drop.

“The Voyageurs PR office says Shane Hollander called in sick this morning. Hasn’t been seen at the facility.”

“Did they sound concerned?”

“No. Apparently he’s had a cold for a few days. They said he’s just resting at home.”

Ilya’s unease deepens. Shane didn’t mention being sick. And Shane plays through illness — Ilya has watched him compete with the flu, with injuries, with exhaustion. He doesn’t call in sick for a cold.

“Get Viktor,” Ilya orders. “Tell him to prepare the jet. We’re going to Montreal.”

“Boss-”

“Now, Yevgeny.”

Something is wrong. Every instinct Ilya has developed over years of surviving in the Bratva is screaming at him. Shane wouldn’t just disappear. Wouldn’t ignore calls and texts without explanation.

Unless he couldn’t respond.

Ilya’s phone rings. Unknown number. He answers immediately, hoping it’s Shane calling from someone else’s phone.

“Da?”

“Ilya Rozanov.” The voice is male, Russian accent, unfamiliar. “We have something that belongs to you.”

Ilya’s blood runs cold. “Who is this?”

“Does it matter? What matters is that your little hockey player is currently our guest. And whether he remains in one piece depends entirely on you.”

“If you’ve hurt him-”

“He’s alive. Somewhat damaged, but alive. For now.” The voice is amused. “You’ve made enemies, Rozanov. Did you think there would be no consequences?”

Ilya forces himself to breathe, to think. “What do you want?”

“Your territories in Brooklyn and Queens. Your legitimate businesses transferred to our control. And ten million dollars cash. You have twenty-four hours.”

“That’s impossible. Those territories-”

“Are worth less than the pretty boy’s life, surely? Or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he doesn’t matter as much as we thought.”

“Don’t touch him.” Ilya’s voice is deadly quiet. “Whatever you want, we can negotiate. But if you hurt him again, there won’t be anywhere on earth you can hide.”

“Bold words from someone in your position. Twenty-four hours, Rozanov. We’ll send you the account information for the money transfer. As for the territories, we’ll work out the details once payment is received.” A pause. “Oh, and one more thing — come alone. If we see any of your men, we kill the hockey player. If you contact the police, we kill him. If you do anything except exactly what we tell you, he dies. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead.

Ilya stares at his phone, every emotion warring inside him — rage, fear, guilt, the overwhelming need to find Shane and destroy everyone who touched him.

Viktor appears in the doorway. “Jet’s ready. What’s happening?”

“Someone took Shane.” Ilya’s voice is flat, controlled, but Viktor knows him well enough to recognize the violence simmering underneath. “They want territories and money. Twenty-four hours.”

“Who?”

“They didn’t say. But they knew enough about me to know Shane matters.” Ilya starts moving, his mind already cataloging enemies, potential suspects, anyone who might be bold or stupid enough to target him this way. “Get everyone to the war room. I want every piece of intelligence we have on rival organizations — who’s been making moves, who’s been asking questions, who has the capability to pull this off.”

“Boss, if they said come alone-”

“I’m not coming alone. I’m coming with an army.” Ilya’s expression is murderous. “They took what’s mine. They hurt him. There are no negotiations, no deals. There’s only finding Shane and killing everyone involved.”

“The territories-”

“I don’t care about the territories. I don’t care about the money. I care about getting Shane back alive.” Ilya heads for the door. “They wanted to start a war. They’re going to get one.”

Shane wakes up with his head pounding and his hands zip-tied behind his back. The room is dark, concrete floor, no windows. A basement or warehouse, maybe.

He tries to remember what happened. He’d gone for a morning run — his usual route along the canal. Someone had bumped into him, apologized in accented English. Then a sharp pain in his neck and everything went black.

Drugged. He was drugged and kidnapped.

Shane’s heart races, panic setting in. He tries to stand, but his ankles are also bound. He manages to roll to a sitting position, his back against the cold concrete wall.

“Hello?” His voice comes out rough. “Anyone there?”

Footsteps. The door opens, harsh fluorescent light spilling in. Two men enter — both large, both armed, both looking at Shane like he’s a commodity rather than a person.

“He’s awake,” one says in Russian. Shane doesn’t speak Russian, but the tone is clear enough.

The other man approaches, crouching down to Shane’s level. “Shane Hollander,” he says in heavily accented English. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.” Shane tries to keep his voice steady. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but there’s been a mistake-”

“No mistake. You’re exactly who we wanted.” The man pulls out a phone, takes a photo of Shane. “Your boyfriend is going to pay a lot of money to get you back.”

Boyfriend. They know about Ilya. They know about them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shane tries.

The man laughs. “Please. We’ve been watching Rozanov for months. Watching you. We know all about your secret relationship.” He stands up. “Which makes you the perfect leverage.”

“Ilya won’t-” Shane stops. Saying Ilya won’t pay is stupid. Saying he doesn’t matter to Ilya is a lie they’ll see through immediately.

“Won’t what? Won’t pay to get you back?” The man’s smile is cruel. “We’ll see.”

He takes another photo, this time closer, making sure Shane’s face is clearly visible. Then he nods to the other man, who steps forward and hits Shane across the face.

Pain explodes through Shane’s jaw. He tastes blood.

“That’s just a sample,” the first man says. “Every hour Rozanov doesn’t cooperate, you get hurt a little more. So I suggest you hope he values you as much as we think he does.”

They leave, plunging the room back into darkness. Shane sits against the wall, his face throbbing, his mind racing.

Ilya will come. He knows that with absolute certainty. Ilya will burn the world down to find him.

Shane just has to survive long enough to be found.

The war room is actually a conference room in one of Ilya’s legitimate office buildings, but right now it looks like a military command center. Laptops, phones, maps of Montreal spread across the table. Viktor, Yevgeny, and five of Ilya’s most trusted lieutenants crowd the space.

“Talk to me,” Ilya commands. “Who has the capability and the motive to pull this off?”

“Could be the Italians,” Viktor suggests. “They’ve been pushing into Queens-”

“The Italians are too smart to start a war like this,” Ilya dismisses. “They know taking Shane crosses a line. This is someone either very bold or very stupid.”

Yevgeny pulls up files on his laptop. “What about the Chechens? They’ve been vocal about wanting a bigger piece of the East Coast operations-”

“Possible. Who else?”

“The Ukrainians? The Albanians? There are at least six organizations that would benefit from weakening your position.”

Ilya’s phone buzzes. A message from the unknown number. A photo.

Shane, tied up, a bruise forming on his jaw, blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are wide, frightened, but defiant.

Underneath the photo: Your first installment. More to come if you don’t cooperate.

Ilya’s vision goes red. He shows the photo to Viktor. “Find them. I don’t care what it takes. Find. Them.”

“Boss, we have contacts in Montreal-”

“Use all of them. Someone knows something. Someone saw something. I want every informant, every contact, every person who owes us a favor activated now.”

His phone rings. The kidnappers again.

“Did you receive our message?” The voice asks.

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice is pure ice. “You have my attention. Now let me talk to him.”

“That’s not how this works-”

“Let me talk to Shane, or we have nothing to discuss.”

There’s a pause, some muffled conversation. “You have thirty seconds.”

Shuffling sounds. Then Shane’s voice, rough but familiar. “Ilya?”

“I’m here. Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better. They hit me, but I’m okay. I’m-” Shane’s voice cracks slightly. “I’m scared.”

“I know. I’m going to find you. I promise. Just hold on.”

“Ilya-”

“I love you. Remember that. Whatever happens, I love you.”

“I love you too-”

The phone is pulled away. The original voice returns. “Very touching. Now, about our demands. We’ve sent the account information. We’ll expect the first five million by tonight. The rest tomorrow, along with documentation transferring the territories.”

“I need time. That kind of money, those kinds of transfers, they can’t happen instantly-”

“Figure it out. You have until midnight for the first payment. For every hour you’re late, your boyfriend loses a finger. Starting with his right hand — the one he shoots with, I believe?”

“Don’t-”

“Midnight, Rozanov. Don’t disappoint us.”

The call ends.

Ilya throws his phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy trying not to completely lose control.

“Boss,” Viktor says carefully. “What do you need?”

“I need Shane back. I need everyone who touched him dead. I need-” Ilya stops, forces himself to think. “The accent. Did you hear it?”

“Russian, but not Moscow. Maybe Chechen, maybe Georgian.”

“Get me everything we have on Chechen operations in Montreal. Every warehouse, every safe house, every known associate.” Ilya starts pacing. “And get me Mikhail on the phone. If there are Chechens operating in North America, he’ll know about it.”

While Viktor makes calls, Ilya stares at the photo of Shane. The fear in his eyes. The blood on his face. The restraints.

Someone hurt what’s his. Someone took Shane and terrorized him and thought they could use him as leverage.

They’re all going to die. Every single one of them.

But first, Ilya has to find them.

Another phone rings. Mikhail.

“I heard,” the older man says without preamble. “The Chechens in Montreal are led by a man named Zelim Dudayev. Brutal, ambitious, not particularly intelligent. If he has your hockey player, it’s because someone gave him bad information about how you’d respond.”

“Where would he keep hostages?”

“He owns a meat processing plant in the industrial district. Off the books, supposedly abandoned. But I have sources who say he uses it for … less savory activities.”

“Send me the address.”

“Ilya, think about this. If you go in guns blazing-”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. They wanted a war. They’re going to get one.”

“And if the hockey player gets caught in the crossfire?”

“He won’t. I’ll make sure of that.” Ilya’s voice is absolute. “Thank you for the information, Misha.”

“Be smart about this. I know you care about the boy, but starting a war-”

“They started it when they took what’s mine. I’m just going to finish it.”

Ilya hangs up and looks at his assembled team. “We have a location. Meat processing plant, industrial district. Viktor, I want tactical approach planned in the next hour. Yevgeny, find me building plans, security details, everything. The rest of you, we’re going to need weapons, body armor, and a very clear exit strategy.”

“What about their demands?” Yevgeny asks.

“We’re going to pay the first five million. Make them think we’re cooperating. That’ll buy us time and keep Shane alive until we can extract him.” Ilya’s smile is cold. “Then we’re going to kill everyone involved.”

“Boss, this is risky-”

“I don’t care. Shane is in there, scared and hurt and waiting for me to save him. Every second we delay is another second he’s suffering. So we’re going to move fast, hit hard, and get him back. Questions?”

No one has questions. They know better than to question Ilya when he’s like this — cold, focused, and absolutely lethal.

“Good. We move at sunset. That gives us six hours to prepare. Let’s make them count.”

The room erupts into controlled chaos — people making calls, pulling up files, assembling the tools needed for what’s essentially a military assault on a fortified position.

But Ilya’s mind is single-focused: get Shane back alive. Everything else is secondary.

He looks at the photo of Shane again, committing every detail to memory. The bruise. The blood. The fear.

“I’m coming,” Ilya promises softly. “Hold on just a little longer.”

Then he starts preparing for war.

The meat processing plant squats in the industrial district like a concrete tumor, surrounded by chain-link fence and No Trespassing signs. It’s supposedly abandoned, but Viktor’s reconnaissance has confirmed lights inside, vehicles coming and going, armed guards at two entry points.

Ilya sits in the back of an SUV three blocks away, watching drone footage on a tablet while Viktor reviews the tactical approach.

“Twelve hostiles visible on thermal, probably more inside,” Viktor reports. “Shane is being held in the basement level, southwest corner. Two guards on his door, at least four more between there and the exits.”

“Hostage condition?”

“Alive. Moving occasionally. Hard to tell more than that from thermal.”

Ilya studies the building layout. “We go in through the loading dock here-” he points, “-split into two teams. Viktor, you take three men and clear the ground floor. I’ll take three and go straight for Shane.”

“Boss, you should stay back and coordinate-”

“I’m going in. Shane needs to see me, needs to know I came for him.” Ilya’s tone brooks no argument. “Besides, you know I’m the best shot here.”

This is unfortunately true. Ilya has been training with firearms since he was five years old. He can shoot better than most of his men.

“Rules of engagement?” One of the lieutenants asks.

“Kill anyone who resists. Take prisoners if they surrender, but I’m not optimistic about that.” Ilya checks his weapon — a Glock 19 with extended magazine. “The priority is getting Shane out alive and unharmed. Everything else is secondary.”

Yevgeny’s voice comes through the comms: “Boss, the first five million just cleared their account. They’ll be expecting the rest tomorrow.”

“Good. They’ll think we’re cooperating.” Ilya looks at his team. “Everyone clear on the plan? Questions?”

“What if Shane is injured?” One man asks. “Too injured to move quickly?”

“Then I carry him. We adjust on the fly. But we’re not leaving without him.” Ilya chambers a round. “Let’s move.”

They approach the plant in two vehicles, lights off, using the cover of dusk and the surrounding abandoned buildings. The fence is cut quickly — Viktor’s team has done this enough times to make it look easy. They slip through in tactical formation, weapons ready, moving like shadows.

The loading dock door is locked, but one of Viktor’s men has it open in thirty seconds. They enter into darkness and the overwhelming smell of old meat and industrial cleaner.

“Thermal shows two hostiles, second floor, northwest corner,” Viktor murmurs into comms. “Four more on ground level, spread out. Two on basement access.”

“Split here,” Ilya orders. “Viktor, take your team up. We’re going down. Radio check every two minutes. If you don’t hear from me-”

“We come find you. I know, boss.”

They separate. Ilya leads his team — Dmitri, Anatoly, and Sergei — through the maze of the processing floor. Industrial equipment looms in the darkness, creating shadows and blind spots. They move carefully, weapons up, checking corners.

A guard appears ahead, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. Ilya raises his weapon and fires twice — two suppressed shots to center mass. The man drops without a sound.

“First hostile down,” Ilya reports quietly. “Continuing to basement access.”

They find the stairs guarded by two more men, both armed with AKs, both alert. No way to approach without being seen.

“Anatoly, Sergei, flanking positions. On my mark.”

His men move into position. Ilya counts down silently, “Mark.”

They fire simultaneously. Both guards drop. Ilya is moving before they hit the ground, taking the stairs fast, his team covering him.

The basement is even darker than the ground floor. Water drips somewhere. The air smells like mildew and fear. Ilya’s heart is racing, adrenaline pumping, every sense heightened.

A door at the end of the corridor. Two guards outside it, both turning at the sound of footsteps.

They reach for their weapons. Ilya is faster. Four shots, two each. They crumple.

Behind him, gunfire erupts upstairs — Viktor’s team engaging. Shouts in Russian and Chechen. The element of surprise is gone.

“Dmitri, door,” Ilya orders.

Dmitri kicks it open. The room beyond is small, concrete, lit by a single harsh bulb. And there-

Shane is sitting against the far wall, hands still zip-tied, a fresh bruise on his face, but alive. His eyes widen when he sees Ilya.

“Ilya-”

“Later. We need to move.” Ilya crosses to him, pulling out a knife to cut the zip ties. “Can you walk?”

“Yes. They didn’t—I’m okay. Mostly.”

Ilya helps him stand, and Shane sways slightly. Drugged, exhausted, traumatized, but functioning.

“Stay behind me. Dmitri, take rear guard. We’re extracting now.”

They move back into the corridor, but footsteps thunder down the stairs — more guards, alerted by the gunfire. Three men appear at the end of the hallway, weapons raised.

“Down!” Ilya shouts, pulling Shane behind an old filing cabinet as bullets start flying.

His team returns fire. It’s chaos — the confined space making every shot deafening, ricochets sparking off metal and concrete. One of the hostiles drops, then another.

The third retreats back up the stairs, shouting for reinforcements.

“We’re pinned,” Anatoly says. “Too many coming down.”

“Then we go up fighting.” Ilya looks at Shane. “Stay close to me. Don’t stop moving no matter what.”

Shane nods, his face pale but determined.

They move fast, Ilya leading with Shane practically glued to his back. At the stairs, Ilya fires at anyone who shows themselves, his shots precise even in the chaos. Two more hostiles drop.

They reach the ground floor, but it’s a war zone now. Viktor’s team is engaged with multiple enemies, gun flashes lighting the darkness, the sound deafening.

“Viktor, sitrep!” Ilya shouts into comms.

“Five down, at least four more active. They’ve got the main exit covered.”

“Loading dock?”

“Clear last I checked, but that was a minute ago.”

“We’re heading there now.” Ilya pulls Shane toward the loading dock route, his men providing covering fire.

A hostile appears from behind a processing tank, weapon raised. Ilya shoots without thinking — two to the chest, one to the head. The man drops.

They’re almost to the loading dock when someone grabs Shane from behind.

Ilya spins, sees one of the guards with an arm around Shane’s throat, using him as a shield. The man’s gun is pressed to Shane’s temple.

Everything in Ilya goes cold and deadly calm.

“Let him go,” Ilya says in Russian, his weapon trained on the man.

“Drop your gun or I kill him,” the guard responds.

Ilya sees Shane’s eyes — wide, terrified, but trusting. Trusting Ilya to save him.

“You won’t kill him. He’s your only leverage.”

“I’ll wound him. Kneecap, maybe. Would you like to see your pretty boyfriend limp for the rest of his life?”

Ilya’s finger tightens on the trigger. The shot is impossible — the guard is using Shane’s body as cover, just his head visible over Shane’s shoulder. One wrong move and Ilya hits Shane instead.

But Ilya has been training for impossible shots his entire life.

“Shane,” Ilya says calmly. “On three, drop as fast as you can. Trust me.”

Shane’s barely perceptible nod.

“One.”

The guard’s grip tightens.

“Two.”

Shane’s muscles tense.

“Three.”

Shane drops like his legs gave out, sudden dead weight. The guard stumbles, thrown off balance, his head exposed for a fraction of a second.

Ilya fires.

The bullet takes the guard in the forehead. He drops, and Shane scrambles away from the body.

“Move!” Ilya pulls Shane up, and they run for the loading dock.

Behind them, the gunfire is diminishing — Viktor’s team winning. They burst out into the evening air, and Ilya’s driver has the SUV waiting, engine running.

“Go, go, go!” Ilya shoves Shane into the back seat and piles in after him. Dmitri and Anatoly follow. Sergei didn’t make it out — Ilya saw him go down in the chaos. They’ll mourn later.

The SUV peels away from the building just as more guards appear at the loading dock, firing after them. Bullets ping off the armored vehicle, but they’re out of effective range quickly.

“Viktor, status?” Ilya says into comms.

“Ground floor clear. Eight hostiles down, three captured. One of ours dead. We’re cleaning up and getting out.”

“Casualties?”

“Mikhail took a round in the shoulder, but he’ll live. Otherwise just Sergei.”

“Get him home. We’ll mourn him properly.” Ilya pauses. “And Viktor? Anyone we captured — I want them alive. For now.”

“Understood, boss.”

Ilya turns his attention to Shane, who’s pressed against the opposite door, shaking. Blood from the guard is splattered across his shirt. His face is pale, his breathing rapid.

“Shane. Look at me.”

Shane’s eyes meet his, and Ilya sees shock setting in.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“You came,” Shane whispers. “I knew you would, but I-”

“Of course I came. Did you think I wouldn’t burn the world down for you?”

Shane makes a sound between a laugh and a sob. Then he’s moving across the seat, pressing himself against Ilya’s chest, his entire body trembling.

Ilya wraps his arms around him, holding tight. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“They were going to-” Shane’s voice breaks. “Every hour, they said. They were going to-”

“I know. But they didn’t. And they never will again because they’re all going to die.” Ilya’s voice is gentle with Shane but promises murder for everyone else. “Do you need a hospital?”

“No. I just—I just want to go somewhere safe.”

“My hotel. We’ll clean you up, make sure you’re okay. Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”

The drive to Ilya’s hotel is tense. Ilya keeps Shane pressed against him, one hand stroking his hair, the other on his weapon. Shane gradually stops shaking, his breathing evening out, though he doesn’t let go of Ilya’s shirt.

At the hotel — a five-star place where Ilya has the entire top floor — Ilya dismisses the driver and his men, except for Dmitri who’s stationed outside the suite door.

Inside, Ilya leads Shane to the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Shane looks down at himself — the blood-spattered shirt, the bruises forming on his wrists from the zip ties, the cut on his lip. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re alive. That’s all that matters.” Ilya starts the shower, adjusting the temperature. “Can you undress yourself or do you need help?”

“I can do it.” But Shane’s hands shake as he tries to work his shirt buttons.

Ilya gently moves his hands aside and undresses him carefully, checking for injuries as he goes. More bruises — ribs, back, where they hit him. But nothing broken, nothing that won’t heal.

“In the shower. I’ll be right here.”

Shane steps under the spray, and Ilya watches through the glass, making sure he’s steady on his feet. After a moment, Shane says, “Will you come in with me?”

“Of course.”

Ilya strips and joins him, and they stand under the hot water together. Ilya washes the blood out of Shane’s hair, the dirt from his skin, gentle and thorough. Shane leans into him, eyes closed, trusting completely.

“I thought about you,” Shane says quietly. “When I was there, scared. I thought about you and knew you’d come.”

“Always. I’ll always come for you.”

“You killed people for me. Again.”

“I did. I’ll probably kill more before this is done.” Ilya tilts Shane’s face up. “Are you okay with that?”

“They kidnapped me. They hurt me. They were going to-” Shane swallows hard. “Yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Good. Because I’m not done. The men who planned this, who gave the orders — they’re still out there. And I’m going to find every single one of them.”

“I know.” Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You don’t need to thank me. You’re mine. I protect what’s mine.”

They stay in the shower until the water runs cold, then Ilya dries Shane off carefully and finds him clean clothes — sweats and a t-shirt from Ilya’s bag. Shane puts them on, drowning in the too-large clothes, and climbs into the massive hotel bed.

“Stay with me?” Shane asks.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya lies down beside him, and Shane immediately curls into his side, his head on Ilya’s chest. Within minutes, Shane is asleep — exhaustion and trauma finally catching up.

Ilya lies awake, one arm around Shane, the other reaching for his phone. He has calls to make, revenge to plan, a message to send to anyone who thinks they can target what’s his.

But first, he holds Shane and allows himself to feel the relief — sharp and overwhelming — that he got there in time. That Shane is safe. That they both survived this.

Tomorrow, there will be consequences. Blood and violence and a war that Ilya intends to win decisively.

But tonight, Shane is safe in his arms, and that’s enough.

For now, it’s everything.

Ilya wakes up gasping, his heart racing, Shane’s name on his lips.

In the nightmare, he arrived at the warehouse too late. He found Shane in that basement room, but there was so much blood. Shane’s eyes were open but unseeing, and Ilya could only hold his body and scream.

It felt real. Too real.

Ilya sits up carefully, not wanting to wake Shane, who’s still curled against him, breathing deeply. In sleep, Shane looks younger, vulnerable. The bruises on his face are stark against his pale skin — evidence of what happened because Ilya wasn’t careful enough.

Because loving Ilya makes Shane a target.

The thought settles in Ilya’s chest like a stone. This isn’t the first time someone has used people Ilya cares about as leverage — his uncle lost a daughter that way years ago, his father lost business partners, friends. The Bratva doesn’t just destroy you, it destroys everyone you love.

And Ilya loves Shane. Desperately. Completely. More than he’s ever loved anyone.

Which makes Shane the most vulnerable person in Ilya’s life.

He looks at Shane sleeping peacefully, trusting Ilya to keep him safe. But how can Ilya make that promise? He couldn’t protect Shane from being kidnapped. What if next time, Ilya doesn’t get there in time? What if next time, Shane dies because he had the misfortune of falling in love with a criminal?

Ilya carefully extracts himself from the bed and goes to the window. Montreal spreads out below, lights glittering in the darkness. Somewhere out there are the remnants of Zelim’s organization, the people who planned Shane’s kidnapping. Viktor is handling the interrogations of the men they captured, and by tomorrow Ilya will have names. Targets.

He’ll eliminate every single one of them. But that won’t stop the next threat. Or the one after that. As long as Shane is connected to Ilya, he’ll be in danger.

The logical conclusion is unavoidable: Shane would be safer without Ilya in his life.

The thought is agony. But Ilya has survived worse than heartbreak. He’s survived torture, betrayal, his father’s cruelty. He can survive losing Shane if it means Shane lives.

The sky is starting to lighten — almost 5 AM now. Ilya hasn’t slept since the nightmare. He makes coffee in the suite’s kitchen, staring at nothing, trying to figure out how to do this.

How do you break up with someone you love for their own safety?

Shane emerges from the bedroom around 7, wearing Ilya’s clothes, his hair messy, the bruises on his face making Ilya’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Shane says, his voice rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“Something like that.” Ilya pours Shane coffee, hands it to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. But okay.” Shane sits at the counter, watching Ilya carefully. “You’re acting weird. What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk.”

Shane goes very still. “That’s never good. What do we need to talk about?”

Ilya forces himself to meet Shane’s eyes. “This. Us. What happened yesterday.”

“You saved me. That’s what happened yesterday.”

“You were kidnapped because of me. Because someone knew you mattered to me. They took you, hurt you, terrorized you — all to get leverage over me.” Ilya’s voice is controlled, flat. “And it’s going to happen again. Maybe not next week, maybe not next month. But eventually, someone else will figure out that the way to hurt me is through you.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying this was a mistake. Getting involved with you, letting myself care. It put you in danger. It’s going to keep putting you in danger.” Ilya looks away. “You should find someone else. Someone safe. Someone who doesn’t have enemies that kidnap and torture.”

Silence. Then Shane laughs — short, bitter. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Shane-”

“No. You don’t get to do this.” Shane sets his coffee down hard. “You don’t get to save me and then break up with me for my own good like we’re in some tragic romance novel.”

“You were kidnapped. They hurt you.”

“And you came for me! You killed for me! You literally staged a military assault to get me back!” Shane stands up, anger radiating off him. “Don’t you dare try to frame this as you protecting me by walking away.”

“It is protecting you-”

“Bullshit. It’s you being scared. And you know what? I get it. I’m scared too. Yesterday was terrifying. But the answer isn’t breaking up. The answer is you do what you always do — you eliminate the threat.”

“I can’t eliminate every threat. There will always be enemies, always be people who want to hurt me by hurting you.”

“Then kill them all!” Shane’s voice rises. “You’re Ilya fucking Rozanov. You run the Bratva. You have unlimited resources and an army of criminals at your disposal. Use them.”

“It’s not that simple-”

“It is that simple. You just don’t want it to be because you’re scared of losing me, so you’re preemptively pushing me away.” Shane crosses to him, getting in his space. “Well, guess what? I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’m in love with you. And I knew what I was signing up for when I got involved with you.”

“You didn’t know this. You didn’t know what it would feel like to be kidnapped and beaten.”

“No. But I know what it feels like to love you. And that’s worth the risk.”

Ilya shakes his head. “You’re not thinking clearly. The trauma-”

“Don’t patronize me. I’m thinking perfectly clearly.” Shane’s hands frame Ilya’s face, forcing eye contact. “I love you. You love me. We’re not breaking up. End of discussion.”

“Shane, please. I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“The right thing is staying with me. Protecting me. Killing anyone who threatens me. Not walking away like a coward.”

The word coward stings. Ilya has been called many things — murderer, criminal, monster — but never a coward.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” Ilya says quietly.

“Then keep me safe by being with me. By using every resource you have to make sure this never happens again.” Shane’s thumb strokes Ilya’s cheek. “I need you. Not just for protection, but because I love you. Because you make me feel real in a way nothing else does.”

“You deserve better-”

“I deserve to choose. And I choose you. Danger and all.” Shane’s eyes are fierce. “Now stop trying to make decisions for me and accept that we’re in this together.”

“You could die because of me.”

“I could die in a car accident. Or from cancer. Or from another dirty hit on the ice.” Shane’s voice softens. “Life is dangerous, Ilya. Loving someone is always a risk. The question is whether the risk is worth it. And you’re worth it.”

Ilya feels something crack in his chest — the careful control he’s maintained since the nightmare, the decision he made to walk away. Shane is demolishing all of it with brutal honesty.

“I had a nightmare,” Ilya admits. “That I got there too late. That you died in that basement.”

“But I didn’t. I’m right here.”

“This time. But next time-”

“There won’t be a next time. Because you’re going to eliminate everyone who might threaten me. You’re going to make it clear that I’m untouchable. That hurting me means death.” Shane leans in closer. “You can do that, can’t you? Make me untouchable?”

“Yes. But-”

“Then do it. And stop trying to break up with me.”

They stare at each other, Shane’s determination meeting Ilya’s fear and guilt. Slowly, Ilya nods.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Ilya says.

“Then don’t push me away.”

“If something happens to you because of me-”

“Then you’ll avenge me spectacularly. But I’m not going anywhere willingly.” Shane’s hands slide down to Ilya’s chest. “Now, are we done with this martyrdom bullshit? Because I have a better idea for how to spend our morning.”

“Shane-”

“Bedroom. Now.”

There’s steel in Shane’s voice, a dominance Ilya has never heard from him before. It’s unexpected and incredibly hot.

“You’re injured-”

“I’m fine. And I need this. I need to feel alive. Need to feel connected to you.” Shane starts backing toward the bedroom, pulling Ilya with him. “I need you to stop thinking about breaking up with me and start remembering why we’re together.”

They reach the bedroom, and Shane pushes Ilya down onto the bed with surprising strength.

“Shane, what are you-”

“I’m taking control. For once.” Shane straddles Ilya’s hips, his hands on Ilya’s chest. “You always take care of me. Always make the decisions. But right now, I’m making this one. We’re not breaking up. We’re staying together. And I’m going to prove to you why.”

Ilya’s brain short-circuits as Shane grinds down against him. He’s already hardening — his body responding even as his mind tries to catch up.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ilya says.

“I want to. I need to.” Shane’s hands slide under Ilya’s shirt, nails dragging lightly over his skin. “I need to feel you. Need to remember that we both survived yesterday. That we’re both here.”

He pulls Ilya’s shirt off, then his own. The bruises on his torso make Ilya’s chest ache, but Shane doesn’t seem to care. He leans down, kissing Ilya with desperate intensity.

“Touch me,” Shane demands against his mouth. “Stop thinking and just touch me.”

Ilya’s hands find Shane’s hips, sliding up his sides, careful of the bruises. Shane makes a frustrated sound and guides Ilya’s hands to where he wants them — rougher, more possessive.

“I’m not going to break,” Shane says. “Touch me like you mean it.”

So Ilya does, his grip tightening, pulling Shane down against him harder. Shane groans, rolling his hips, and Ilya can feel how hard he is through the sweatpants.

“I need you inside me,” Shane gasps. “Now. Please.”

“We should take our time-”

“No. I need to feel you. Need this to be real.” Shane is already working on Ilya’s pants, getting them open and down. “Please, Ilya. Don’t make me beg.”

“I would never make you beg. Not for this.”

Ilya helps Shane strip them both, then reaches for the lube on the nightstand. But Shane stops him.

“I can do it. Let me.”

Shane takes the lube and works himself open, and Ilya watches, transfixed. Shane has never taken control like this, never been so aggressive about what he wants. It’s different from his usual submission, but no less intense.

“Okay,” Shane breathes after a few minutes. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Shane positions himself over Ilya and sinks down slowly, his face contorting with the stretch of it. Ilya’s hands grip his hips, helping, supporting, but letting Shane set the pace.

When Shane is fully seated, they both groan.

“God,” Shane gasps. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

“Shane-”

“No. Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just feel this.” Shane starts moving, rising and falling, setting a rhythm that’s fast and desperate and perfect.

Ilya can’t look away. Shane’s face is open, vulnerable, beautiful despite the bruises. His body moves with athletic grace even in this, even chasing pleasure with single-minded intensity.

“This is why we’re together,” Shane gasps between movements. “Because nothing else feels like this. Because I’ve never felt this alive with anyone else.”

“I know,” Ilya manages. His hands guide Shane’s hips, helping him move faster. “I know.”

“Say it. Say we’re not breaking up.”

“We’re not breaking up.”

“Say you’ll kill anyone who threatens me.”

“I’ll kill anyone who threatens you. I’ll burn the world down for you.”

“Say you love me.”

“I love you. God, Shane, I love you so much-”

Shane leans down, bracing his hands on Ilya’s chest, changing the angle. It hits perfectly, and they both moan.

“I’m close,” Shane warns. “Touch me. Please.”

Ilya wraps his hand around Shane’s cock, stroking in time with Shane’s movements. Within seconds, Shane is gasping, his rhythm faltering.

“Come for me,” Ilya urges. “Let me see you fall apart.”

Shane does, his orgasm hitting hard, his body clenching around Ilya. The sensation is too much — Ilya follows him over, finishing inside Shane with a groan.

In the aftermath, Shane collapses onto Ilya’s chest, both of them breathing hard. Ilya’s arms come up automatically, holding Shane close.

“We’re not breaking up,” Shane mumbles against Ilya’s skin.

“We’re not breaking up,” Ilya agrees.

“You’re going to kill everyone who threatens me.”

“I’m going to kill everyone who threatens you.”

“And you’re going to stop trying to protect me by pushing me away.”

“I’m going to stop trying to protect you by pushing you away.” Ilya kisses the top of Shane’s head. “I’m sorry. I was scared.”

“I know. I was scared too. But we’re stronger together than apart.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

They lie tangled together until their breathing evens out, until the morning sunlight fills the room, until reality starts creeping back in.

“What happens now?” Shane asks eventually.

“Now I finish what I started. I find everyone involved in your kidnapping and I eliminate them. Then I make it known throughout every criminal organization on the East Coast that you’re untouchable. That hurting you means death.”

“Will that work?”

“It will after I make a few examples.” Ilya’s voice is cold, lethal. “No one will dare target you again.”

“Good.” Shane tilts his head up to look at Ilya. “I meant what I said. I choose you. Danger and all.”

“I know. And I choose you too. Even though it terrifies me.”

“Love is terrifying.”

“It really is.”

They stay in bed for another hour, talking quietly, planning their next moves. Shane needs to return to the team eventually — his absence is already raising questions. Ilya needs to finish his war against the Chechens and anyone else who thinks Shane is fair game.

But for now, they’re together. Safe. Alive.

And Ilya realizes that Shane was right — pushing him away wouldn’t have kept him safe. It would have just left him vulnerable and alone.

Better to face the danger together. Better to use every resource Ilya has to protect what’s his.

Better to love Shane openly, possessively, violently if necessary.

Because Shane is his. And Ilya protects what’s his.

Always.