Chapter 26

I'm standing outside the locker room, feeling a little nervous.

Because…

King is inside and he asked me to come and…I'm wearing the ring.

Stupid, right?

I just broke up with my fiancé and I'm nowhere near ready for a new relationship, and further that, King hasn't given any indication that he wants one?—

Aside from demanding I stay at his place.

But that's just him being a good guy. He's got a protective streak. He's demonstrated that time and again.

And anyway, he's made it clear to everyone far and wide that he's not interested in a relationship. It's why I despised him so much after seeing those posts.

A case of social media being true.

Only…it's not.

I bite back a sigh. None of this matters. We're only staying together now to save him from those matchmaking efforts of his mom and because Phillip is out there on bail somewhere and King's place is safe…

And King is a good guy.

Just not my guy.

Even if he fucked me senseless for twenty-four hours.

When someone shows you who they are, tells you what they want…

Well, I've learned that's something I need to pay attention to.

Ha.

Sure, I have.

Right around the time that Phillip closed his hands around my throat and started to squeeze.

Stupid.

I swallow hard, trying to shake off the feeling of that hand, the fear that's shredded my insides, but it doesn't want to let go easily, doesn't want to pull the barbed spikes from my heart, my mind, my soul?—

"Hey, gorgeous."

I jump, hands clenching into fists, jaw clamping together so tightly that I bite the inside of my cheek hard, drawing blood, the sharp tang of copper clinging to my taste buds. But even as I'm processing that razor-edged flavor, I'm looking up…

And seeing Patrick Buchanan standing in front of me.

Wearing a smirk, his eyes cold, and his body far too close.

I know that Rome, King, and Cam can't stand this guy. I know that Chrissy thinks he's an arrogant jerk who spends his spare time trying to fuck with Rome and King and Cam and the rest of the locker room.

I know that—despite that—she also doesn't find him particularly dangerous.

But my spidey sense is tingling.

After Phillip…well, let's just say that it's been honed to a fine point.

I note the sharp edges of his expression, his body nearly brushing mine, the way he came so close before announcing himself.

I don't like it.

And…I don't like him.

I don't know him…and I don't like him, and that's enough. My instincts are screaming to step back, but I don't have room to because he's come close, because he's positioned himself between where I'm leaning back against the wall and the open space of the hall, his big body boxing me in.

Trapping me.

Like Phillip had.

Yup. Definitely a creep.

And maybe a dangerous one.

But…I've been through worse. Phillip. My sisters. My stepmom.

The verbal abuse.

The…physical.

So, I know that I might bend, but I also know I won't break.

I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin. I may be a nice person, may have a soft heart for those I care about—furry or otherwise—but I was raised in a den of vipers.

I can deal with a hockey player, even one who makes my spidey sense tingle.

Which—despite the situation—makes my lips twitch.

Because as a certain gorgeous hockey player with a protective streak a mile wide pointed out not that long ago, I am very good at being a prickly princess.

Something I channel right in this moment, lifting my chin and managing to stare down my nose at one Pat Buchanan, even though he's a good foot taller and, likely, at least a hundred pounds heavier than me. "Can I help you?" I ask all…well, prickly princess-like.

He grins wolfishly, body swaying closer. "I can think of a whole lot of ways that you can help me, gorgeous."

Barf.

Just…barf.

"No thanks," I say dismissively, deliberately sliding my eyes from his and turning my head away.

I want to escape, but considering that Pat the Asshole (as King has coined him) is still between me and escape, I'm not exactly free to do so. Instead, I scan the open space behind him, looking for my way out…or maybe for someone—like King or Rome or Cam or, hell, Jean-Michel since it's his freaking team and he's always managed to look out for me in the past—to come rescue me.

Alas—and now I really sound like a prickly princess—what I can see of the hall remains empty.

Where's that hot hockey player on his white horse (or motorcycle) to save me?

Ugh.

I guess this prickly princess—no, this cactus queen is going to have to save herself.

The humanity.

But at least the sarcasm has centered me, pushed down the fear, bolstered the spikey.

I put up a hand. "You're too close," I say firmly. "Back up."

Unfortunately, my words don't have an effect on Pat.

In fact, he just leans closer, dropping a palm onto the wall next to my head, so near that I can scent his cologne—or rather, his cologne changes from clinging to the air to filling my nose, inundating my senses.

Blegh.

"Don't be like that, gorgeous," he says, his other hand lifting and tugging lightly at a strand of my hair. "I'm a nice guy."

A nice guy.

Double blegh.

It's always the ones who say they're nice guys who are creeps.

"Don't touch me," I order, slapping his hand away.

And it has absolutely no effect on him. In fact, it seems to urge him on. He settles that hand on my waist, draws even closer. "We could be so good together," he drawls, bending his head and nearly succeeding in pressing our mouths together.

Luckily, I turn in time to avoid him then shove at his chest, blurt out the only thing I can think of, "I don't think my fiancé will like that very much."

Pat stills, brows shooting up. "I heard the wedding was off."

I don't even know this man, other than that he plays for the team and he's a total asshole, but he somehow knows that Phillip and I broke up?

I don't like that.

Not even a little bit.

"No," I lie. "It's not."

A shrug, those big shoulders lifting and falling indolently, like me telling him I'm engaged doesn't matter. And I guess, to him, it doesn't. "Come on, gorgeous," he cajoles, "your fiancé isn't here. What he doesn't know won't hurt him?—"

"But this will hurt you."

I barely have the chance to feel the relief coursing through me at the sound of King's voice.

Because then he's between me and Pat.

And his fist is flying.

The silence in the car is deafening.

And uncomfortable.

And…deafening.

"Is your…" I begin as we wait at a signal, the red light interminably long. Especially when his head whips in my direction, those eyes locking with mine, pinning me in place. Those blue irises are flints of ice, cold enough to make me shiver, but somehow I manage to push out, "Is your hand okay?"

Said hand flexes on the steering wheel, the quiet groan it makes drawing my gaze to those knuckles standing out in sharp relief, the tight grip on the leather, the tension ratcheting up in his body. But all he replies with is a terse, "Yeah."

Then the light turns green and he looks forward again.

And…

Right.

That's clear indication that he's done talking, I suppose.

Cool. Cool.

I'll just stare out the window and pretend this terse silence doesn't exist.

Pretend that he didn't clock a man for cornering me, for scaring me, that he didn't lay the asshole known at Pat Buchanan flat on his ass with just one punch.

Pretend that he didn't protect me…again.

But all that pretending is fucking useless.

Because he did protect me, and my heart—already soft and vulnerable and open to him…

It feels like I'm in danger.

But it's a danger I yearn for, that I'm desperate for, that I know I'm going to run headfirst into.

"Are you mad?" I whisper.

His head whips to the side, eyes flicking to mine, seeming to see too much in that flash of contact before he turns back to the road. "At you?"

I inhale. Exhale.

Be brave and kind.

"Yes. You're probably going to get in trouble again and it's my fault." I nibble at my bottom lip. "I'll talk to Jean-Michel. Explain what happened. He'll?—"

"No."

I freeze.

His big chest rises and falls on a breath. "No," he says again. "I'm not mad at you." He touches my cheek. "Thank you, but I don't need you to talk to Jean-Michel."

Maybe he doesn't need me to.

But I'm going to do it anyway.

He sighs. "You're going to do it anyway, aren't you?"

"I have an in with Jean-Michel," I say. "You know that."

And I'm not going to let King take the fall for doing something kind (and yes, I consider planting his fist into Pat's face a kindness.

"Stubborn."

I settle my hand on his thigh. "Prickly, remember?"

Which, thankfully, makes him smile.

At least for a second.

Because then it fades again and I realize that there's something else at play here.

Something I missed.

"So," I whisper, squeezing the firmly muscled leg. "Who are you mad at?" A beat. "Besides Pat?"

His gaze flicks to mine then back to the road, and for a second, I think he's not going to answer me. "Yeah, I hate that fucker," he mutters. "But—" Another breath. "I hate more that he scared you and I wasn't there to protect you. I'm never fucking there at the right time—" His teeth click together and he shakes his head, cutting off the flow of words.

"I—"

Frankly, that's not something I ever expected him to say—how can he think that when he's come to my rescue time and again?

It doesn't make sense and I want to press him to explain, but one look at the set of his jaw and I know this isn't the time. Instead, I stick with the facts. "You were there. You stopped him."

A shake of his head. "He had you cornered, princess. If I hadn't walked out of the locker room when I did…"

I shiver, and I know he sees it because he loosens his grip on the steering wheel for a second, covers my hand with his own.

But it's a fleeting touch, there and gone in an instant before he's back focusing on the road, back clenching the steering wheel with both hands, back not looking at me.

He was there, and he'd stepped in.

He had my back. Just like before with Phillip. But, based on the tautness of his jaw, his grip on the steering wheel, the fury emanating from his frame, he's not going to be receptive to that sentiment, to me trying to convince him exactly how thankful I am for him.

How deep he's woven himself into my soul.

So deep that only Chrissy exists there. And Jean-Michel. And my pups.

And Rome.

And…now King.

Before Jean-Michel and Chrissy, no one else in my life had stepped in like that—not after my dad had died.

No one protected me, looked after me for no reason except that I'm a living being and worthy of love and protection and kindness, just like every other person and animal on this planet.

But King did.

And I know exactly how precious the gift that he's given me is.

The least I can do is look after him in turn.

To make him understand.

To give him this part of me…and hope that, at some point, he'll see I'm a safe place to seek solace in return.

Be brave and kind.

"Phillip wasn't mean in the beginning."

The steering wheel protests again, but I keep going.

"He never handled me roughly or hit me, not until the day of the wedding and he saw me in the dress and…" I close my eyes. "He wasn't happy. I'd gone against his and his mom's wishes in choosing my dress, by choosing the style I wanted."

One of the "many ways I disobeyed them."

A tiny victory on a war of attrition I didn't even know I was fighting.

Losing myself.

Losing what was important to me—my pups, my rescue, even pulling back from Chrissy and Jean-Michel.

And lying to myself that it was happening at all.

"I don't know if it was the stress of the day that pushed him over the edge," I say, hating that I have to admit the next, "but I do know it was inevitable that we got there. He was always going to hit me. Because there were red flags from the beginning that I ignored—stupid stuff like not splitting responsibilities even though he promised, him flying off the handle when I tried to hold him to those promises, becoming unreasonably angry and giving me the silent treatment for days when I broke down and did the chores anyway. Because he was going to get to them. Because I undermined him." I sigh. "And I ignored it all because I loved him."

"Princess—"

"I know," I whisper, squeezing his thigh again. "I was dumb. I didn't recognize that it didn't matter how I changed, how I tried to make myself smaller, how much I tried to cater to him, it wasn't enough. Wasn't ever going to be enough. And I—" I swallow hard. "Truthfully, I didn't think I deserved anything better. Didn't think I deserved someone who was happy that I found joy in things like a TV show or book or—worse—my rescue. I thought it was normal for my partner to make fun of me for"—I do finger quotes—"being emotional because I cried when a dog I loved was adopted out. I thought not being willing to share the house with any rescue dogs was a boundary I needed to respect, no matter that it destroyed a part of me to not be able to help them, no matter how dire their circumstances were, or how much guilt I had when I needed to rely on my fellow volunteers more than I felt like I should."

Red flags.

So many of them.

And I was blind to it all.

Okay, not blind. I ignored them.

Because I thought that was as good as it got, as good as I deserved, and King has shown me in just a few short weeks that I deserve more.

So. Much. More.

Dumb that I couldn't see it before, huh?

It's just…

I'd forgotten.

"You made me see that I deserve better," I whisper. "You didn't have an angle, didn't need something from me. You just…stepped in, and I need you to know I appreciate it."

"Ror—"

"Because I had the bad, and because I know what that's like, and?—"

Courage now.

"You've shown me what it's like to have good," I whisper. "Because I haven't felt this settled and safe… since my dad was alive."

"Rory," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Princess. "

Too much.

It's too much.

And that's why I make the decision to pause there, to transition our conversation to something lighter.

"Don't you mean Prickly Princess?" I tease.

He jerks. "What?"

"I've decided to own my Cactus Queen title."

"Rory," he says, slowing to a halt at a stop sign and looking at me. "Baby, I?—"

Damn. He's not going to let me change the subject.

Probably because I'm handling it with all of the finesse of a sledgehammer.

I reach up, touch his cheek. "I just want you to know that I value you," I say softly. "That I appreciate what you've done, and that you're a good man."

That has his eyes sliding closed, a mix of pain and pleasure sliding over his face.

"And if you ever want to talk about anything?—"

Like the reason pain and pleasure crosses his face when I say he's a good man.

His eyes flash open and he leans back, pulling away from my touch as he proceeds through the stop sign.

"Prickle Princess," he says after a moment.

"What?"

"Not Prickly, but Prickle."

An odd mix of disappointment weaves through me, but I don't push.

I should have, I realize later.

Should have demanded answers.

All of them.

But I'm raw and vulnerable and I've depleted my well of courage.

So I grasp on to the light and don't miss the relief that darts through his expression when I ask, "Not Princess Pricklesticks? Or Spiny Sweetie?"

He snorts. "Okay, so that wasn't my finest moment of creativity." A shrug. "But having five siblings means that quantity over quality is more important sometimes."

"And what are those times?"

"When lobbing insults," he says, flashing me a grin that coats my skin in sunshine even though it's pitch black outside, "and consuming food."

"After tasting your mom's apple pie," I say, "I would agree that's a situation that requires quantity."

"Definitely," he agrees, finally loosening his hand from the steering wheel and settling it on my thigh. "I can think of another situation that requires quantity." His palm is big and strong and has my pulse speeding up. "Though, quality is important too."

Orgasms.

It's orgasms.

I see that thought, that intent write itself into the lines of his face, the grip of my thigh, the blazing heat of his gaze when it meets mine, just for a second.

My breath catches.

Because if he just slides it a tiny bit northward…

Yup. Orgasms.

I shiver, but not in fear.

Something I know that he knows because his blue eyes heat, the icy fury from before turning into a hot spring, a bubbling temptation encouraging me to dip a toe into the waters.

The light turns green and he looks away as he pulls forward.

Taut silence.

But not anything like the tense ride it had begun as.

Instead…it's anticipatory.

And when he pulls into the garage, hits the button to close the door behind us, then turns toward me, ordering, "Get naked…"

I not only oblige.

But I've already begun even before the words reach my ears.