Another guttural sob tore from me, and I doubled over, wrapping my arms around my middle in an attempt to hold in the pain.

A warm hand grasped my shoulder, and I startled, blinking up to find Lucian hovering over me.

“Em . . .” His voice broke on my name as he looked me over. “Baby.”

I wrenched away from him, horrified that he’d found me like this, not wanting him to see. But it was too late. He crawled into bed and gathered me close. “Em . . . don’t—”

I covered my face with my hands.

Gently, he eased my wrists down. “Emma. Honey . . .”

“No.” I didn’t know what I was saying. Only that I wanted to hide.

“Yes. Look at me, Emma.”

He ducked his head, met my gaze with his sorrowful one.

My lip trembled. “I just . . . I just . . .” I looked away, tears blinding me.

But he knew. Of course he knew. Lucian knew me on a level that no one else had managed to get to.

Holding my hands in his, he bent down and kissed me. I resisted for a breath, then gave in, surging up to meet him. His lips moved over mine, giving and comforting. He kissed me again. And again. Like penance. Like absolution.

One hand found its way to the back of my neck, holding me there. Gentling me. I let him take over, take me, slowly working the clothes off my aching body, stroking my raw skin with easy touches, as though he were mapping each curve to store in his memory.

He kissed me like it was his last taste and his first. And when he eventually pushed inside me, we both sighed, my lashes fluttering closed so I could just feel.

He made love to me in the cool, dim room, worshipping me with his body, his hands, his mouth, giving me everything. And when I couldn’t take any more, when I begged for release, he eased me into it with quiet kisses, slow thrusts.

And he broke my heart all over again. Because I’d never been loved like this. Never been touched like I was both utterly precious and completely necessary.

I held him while he came in deep shudders that rolled through him. Lucian hugged me close, his breath unsteady and warm upon my skin. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, but when he finally did, it came out in a ragged whisper against my cheek.

“I’m sorry, Em. I’m so sorry.”

He was sorry. But he wouldn’t change his course. And now, neither could I.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Lucian

Everyone was pissed at me.

Mamie wouldn’t look me in the eye. A few days after I’d told her I was going back to hockey, she’d taken Tina and Sal and gone to Paris for some “rest” and shopping.

Anton, of all people, had shaken his head and muttered about idiots. We hadn’t spoken in weeks.

And now Brommy. He skated at my side, his jaw ticcing, eyes hard and focused. Ordinarily, he’d be cracking jokes, gliding around in circles until Rickman told him to get his fucking act together.

When I’d joined the team for an early practice session during training camp, you could have heard a pin drop for all the shock in the room. But most of the guys had quickly rallied, welcoming me back with open arms. I knew I was there only on a tentative basis. We’d play it by ear as my agent hashed out things with management.

Technically, I had one year left on my contract. There was a bunch of legal rambling, but the short of it was they could pick me up or drop me. I didn’t think about that bit. I was on the ice again, suited up and feeling good. Physically, at least.

I glanced over at a sulking Brommy. “Just say whatever it is you’re going to say, and get it over with.”

Brommy glared at me. “All right. This is stupid. Fucking moronic. Shit, Oz, I thought you knew better.”

Prickling heat crawled up my throat. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Like ass you do.” He shot ahead, traded a few slap shots with Linz, then met Hap at the goal to talk shit with him. We waited for Dilly, our offensive coach, and his assistants to call drills.

Grimly, I called for a puck, and an assistant tossed one over. Ignoring the rest of the field, I did my own thing, working through various patterns. But all too soon, Brommy was at my side again.

“What does Emma say about all this?”

Emma. Just her name had the power to slice me open.

She hadn’t left me; I’d left her.

For two weeks we’d pretended that nothing had changed. We barely kept our hands off each other. There was something almost frantic about it, a desperation to get as close and as deep as possible during the time we had left to ourselves. She sassed and teased me, made me laugh every day. I fed her pastries and gâteaux, loving the way she moaned and devoured them like she often devoured me, with utter abandon and lusty glee.

But it was an illusion, and we both knew it. One that broke when she took me to the airport.

“I have to do this,” I told her. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering ‘What if?’”

“I know.” But her eyes were dead, her spirit already slipping away from me.

“This isn’t goodbye, Em.”

Her lips wobbled then. But she didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried since the night I’d found her curled up on her bed. Her smile was brittle, a stranger’s. “Let’s just call this until we meet again.”

It had felt like death.

We still talked. But our calls were becoming less frequent. I was in DC, practicing and getting scanned, poked, and prodded every day. She was in LA, moving into her new house—that perfect house with a kitchen I ached to give a test run—and occupied with her own meetings and prep for her upcoming role.

Irked at Brommy, I scowled. “Don’t bring Emma into this.”

“Why not? She’s your girl, isn’t she?”

My fist tightened. “Fuck off, Brom.”

He made a sound of annoyance, but I didn’t care.

I missed her. I missed her with a strained yearning that had me looking around corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of her wide smile. I missed the feel of her warmth, the fresh sweet scent of her skin, the sound of her voice.

I ached for Emma.

This is hockey life; you’re often away from the ones you love. Everyone on the team deals with it.

I don’t want to deal. I’m tired. Fucking exhausted.

Without warning, the image of a kitchen flashed in my mind. Sunlight gleaming on the marble counters, the scent of baking bread in the air, and delicate red roses dancing along the edges of the windows, thrown wide open.