Page 93 of Pucking Forbidden

The more he talks, the harder it is for him to contain what's brewing inside him. Rage. When the pressure under his skin becomes too much to handle in the quiet confines of the sheets, he flings the duvet off. He gets out of bed in one fluid, powerful motion, standing tall in the center of the dimly lit room like a predator trying to contain the urge to tear something apart. He doesn't pace. He just stands there, his back to me, the heavy muscles of his shoulders bunching and flexing as he stares into the dark, fighting down the old ghosts with everything he has left.

He’s only wearing his black boxers, his massive, imposing frame fully exposed to the dim light.

Across the broad expanse of his back, the chaotic lines of his scars are masked by that intricately inked tattoo. He moves to the edge of the room in one fluid stride, grabbing the glass of water from the nightstand and draining it in a few long, rough swallows. Then, he steps over to the wall-mounted thermostat. His large fingers tap the button to lower the AC temperature by a single, precise degree.

As he stands there staring at the digital screen, my eyes drift past him, sweeping over the rest of the dark suite.

A quiet, heartbreaking realization settles into my chest. The room is immaculate. The room service menus on the desk are stacked in a perfectly flush square. The heavy ceramic coffee mugs by the espresso machine are aligned with their handles facing the exact same direction. The curtains are pulled so tight there isn’t a single microscopic gap letting in the neon lights of the Strip.

When did he even do all of this?

I watch him from the bed, and in a single, breathtaking heartbeat, everything clicks into place.

The hyper-specific way he cooks. The constant, obsessive need to clean, fix, organize, and control every variable around him. It’s not just a quirk. It’s how he survives. How he keeps the chaos of his childhood from pulling him under.

I swing my legs out of bed, the cool air hitting my bare skin, and cross the space between us.

With every step I take toward his rigid, towering figure, a profound, agonizing ache swells inside my chest. He has spent his whole life being the strong one, the predator, the protector. But right now, I want nothing more than to be his sanctuary, to absorb his rage and give him a safe place to finally drop his heavy armor. To be the person he can talk to, to tell his secrets and worries to so he doesn’t have to hang onto them alone.

“Julian,” I murmur.

I slide my hands over his wrists, stepping between him and the dresser. I take his hands, trapping his fingers before he can reach for something else to fix. At first, his muscles lock up. He resists me without meaning to, his body fighting to break free.

I don't let go and instead tighten my grip and lean in until my chest is pressed against his.

“Julian, look at me,” I command, my voice steady. “Stop looking at the room. Focus on you and me. What can you control right now?”

His chest is heaving, his dark curls falling over his forehead as his eyes search mine.

“Me,” I whisper, squeezing his hands. “You. This. Us. Right here, right now.”

He lets out a long, heavy exhale.

“Everybody leaves eventually,” he whispers. The admission that rips straight through my chest. “I can't control that.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Julian,” I assure him. “I am not your brother, and I am not your mother. I won't leave you. None of what happened to you in that house was your fault. You were a kid. You didn't deserve any of it.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and a raw, exposed look crosses his face.

“I'm falling for you,” I confess, the truth slipping out of me effortlessly. “Hard.”

He shakes his head, a heavy sigh leaving him as he looks down at our joined hands.

“Don’t,” he states. He steps back, creating a sudden chasm of space between us in the dim room. “It’s a bad idea, Hadley. Drop it.”

The sudden shift makes my heart stutter. He’s putting the armor back on, retreating into the shadow of the grizzly bear on his back, trying to freeze me out because he thinks it will protect us both.

“Julian, no,” I say, refusing to let him retreat into the dark. I take a step forward, closing the distance he just made. My eyes lock fiercely onto his. “You don't get to just shut down and tell me to drop it. Not after what you just told me. Tell me what you’re actually afraid of.”

For a long, tense second, he just stares at me, his chest rising and falling as he tries to maintain that rigid, avoidant composure. I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.

He lets out a harsh, bitter sound, the mask finally cracking to reveal the raw, jagged edges underneath.

“You want to know what I'm thinking?” he demands, his voice rising. “Think about reality, Hadley. Your grandfather is my coach. If he finds out about this, my career is a fucking dumpster fire. And outside of hockey? I’m too old for you. I’m too broken. You’re sweet, and you’re good, and you deserve a hell of a lot better than whatever the fuck is left of me.”

“I don't care,” I insist, not backing down an inch. “I don't care about any of it right now. Do you know who told me to take risks? Who told me to stop letting other people control my life and decide what I’m allowed to want? You did.”

A faint, cocky smile touches his lips. “Hadley⁠—”