27

MAYA

“Wake up, Captain.”

My voice broke the quiet hum of the hospital waiting room. Touching his broad shoulder, a gentle shake finally stirred him.

Davies jerked awake with a violent gasp. His dark eyes snapped open, wild and panicked, scanning the sterile room before locking onto my face. He sat hunched in a cheap plastic chair, his long legs stretched out over the scuffed linoleum floor. Exhaustion painted dark circles under his eyes. He looked dead on his feet.

“Maya,” he breathed out, standing up so fast the plastic chair screeched backward.

His massive arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. Burying his face in the crook of my neck, a heavy sigh rattled his ribcage. Returning the embrace, my hands gripped the fabric of his dark hoodie. The scent of wintergreen gum and dried sweat filled my senses.

“I am so sorry,” his voice sounded rough, muffled against my skin. “I sat down for five seconds while the doctor checked your head. Passed out cold. I was tired af.”

“Do not apologize.” Pulling back slightly, a small smile touched my lips. “You drove like a madman to get me here. You earned a nap.”

He lifted his hand, his rough thumb tracing the edge of the fresh white bandage above my left eyebrow. The hospital doctor gave me four small stitches. When the van crashed into his truck, my head smacked hard against the steel wall. The painkillers made the dull throb bearable, washing away the lingering dizziness from the chloroform rag.

“They stitched it,” Davies noted, his jaw ticking tight.

“Just a small cut,” brushing his hand away, a reassuring nod followed. “No concussion. I am clear to go.”

“Good. Let us get out of this place.”

Walking out into the cold morning air, the sun peeked over the horizon. The freezing wind bit at our faces. We climbed into his battered truck. The front bumper bore a massive dent from ramming Nathan’s goons, but the engine still roared to life without a single issue.

The drive back to my dorm passed in comfortable silence.

Pushing the heavy wooden door of my room open, warm air greeted us. Elena was already gone for her early classes. Dropping my purse on the desk, my boots hit the floor with a tired thud.

Turning around, my breath hitched.

Davies took off his ruined black hoodie, throwing it onto the desk chair. Underneath, his white t-shirt was a disaster. A massive, terrifying stain of dark crimson covered his entire left side. The blood soaked right through the cotton fabric, clinging wet and sticky to his skin.

“What the f*ck!” Panic spiked cold in my chest.

He flinched, looking down at his ribs like he forgot the wound even existed.

“You have a knife wound!” Rushing forward, my hands hovered over his ruined shirt, afraid to touch him and cause more pain. “You sat in a hospital waiting room for three hours bleeding out? Why did you not ask a doctor for help?”

“I could not leave you alone in that exam room.” He shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled his torn skin. “Plus, explaining a knife fight to hospital security means calling the cops. Cops mean a scandal. A scandal means my draft stock tanks.”

“You are a literal idiot.”

Grabbing the hem of his ruined shirt, a firm tug urged him to raise his arms. He complied, biting his lip as the fabric peeled away from the dried blood. Tossing the ruined shirt into the trash can, the raw damage lay exposed.

A sharp, jagged slash stretched across his left oblique. It looked deep and nasty.

“Sit on the bed,” pointing a stern finger, my tone brooked zero arguments.

He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. Grabbing my white first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, a frantic rush fueled my movements. Returning to his side, the smell of rubbing alcohol filled the small room.

“This will sting,” pressing a wet antiseptic wipe against the open gash, a soft warning left my lips.

Davies let out a harsh grunt. His abdominal muscles flexed hard, rigid like carved stone under my fingertips. Cleaning the dried blood away revealed clean, healthy tissue beneath the cut. He got lucky. The switchblade missed his vital organs and stopped at the muscle layer.

Applying six butterfly stitches, my hands worked fast to pull the jagged skin together. Wrapping a thick white gauze bandage around his waist, securing it tight with medical tape finished the job.

“You need to rest,” taping the final edge down, a heavy sigh escaped my chest. “Skip the game tonight. Your side needs time to heal.”

“Not an option.” Davies shook his head, pulling a clean black Nike shirt from his duffel bag. He pulled it over his head with a stiff grimace. “Tonight is the Winter Invitational. Scouts from Detroit are sitting in the VIP box. If I miss this game, my career is over.”

“You can barely twist your torso!”

“I will manage.” He reached out, his large hands gripping my hips. Pulling me between his knees, he looked up with intense, dark eyes. “You need to stay here. Lock the door. Do not leave this room. That attack was a warning.”

“No.” Shaking my head, a fierce spark of defiance ignited in my gut. “This whole kidnapping was a ploy. Nathan sent those guys to distract you. He wanted you injured, exhausted, or in a jail cell. He wanted you to miss today's game. If I hide in this room, he wins.”

“Maya, it is too dangerous.”

“I am coming to the arena.” Staring him down, my resolve hardened into steel. “I will sit right behind the glass. You will go out on that ice and you will destroy his team. Show him that his dirty tricks failed.”

A slow, wicked smirk spread across his handsome face. The dark fire returned to his eyes.

“I promise to go talk to Nathan later,” his voice dropped into a deadly, quiet rumble. “Off the ice. But tonight? We play by the rules. We beat him on the scoreboard.”