Bruiser (Seattle Sharks 7)

Driven him away.

* * *

“Why is being up this early a thing?” Elliott whined as we walked toward my car parked in the garage of Hudson’s building.

I had barely slept, my small frame doing nothing to fill the massive bed of Hudson’s. So cold and empty without him in it.

“We need to get home,” I said, digging for my keys at the bottom of my purse. We’d snuck out before Thing 1 and Thing 2 had arrived for their morning shift. I’d wanted to be alone. To get to my home and figure out how to fix the mess I’d made—because I was so done with battling my past. Hudson deserved better, deserved me free of the fear, and I was ready to tell him, show him, I trusted him completely and would do my best to think first and react later.

“Ugh,” she said, going so far to stamp her foot. “Why was Hudson gone? He should’ve made us breakfast before bolting to practice.”

Practice.

He had a morning skate before the game alter, but not this early.

I’d never lied to Elliott, but I didn’t correct her assumption when I’d woken her before the sun rose and she’d leaped to that conclusion when he wasn’t there, too.

Truth was, I didn’t want to be there when he came back.

If he came back.

Because it had been agony last night, waiting, listening, hoping he’d come back to me.

My cell in my hand, I’d almost called or texted a dozen times, but I didn’t want to step on him when he’d so clearly needed space.

I didn’t want to give him further reasoning to push me away.

I would call him later this afternoon.

Three-ten.

I’d call him at exactly three-ten and explain myself before his game.

Explain how wrong I was.

Tell him it was the fear of my past twisting my present—

Elliott screamed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls for a split second before the sound was muffled.

I spun on my heels, my eyes widening as my own worst nightmare played out before my eyes.

Todd’s arm around a struggling Elliott.

His hand clamped over her mouth.

“Now, Shea, listen to me—”

I flew at him, nails out, teeth bared, my phone flying from my hand to skitter across the concrete.

Saw nothing but red as I prepared to rip his throat out for touching my daughter.

Elliott’s eyes bulged as she focused on something behind me.

And before I could blink…before I could turn around…an explosion of pain blistered the back of my head.

My legs became heavy, disconnected from my body, as my knees hit the concrete.

And everything went black.

Chapter 19

Hudson

The final buzzer sounded.

Three to one, we’d beaten Ontario.

The goal they’d gotten had happened because I’d been distracted, looking for Shea in the family box.

She hadn’t been there.

She didn’t show.

But she’d promised.

She’d left me.

I shoved the hurt aside and made it through the post-game. Shower. Coach’s talk. Skipped the media. Threatened with fines for skipping the media...the rest of it was routine.

I was simply numb to it all.

“You okay?” Lukas asked as we walked to our cars.

“Yeah.” I nodded my head. “No.” I shook it. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

“My house is yours,” he offered.

“Thanks, man,” I responded, climbing up into my Mercedes.

I started the ignition, and then sat there, my hands braced on the steering wheel.

I had two options.

The first was to continue the silence I’d begun last night—to let her go. I’d only meant to give her space and safety. Elliott had already been asleep. My penthouse was safer than her apartment, anyway. And when she’d brought up how the fight had affected her, I’d known she’d never sleep soundly next to me. Not when she’d fallen back into her fear.

So I could give her the space. Feed the silence. Let her decide if she was ready to move on from her past. Let her decide if I was her future.

The second option? Fight like hell for her. Make her understand that she was the last person who should be scared of me. Apologize like hell for letting my temper fuck things up last night, and then beg until she listened. Use every weapon in my arsenal to make her see that she was my forever, that I’d never loved a woman the way I loved her. I’d never love another woman. Only Shea.

Yeah, I liked option two.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, the drawing Elliott had left me on my passenger seat drifted toward the armrest.

“Beat Ontario!” it said, showing two helmets clashing.

I’d found it on our way to dinner last night, and it had made me smile ever since.

My gut twisted. Even if Shea was pissed at me, there was no way she’d keep Elliott from the game. She wasn’t a coward. She would have shown up because she’d given her word.

I hit the button on my steering wheel that connected my phone and ordered the voice recognition to call Shea.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four times.

“Hi, you’ve reached my voicemail—”

I hung up. She always had that thing on, always worried an emergency would crop up at work. And if she hadn’t wanted to deal with me, she would have sent me to voicemail after two rings, not let me hang on for four.

Something was wrong.

My foot hit the floor, sending the Mercedes zigging through traffic. My stomach knotted as I called Paulson.

“Sir, how is your morning with the girls?” he answered.

“Funny, I was calling to ask you the same thing,” I snapped. “They’re not with you?’

“No, sir. There was a note left on the entry table that she’d gone to the rink with you.”

Fuck.

“Pull the security footage from the elevator. I’m pulling into the garage right now.” I hung up the phone and swung the Mercedes through the gate and into my private lot.

My other cars were here, but Shea’s was missing.

I parked the Mercedes and

jumped out.

“Don’t assume the worst,” I reminded myself over and over as I raced to the elevator. The garage lighting reflected off something near the door, and I stopped dead in my tracks.

I took a deep breath and picked up Shea’s phone.

The case was cracked, the screen shattered.

“Damn it!” I shouted, punching the elevator button. I called Lukas on my way up and told him to haul ass over here.

“Did you pull the footage?” I barked at the guards as the doors opened in the penthouse.

“Yes, sir.”

I walked over to the small room just off the entry that held all the security monitors.

There they were…

“Fuck!” I shouted, watching Todd grab Elliott. My heart seized when Shea fell into the footage, an object striking her in the head. “Call the cops,” I ordered them.

“Kidnapping is more the FBI,” Paulson said.

“I don’t give a shit what badge it is. Get someone here now.”

While they contacted law enforcement, Lukas showed up, flanked by Connor and Noble. Gentry arrived a few minutes later. Lukas had called in the moral-support cavalry.

Paulson filled them in while I paced the length of the penthouse.

What had they done to her? What were they doing to her right now? To them? What did he want with her? Did she have a concussion? Had they hurt Elliott?

God, where were they?

The tracker.

I swiped open Shea’s phone, and was met with her password screen. I quickly input Elliott’s birthday and the phone opened. The battery flashed red.

Scrolling through her apps, I found the tracker and opened it. I was most definitely not patient while I waited for it to open.

“Suits are on the way up,” Paulson told me.

I nodded, all of my concentration on the spinning circle.

The app opened, and I immediately hit “listen in.”

A few seconds later, a rustling noise came through the phone. Then light breathing.

“Mom?” Elliott’s voice nearly brought me to my knees. “Please wake up.”

Shea was still unconscious.

I heard more movement, then a scraping sound, like she was brushing up against something.