Page 72 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Is that all you want?" he asks pointedly.

"Yes."

"I promise," he says slowly, "that I will not murder Wade Kelly."

I'm so relieved, I sag slightly in my chair. "Thank you," I say in the split second before I pick up on the ever-so-slight emphasis on the word murder. "Wait, why did you say it like that?" I ask, sitting right back up again.

"Murder is deliberate by definition," Valek adds.

So much for relief. "What?"

"I promise not to murder Wade Kelly." The knife spins again. "But accidents do happen. It's hockey."

"Valek—"

"It's a violent sport, Ivy. Modern gladiatorial combat on ice. Bones break. Organs rupture. Blades slice." He flashes me a wolfish grin. "Even if someone dies, manslaughter is not murder."

I stare at him. "You're seriously trying to rules-lawyer a promise not to commit murder."

"I'm being realistic about the inherent dangers of professional hockey." The knife vanishes into his sleeve. "If Wade Kelly happens to suffer an unfortunate accident during tomorrow's game—a bad check, perhaps, or a skate to the throat—well, these things happen."

"Not to Wade, they don't." I shake my head. "He's too valuable. Too protected. The refs watch him like a hawk. Don't even fucking try it. They'll know. I'm serious."

That, and I don't think I want the mental image of Wade getting killed on the ice for the rest of my life.

Wade rotting behind bars? Absolutely. Wade losing a few more fingers? I'd take that. Wade filleted like a fish on the fucking ice because Valek is clearly out of his mind?

No thanks.

I decide to change tactics. "There's one other thing."

His silver eyes flick up from where he's studying his hands. "You're certainly demanding today."

"No games. And no clever wordplay," I say instead of letting him deflect with that dry humor. "I need a straight answer. A yes or a no."

Something in my tone makes him go still. Like I've finally said something that actually matters to him.

"Ask," he says simply.

I take a breath, steadying myself. "Don't tell Wade anything about me. Even if he asks directly."

Valek's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. He's actually considering this carefully instead of dancing around it like he did with the murder question.

"Why would Wade ask me about you?" he asks finally.

"Because you used to play for the Demons, even if it was a long time ago. Because he knows you're on the Ghosts now. Because he's paranoid and controlling and desperate." The words pour out of me. "He'll be looking for any connection, any lead. And if he thinks there's even a chance you've seen me⁠—"

"Yes," Valek interrupts, and there's nothing playful in his voice now. "I promise."

I search his face for any sign of deception. Any hint that he's still playing games.

I find nothing but cold certainty.

"You mean that," I say.

"Yes."

"Thank you," I mutter.