Chapter 9 His Warning

Kade POV I could walk out. Pretend this never happened. Hope that he’s bluffing. But he’s not bluffing. He wouldn’t have dragged me here if he was. Nikolai lifts his drink again, watching me over the rim. “You don’t have to answer today. Take your time. Think it over. But remember, Mercer, the longer you wait, the further you fall.” I don’t move and I don’t breathe, because for the first time in my life, I realize something terrifying. I don’t have a way out. I force my breath to stay steady, gripping the arms of the chair like I can anchor myself there. The video still sits on the table between us, the screen dark, but it may as well be a loaded gun aimed at my career. I look up, my voice even despite the fire burning in my gut. “What do you actually want?” Nikolai sets his glass down with a quiet clink, resting his elbows on the chair as he watches me. He doesn’t rush his answer, he doesn’t need to because he already knows he has me pinned. I hate this. “I want you to throw your next game,” he says finally. “A very specific game. Against my son’s team.” Rook. The name alone is enough to send a spark of rage through me. We’ve spent years going at each other on the ice, tearing into every game like it’s war. We fight. We push each other. He pisses me off more than any other player in the league, and I live for every second of it. And now, Nikolai wants me to lose to him. A bitter laugh slips from my throat before I can stop it. “You want me to throw a game against Rook?” I shake my head. “You think I’m gonna let that asshole win without a fight?” “You won’t be letting him win,” Nikolai corrects smoothly. “You’ll be making sure he wins. There’s a difference.” I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. Every instinct in me screams to tell him to fuck off. But I don’t because I can’t. I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand over my face before dropping it back to my lap. “And if I agree?” My voice is sharp, biting. “That’s it? You delete the video, and we’re done?” Nikolai chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, Kade. You really think that’s how this works?” I swallow hard, my stomach twisting. He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping into something calm, deliberate. “I don’t just want one game, Mercer. I want you. Every move you make, every play, every shift on the ice, you belong to me now.” His words settle into my bones like ice. “One game is just the beginning,” he continues, his expression unreadable. “Maybe you miss a few more open shots. Maybe you take a bad penalty at the worst possible moment. Maybe you suddenly underperform at the most important time of your career.” I shake my head. “You can’t expect me to throw an entire fucking season.” “You don’t get to expect anything anymore,” he says simply. “You do what I say. When I say it. Or I make sure that video finds its way into the right hands.” I inhale slowly, pressing my fingers into my thighs, trying to hold on to any kind of control. “This is insane,” I mutter. “No,” Nikolai corrects, sipping his whiskey like this is just another business deal. “This is reality. You stepped into my world, Kade. And now? You don’t leave until I say so." A heavy silence stretches between us. I don’t blink or even move. My pulse is hammering, my stomach a tangled mess of rage and panic. I was never free. I was always just waiting for someone like him to come along and take everything from me. Shaking my head, the pressure in my chest tightens. “I’m eighteen,” I snap. “This is fucked up. You’re a grown man blackmailing a kid.” Nikolai’s expression doesn’t change, but the air in the room does. The warmth, the fake friendliness, the smooth way he’d been playing this, it vanishes in an instant. I keep talking, pushing, because it’s the only thing I have left. “Maybe your son should be better. Then you wouldn’t need me to throw the game. He could just win on his own." The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Nikolai doesn’t move, then again he doesn’t have to. The door behind me opens with a quiet creak, followed by the sound of heavy boots stepping into the room. I don’t turn around, but I feel the shift, the weight of someone else’s presence. Someone who doesn’t belong in this conversation. Then the cold press of metal settles against the back of my skull and my entire body locks up. My breath catches, my fingers twitching against the arms of the chair, but I don’t dare move. Nikolai watches me, swirling his whiskey, his smirk returning like he’s already bored of this game. “You were saying?” The barrel nudges my head, a slow, deliberate push that sends a sharp spike of terror down my spine.