Page 26 of The Last Inch Of Ice
7
Chapter 7 Nazar
The party sprawls across half a city block. Bar counters line the pavement, red and black lighting bleeding into the street, the crowd spilling between the indoors and out.
People move through it in small groups, many wearing masks or elaborate costumes—it’s the kind of event where anonymity is the main attraction.
Nazar pulls his cap lower and moves through the crowd without rushing. He needs to blend in. Needs to find Callahan without drawing attention.
Callahan’s words from the alley won’t stop circling in his head:Do you think I let management fuck me?
Not some generic phrase. Not just fucking someone. But the specific image of Callahan being fucked. As if the scenario only made sense one way.
Kai, open, claimed.The image sears Nazar’s brain, heat pooling low, cock twitching against his will. He grits his teeth.Focus.
Fuck. Nazar hates himself for the obsessive loops his brain is running through. For the way his body reacts to the thought.
He’s pretending to examine the menu at an outdoor bar when he nearly collides with Irving, one of the young sports agents he knows vaguely.
“Rykov!” Irving grins and immediately adjusts the black mask dangling around his neck. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Here to blow off steam?”
“Something like that,” Nazar says carefully.
They talk for maybe two minutes. Irving’s friends laughing somewhere nearby. He rambles—trades, agents, pre-match rituals.
Nazar nods in the right places.
Then his gaze drifts past Irving’s shoulder.
A group of people stands near one of the bar counters. Among them is a tall guy in all black, his face hidden by a mask to match. He’s in the process of pulling off a black glove, one finger at a time, before reaching for a neon-colored cocktail that looks ridiculous.
Nazar’s gaze locks onto that bare hand as it catches the light.
The calluses. The small scar on the knuckle from a rough faceoff years ago.
He’d recognize those hands anywhere.
He didn’t know he’d been memorizing them this well until this second.
“Gotta go,” he mutters, brushing past Irving.
Callahan’s in the thick of it. Performing. Laughing a little too loud at jokes that probably aren’t that funny. The company surrounding him looks deliberately provocative: leather, chains, makeup. One of the men in particular—tall, dark-haired, withan intensity in his gaze that Nazar recognizes—is looking at Callahan like he’s something to consume.
The way that man looks at him makes something primal twist in Nazar’s chest.
Callahan reaches for another cocktail, moving deeper into the crowd, and Nazar can’t hold back anymore.
He moves fast, cutting through the crowd, and grabs Callahan by the arm as he approaches a darker section of the street. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t waste time. He just pulls.
Callahan resists for half a second, then seems to recognize the grip—the size of the hand, the way it holds him. He doesn’t shout. He just lets himself be pulled into a narrow courtyard between buildings.
The moment they’re out of sight, Callahan shoves him hard against the nearest wall.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Nazar blocks his path before he can bolt back out. He pushes again—harder this time—and Nazar quickly pins him back against the brick, his hands firm on Callahan’s shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kai’s voice is rough, demanding.
