Chapter 16 #2
“You don’t step on that ice tonight to play.
You step on to remind the world why they fear this team.
You play to devour. You play to ruin.” The room stilled.
Even Gideon went quiet. Frollo’s voice dropped.
“Anyone touches your puck, your zone, your goalie—or your reputation? You don’t just check them.
You bury them.” His eyes landed on me. “And if anyone mentions your wife tonight, Sinclair…” A pause.
Deadly soft. “Make sure they regret it.”
I nodded once.
Not for him.
For me.
Because tonight? Someone was going to bleed.
The rink burned beneath me.
Skates cut across the ice like blades across flesh—clean, sharp, precise. My pulse synced to the rhythm of the game: pass, pivot, hit, breakaway. Castle Rock Inferno in black and gold—monsters in motion.
I was the monster.
Every shift felt like controlled demolition. My stick met the puck with brutal elegance. Every shoulder I threw rattled the glass. No penalties. Not yet. Just power channeled like a weapon.
But still…
My eyes kept drifting.
Across the rink. Dead center.
The glass seat reserved just for her—front and center, spotlighted like a throne carved from ice and power.
Empty.
A hollow space that taunted me with every turn I took.
She wasn’t there.
I gritted my teeth, carving through defenders like they were made of paper, but the cold sting of disappointment clung to me like sweat under my pads.
Back on the bench, I slammed down beside Gideon.
He took one look at the seat and smirked, cocky as ever, helmet off and jaw bruised already. “She’ll come,” he said, flexing his taped hand like he was ready to knock out God if it meant proving his point. “Women like her always do.”
I didn’t look at him. “You’d know.”
He barked a laugh and cracked open a water bottle like he didn’t just prove a point and twist the knife at the same time. “Damn right I would.”
But I wasn’t laughing.
Because she should’ve been here.
Watching me rule this ice.
Watching me bleed for her.
Watching me burn for her.
And yet—
That seat sat untouched.
Like a challenge.
Like a throne she refused to claim.
I took a breath. Gloved hands gripping my stick so tight I felt the shaft groan beneath the tension.
If she didn’t show?
I’d still win this game.
But if she did?
I’d make someone bleed for thinking they could look at her.
Mid-second period.
I was locked in.
We were up two goals. Sweat burned my skin beneath the pads, lungs pumping like pistons. The puck was a blur. I didn’t feel my legs anymore—just instinct. Just rage and rhythm.
And then—
I saw her.
Glass seat. Center ice. First row.
Sitting straight-backed, legs crossed, every inch of her a fucking vision of defiance.
She wore my jersey.
Black and gold swallowing her frame.
She wore the choker.
The one I told her to.
And the ring—my ring—glinted on her finger like a brand.
And she…
She had the fucking audacity to pretend not to look at me.
But I saw it.
The flicker.
The crack.
The fire behind her eyes that gave her away. Like she couldn’t help but glance up, couldn’t help but search for me on that ice like I was the only thing she could see.
She came.
She fucking came.
I nearly missed the puck flying toward me.
Nearly.
I snapped it out of the air with a flick of my wrist, teeth clenched as my gaze locked back to the game. I couldn’t afford to stare—but it didn’t matter. That image of her burned into the back of my mind like a brand.
There was no escaping it.
There was no escaping her.
And now that she’d come?
Someone was going to pay for every second she made me wait.
Face-off.
Logan Rhys.
Captain of the Bay Harbor Ravens, poster boy for cheap shots and broken noses. Smug bastard stood across from me like he belonged in my arena—on my ice.
I squared my shoulders, lowered my stick, and locked eyes with him.
He leaned in, breath reeking of arrogance. “That pretty little bride of yours…” He murmured it just loud enough. Just for me. “Blink twice if it was shotgun.”
My grip on the stick tightened.
Don’t react.
Don’t move.
Don’t—
“Did her daddy sell her with a bow…” His grin widened. “Or just a leash?”
The words sliced through me like a fucking blade.
I went still.
The world dropped away.
Ref’s whistle blew.
The puck hit the ice.
I didn’t move.
Logan barely had time to realize his mistake.
I snapped.
Not a check.
Not a play.
An execution.
My gloves hit the ice before the puck finished spinning.
I lunged—shoulder to chest, stick discarded, fists flying. One hand grabbed his jersey, the other slammed straight into his jaw. Once. Twice. Three times.
He tried to hit back.
He didn’t land a single one.
His helmet cracked against the ice as I drove him down, straddled him like a beast, punching until his lip split and the whites of his eyes turned red.
The crowd roared.
The refs screamed.
I didn’t stop.
No one talks about her.
No one.
Not like that.
Not my wife.
Blood hit the ice. I didn’t care if it was his or mine.
I felt arms grabbing at me—two, then three—trying to haul me off.
Didn’t matter.
I got one more shot in before they pulled me back, chest heaving, vision red, knuckles raw.
Logan lay there like a broken toy, groaning, twitching, trying to sit up.
I spit near him—close enough he’d know it was personal. “Say her name again,” I growled. “See what happens next time.”
The ref shoved me toward the box, mouthing “You’re gone.”
Fine.
I’d earned it.
I turned back toward the glass.
Toward her.
Persephone stood, lips parted, eyes wide. Shock and something else flickered across her face—fear, fury, heat.
She saw it all.
She saw what I’d do for her.
What I’d become for her.
She saw the monster.
And I hoped to hell she remembered—
He’s yours now.
You married him.