Chapter 6
Nick
The rink was dark—just the center lights buzzing overhead, casting that harsh white glow that made everything feel colder. Emptier. Like a fucking interrogation room.
Perfect.
I drove my blades into the ice again, pushing hard—sprinting blue line to blue line like if I moved fast enough, I could outrun the thoughts clawing at the back of my skull.
Kennedy.
Her voice.
Her lips.
The way her eyes shook when I told her she was mine.
The way she left anyway.
I grit my teeth, bent low, arms pumping. My lungs burned. My thighs screamed. Good. Let it hurt. Let it fucking bleed.
Because if I didn’t pour it out here, I’d lose it.
I didn’t beg her to stay. I gave her a choice.
And now? Now she was out there, probably in his house, wearing his ring—after she let me taste her like she was already mine.
Fuck that.
I hit the brakes hard, skates screeching, sending ice shavings flying across the boards. My chest heaved. The cold air sliced into my lungs like glass.
Still not enough.
So I dropped into another sprint.
Again. Again.
If I keep moving, I wouldn’t break something.
If I stopped, I'd burn the whole fucking world down.
The door clattered open behind me. Metal on metal. Sharp and loud.
I didn’t look.
I already knew who it was.
The other monsters.
The Wraiths were here.
And for the next hour, we’d bleed together.
Because when the world tried to cage you, you laced your skates, grabbed your stick, and you fought like hell.
The sound of skates echoed behind me—sharp, steady cuts across the ice.
They filtered in one by one. No jerseys. No names. No cameras.
Just midnight warriors in black hoodies and muscle memory, dragging blades over the ice like it owed them blood.
The Hollowgrave Wraiths.
My pack.
My hell.
Leading the slow procession was Rhys Ackerman—assistant coach, ex-enforcer, still skating like he could tear someone in half if he had to.
Guy took a puck to the throat five years ago. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fucking blink.
Now he watched from behind the glass like a sniper on a tower—quiet, ruthless, and the only man I’d ever let talk to me like I wasn’t a bomb.
He didn’t waste time.
“You skate like a man who’s either in love,” he said flatly, not missing a beat, “or about to kill someone.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t even look at him.
Because both were true. And he knew it.
Behind him, Sam Harding stepped onto the ice like he belonged to it. Big. Smiling. Dangerous in a way most people wouldn’t see until it was too late.
Off the ice? Golden retriever. On it? Bulldozer with blades.
He took one look at me and laughed, shaking his head. “Midnight heartbreak skate again?”
I kept skating.
Didn’t even blink.
He chuckled and skated off toward the other end. Didn’t take it personally. Sam never did. That was why he’s still alive.
Because he knows when to back off the rabid dogs.
More blades hit the ice.
I didn’t have to turn. I could feel the shift—like a pressure drop before a storm.
Andrew Crown.
Defenseman. Ghost. Living shadow in black tape and bruises.
The guy moved like death in slow motion—precise, cold, unbothered. Permanent bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in years.
He didn’t speak unless something needed to die or get done.
Tonight? He skated past me, glancing once at the fresh cut splitting across my knuckles.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat and unimpressed. “Either stop skating, or bleed faster.”
I nodded once.
That was it. That was our language.
Then I heard it—louder, sharper. That chaotic stomp that meant trouble was coming.
Axel Ryder.
No helmet. Scar across his jaw. Wild eyes and a grin that never quite reached sanity.
He skated in like a wrecking ball with no brakes.
Didn’t warm up. Didn’t stretch. Just tore across the ice like he was looking for someone to hurt.
He spotted me immediately.
“You look like hell, Maddox.” That sick, crooked grin spread wide. “Need me to carve someone up for you?”
I growled low, not breaking stride. “Stand in line.”
He barked out a laugh and skated ahead—probably to slam into the first unlucky soul dumb enough to be standing upright.
Ryder didn’t need a reason to hit.
He just needed permission.
And sometimes not even that.
More footsteps.
More blades cutting into the ice.
Greyson Williams skated in like he owned the fucking league.
Perfect flow. No helmet. White grin full of teeth and trouble.
He didn’t practice. He performed.
Flashy. Fast. Dangerous in that way only the cocky bastards were—because he could back every word up.
He circled once, loose and lazy, before zeroing in on me like a goddamn heat-seeking missile.
“You’ve got that look again,” he said, flicking his stick toward me. “Like you tasted something you weren’t supposed to.”
I didn’t answer.
I snapped my stick in half. Clean. One motion.
It clattered across the ice like a warning shot.
Greyson just grinned wider, unbothered.
Fucker loved the chaos.
He skated off, whistling.
Then the air changed.
No footsteps. Just presence.
Everett Parker.
Defenseman. Ice-cold and methodical.
He didn’t enter the rink—he arrived. Quiet. Purposeful. Always watching.
He didn’t say a word.
Just came up beside me and skated in sync—like we were built from the same machine.
We didn’t need words. We never did.
But tonight?
Tonight, he broke the silence.
“Someone's got you bothered,” he murmured.
Simple. No fluff. Just a statement.
I clenched my jaw so hard I tasted blood.
Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because if I spoke now, I’d scream.
Wyatt Hudson skated in dead last. Shorter than the rest of us, leaner, tighter-built—but every ounce of him was lethal. Hair military-short. Jersey clean. Eyes sharp enough to cut bone.
Precision incarnate.
He didn’t bother with warm-ups or trash talk. He slid in beside me like a scalpel slipping under skin.
“You’re distracted,” he said simply, not even looking at me.
I kept my stare forward. Cold. Focused.
“I’m dialed in.”
Wyatt exhaled through his nose. One beat. Two.
“No.” He met my gaze, dead-on. Unshaken. “You’re fucked.”
Ackerman stepped onto the ice in full silence, like he’d been watching from the shadows the whole time. He lifted a single gloved hand and barked, “Cage match.”
That was it. No goalies. No refs.
Just hell.
We knew what it meant.
No line changes. No offsides. No rules.
Just bodies. Blades. And brutality.
The second the puck hit the ice, the world ignited.
Harding slammed into Ryder with a body check that echoed across the glass like a gunshot.
Williams weaved between Parker and Crown like a fucking phantom, laughing as he spun away from a stick to the ribs.
Hudson took a shot from the blue line and followed it straight into someone’s spine.
Blood hit the ice.
No one stopped.
That was the Wraiths.
You didn’t stop until your body broke, or your blade did.
Ryder caught me mid-sprint and threw his shoulder into my ribs.
I didn’t fall.
I snapped my head back and drove my elbow into his jaw.
He laughed.
I kept going.
Every ounce of rage I hadn’t poured into Kennedy, I burned here.
I skated like my lungs didn’t matter. Checked like I wanted to cave a rib.
Every slash, every hit, every collision—therapy in destruction.
My vision tunneled until it was just the ice and the hit and the next one coming.
No names. No friends. No rules.
Just pain.
And it was beautiful.
Practice wound down like a fight that ended without a winner.
Blood. Bruises. Silence.
No celebration. No cool down.
Just guys dragging themselves off the ice with busted lips, swollen knuckles, and adrenaline still spiking under skin.
This was our therapy.
We didn’t talk about feelings. We just hit until the thoughts stopped screaming.
The locker room reeked of sweat and iron.
Skates hit rubber. Pads dropped like dead weight.
No music. No banter. Just a few grunts and the low hiss of someone icing a shoulder that probably needed stitches.
I sat on the bench, jersey peeled halfway down, a line of blood running from my mouth to my chin. I didn’t notice when it split. Didn’t care.
I grabbed my phone.
No messages.
No calls.
Nothing from her.
I didn’t react.
Didn’t smash it. Didn’t throw it.
Just stared at the empty screen like it had betrayed me.
Then something smacked against my head.
“The fuck?”
A protein bar bounced off my shoulder and hit the floor.
Greyson Williams, all pretty-boy smirk and no fucking boundaries, strolled by shirtless with his hoodie slung over one shoulder like we hadn’t just bled out on the ice.
“You gonna keep pretending you’re not obsessed?” he said casually, grabbing a towel off the bench. “Or should we just go ahead and buy the ring for you?”
My jaw ticked.
I didn’t answer.
Because if I opened my mouth, I’d say something that would start a war in this goddamn locker room.
And as much as I wanted to bleed—I didn’t want his blood tonight.
So I stared at the protein bar on the floor like it had insulted me personally.
Williams just laughed. “That’s what I thought.”
“Already did.” I didn’t look up when I said it.
Silence.
The kind that never happens in this locker room.
Even the ice bags stopped shifting. The rustle of tape. Breathing.
Frozen.
Sam blinked at me, halfway through chugging a bottle of water. “Deadass?”
Rhys turned slowly from his spot by the lockers, arms crossed. “You’re insane.”
Axel grinned like it was the best news he’d ever heard. “She say yes?”
I leaned back on the bench, blood still drying on my knuckles. Voice low. Controlled. “Not yet.” I looked up. “But she will.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Williams let out a low whistle. “Fuck me. You weren’t kidding.”
Sam raised both brows. “You seriously dropped a ring on her after one night?”
“After one taste.” I met his gaze dead-on. “That’s all it took.”
Rhys made a noise—half scoff, half warning. “This isn’t the kind of league where scandals get swept.”
I shrugged. “Let ’em try to clean this one up.”
Axel sat down across from me, elbows on his knees, still grinning like a lunatic. “What if she says no?”
I tilted my head, slow and deadly. “She won’t.”
He leaned in, clearly entertained. “You threatening her?”
I shook my head once. “I offered her protection.”
Let that hang for a second.
Then added, “I’m not the villain. I’m the way out.”
Wyatt muttered under his breath across the room. “Sounds like the same fucking thing to me.”
Greyson laughed, slow and low. “Christ. The league’s not ready for this.”
I stood, grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder like a weapon. “They better get ready.”
And with that, I walked out.
Phone still silent.
But she’d wear it.
Soon.
I left the locker room without another word.
Shoulders back. Steps steady.
Like the decision was already made.
Because it was.
Let the others laugh. Let them doubt.
They hadn’t seen her face when she fell apart for me.
They didn’t feel the way she shook—like surrender had never tasted so sweet.
She was mine.
Even if her mouth hadn’t said it yet… her body had screamed it.
I hit the parking garage. The air outside was sharp and cold, biting against my skin.
Didn’t matter.
I pulled out my phone, still streaked with dried blood from the cage match.
Notification pinged.
One line.
Just one.
Package accepted.
I stared at the screen for a long second.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t gloat.
Just let the confirmation settle into my bones like it belonged there.
Then I muttered under my breath—
“Told you.”
And kept walking.
My phone wouldn’t shut the hell up.
Ping.
Ping.
Another.
Another.
I didn’t check it right away. I was almost home. I wanted to get to her. To see it for myself.
But I already knew.
I let it buzz a few more times before I grabbed it off the passenger seat.
The first message came from Harding.
What the hell did you do?
Then Greyson:
You’re fucked. Or about to be. Check X.
Ryder followed with:
Delgado’s gonna implode. This is delicious.
And finally, Wyatt:
Clean hit. Precision chaos. Well done.
I smirked, wiping the sweat from my face with the hem of my shirt.
There it was.
The video was everywhere.
Someone had caught it—Kennedy in that tight little black dress, standing way too close to me at the afterparty. Her head tilted back, laughing at something I said.
Her hand brushing my chest when she tried to walk away.
The look I gave her when she did.
Predatory. Possessive. Fucking inevitable.
The golden girl.
Gary Delgado’s fiancée.
Jake Hathaway’s off-limits baby sister.
Caught on camera with me.
I hoped they saw it.
I hoped they fucking choked on it.
Delgado, with his perfect jaw and Olympic smile.
Jake, with his fake morals and family first bullshit.
They thought they could parade her around like a prize. Thought she was untouchable.
But she looked good next to me.
And now the world knew it.
Let them spiral. Let them rage. Let them try to come for me.
Because when men get emotional, they make mistakes.
And I didn't.
I won.
Always.
I tucked the phone into my pocket, that smirk still curling on my lips like a loaded weapon.
Let them burn.
She would wear my ring.
They just didn’t know it yet.
The garage was quiet when I pulled in.
Engine still hot, streetlights painting long shadows across the hood. I killed the lights and stepped out, the sound of my boots echoing in the concrete silence.
Up the elevator.
Keyed access. No press. No cameras.
Just me.
And her.
The second the penthouse door opened, I knew she was here.
Lights were dim. The air smelled like her perfume—faint and floral, already clinging to the bones of this place like it belonged.
I stepped in, slow and silent, and turned the corner toward the living room.
There she was.
Kennedy. Curled up on the couch, her dress wrinkled, makeup smudged like she’d fought sleep and lost. One leg tucked under her, lips slightly parted, breath soft and steady.
Peaceful. Fragile. Unaware she’d just surrendered everything.
My eyes dropped to her hand.
Bare.
No ring.
Still on the coffee table.
I exhaled slowly. Not a sigh—a smirk in my breath.
Stubborn thing.
I walked past her without a sound, muscles still aching from the cage match, blood crusted under my fingernails, adrenaline nowhere near gone.
Paused by the back of the couch, watching her sleep like a predator studying prey that had almost escaped.
Almost.
I didn’t touch her. Didn’t wake her.
Just let her rest. Let her think she still had choices.
She’d wear the ring.
Not tonight.
Maybe not even tomorrow.
But soon.
Because she was already in my home.
And once you’re inside the wolf’s den, sweetheart—you don’t leave without the collar.