Chapter 2
Gideon
The lock clicked behind me—three thousand dollars of German engineering sealing me inside six thousand square feet of nothing.
Floor-to-ceiling glass stretched across the living room's west wall. Lake Belmont spread beyond it, black and vast and perfectly still. No moon tonight. No stars. Just darkness meeting darkness at some invisible seam.
I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. Teak. Handcrafted. Two hundred dollars for something to hold metal.
My footsteps echoed across the polished concrete. Steel beams overhead, black leather sectional positioned at the perfect angle to the fireplace I never used. Stone countertops in the kitchen that had never seen anything messier than takeout containers.
The designer had called it "masculine minimalism."
I called it empty.
One photograph occupied the floating shelf near the bar.
Team photo from three years ago—the championship win.
Forty men grinning under arena lights, hoisting a trophy none of them had touched since.
I stood center-right, assistant captain's A visible on my jersey, expression carved from the same stone as my counters.
That was the only proof anyone lived here.
I poured two fingers of scotch I wouldn't drink. Leaned against the island. Stared at the lake.
The silence pressed in from all sides. Not uncomfortable—I'd made peace with quiet years ago. Locker rooms were loud. Arenas were loud. Crowds and reporters and sponsors, all of them wanting something, taking pieces.
This was mine. The stillness. The control.
But tonight it felt different.
Tonight I'd stood in an alley and listened to her breath catch. Watched her freeze behind warped glass, coat half-buttoned, fear finally cracking through that careful composure she wore like armor.
Tonight she'd known.
My reflection stared back from the darkened window. Same face the cameras loved—strong jaw, cold eyes, the kind of symmetry that sold jerseys and endorsement deals.
None of it mattered.
I owned this view. The car in the garage. The watch on my wrist. A career built on precision and violence, wielded exactly where the rules allowed.
Everything except the one thing I wanted.
The scotch sat untouched. Amber liquid catching light from fixtures that cost more than most people's cars.
The silence didn't bother me.
The wanting did.
She moved like someone who'd forgotten the world was watching.
That was what caught me first—not the legs or the face or the careful way she dressed down, like beauty was something she could hide behind cardigans and pulled-back hair.
It was the absence of performance.
She'd shelved books tonight for an audience of no one. Ran fingers along spines, pulled one free, read the back cover with the kind of attention most people reserved for contracts. Put it back. Selected another.
No phone in her hand. No glances toward the window to check her reflection.
Just her and the books and the choice between them.
I'd watched her deliberate over placement—literary fiction left of the door, thrillers on the back wall—like the geometry mattered. Like someone might actually notice.
She noticed.
That was the difference.
The memory shifted. Earlier. The moment she'd frozen.
I hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. But something in her had known—the way animals sensed weather changes, pressure dropping before the storm.
Her shoulders had gone still first. Then her breathing. She'd turned slowly toward the alley window, coat half-buttoned, one hand clutching fabric at her throat.
Not frightened. Alert.
Eyes narrowed. Searching the darkness for shape, for confirmation, for whatever her instincts had already told her was there.
No scream. No panic. Just that steady, measuring look—the same one she'd given me a year ago when I'd cornered her at the gala and she'd realized charm wouldn't work.
Fear was easy. Awareness was rare.
I finished the scotch I'd sworn I wouldn't drink. Told myself I'd been checking in. Curious. Making sure she was managing after her father's mess hit the public records—debts and liens and the kind of financial bleeding that ended in foreclosure. Told myself I'd moved on.
The glass hit the counter harder than I'd intended. The crack echoed through the empty house, sharp and final.
None of it was true.
I'd stood in that alley because I wanted to see her when she thought no one was looking. Wanted to confirm what I'd known since the first time she'd laughed at someone else's joke and ignored mine completely.
Belle Reiss didn't perform.
Which meant when I finally made her look at me—really look—it would be real.
The glass was cold against my forehead. I didn’t realize I’d pressed against it until my breath fogged the surface, obscuring the black water beyond.
My body reacted before my mind gave permission. Heat pooled low, heavy and insistent. The memory of her tonight—coat half-buttoned, throat exposed, that split second where she’d known—flashed behind my eyes.
A year ago, she’d laughed at someone else’s joke. Not mine. Not the carefully polished line I’d delivered with the right smile, the right timing, the right amount of charm. She’d turned those eyes on me, considered, and dismissed me without a word.
No apology. No softening. No performance.
Just indifference.
Like I was any other man in a room full of them.
That memory hit harder than the sight of her tonight, alone in that dim-lit store, her guard slipping just enough to show the woman beneath the careful mask.
Fuck.
I wanted her.
Not the way I’d wanted others—quick, easy, forgotten by morning. I wanted to unravel her. Wanted to see that composure crack, to hear her voice break, to know I was the one who’d finally made her react.
My cock hardened, pressing against my zipper. The ache was sharp, insistent. I imagined her in that alley, back against the brick, my hands pinning her wrists above her head. Not gentle. Not patient. Just force and heat and the sound of her breath hitching because she had no choice but to feel it.
She’d know then.
She’d know what she did to me.
The glass creaked under my weight. I didn’t move. Didn’t adjust. Let the discomfort ground me, remind me this wasn’t about control—it was about proof.
I’d make her look at me.
And when she did, she’d never look away again.
The scotch glass shattered against the wall.
I didn’t flinch at the sound—just watched the amber liquid streak down the pristine white paint like blood. My fingers were already at my belt, tugging the leather free with a sharp hiss of metal through loops. The buckle hit the floor. Followed by the zipper.
No finesse. No patience.
Just need.
My palm wrapped around my cock, skin hot and tight. A groan tore from my throat at the first stroke—rough, desperate. The fantasy hit like a puck to the ribs: Belle, pressed against the alley bricks, her coat rucked up around her waist, those slender thighs trembling as I forced them apart.
"No—"
Her voice would break on the word. Not fear. Defiance. Even as I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, even as my other yanked her underwear aside, she’d fight. Twist against me. Bite her lip until it bled rather than give me the satisfaction of hearing her gasp.
I stroked harder, thumb smearing precum over the head, imagining the way her body would betray her. The way her hips would jerk when I thrust inside, dry and brutal, stretching her until she whimpered. Not pain. Hunger. The kind she’d never admit to.
"Please—"
The word would rip from her like a secret.
Her nails would dig into my wrists, her back arching off the wall as I bottomed out, my name a curse on her lips.
I’d feel her clench around me, tight and wet and lying, because she’d still be telling herself she didn’t want it even as her body took every inch.
My grip tightened, fingers digging into my own skin hard enough to bruise. The burn grounded me, kept me from coming too fast. I wanted to draw it out—wanted to hear her beg in my head, wanted to feel the way her thighs would lock around my hips when she finally stopped fighting.
"Gideon, I—"
Fuck.
I came with a choked groan, spurting over my knuckles, my stomach, the floor.
The release was brutal, leaving me hollowed out and shaking.
My breath came in ragged pulls, the fantasy still clinging to the edges of my vision—her hair tangled in my fist, her lips parted, her eyes finally, finally on me.
The mess dripped down my fingers.
I didn’t move to clean it up.
Just stood there, staring at the broken glass, the ruined paint, the proof of what she did to me.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
The next morning, the shower ran cold until my skin went numb.
Steam never touched the glass. Just ice and discipline and the kind of clarity that came from breaking yourself down to nothing. I braced both palms against the tile, let the water beat against my spine until the ache in my muscles dulled to background noise.
Four-thirty. Same as always.
The sun hadn't cracked the horizon yet. Lake Belmont stretched beyond the bathroom window, gray meeting black, the division between water and sky invisible from this angle.
I toweled off. Shaved. Pulled on the clothes I'd laid out the night before—dark jeans, black henley, the watch that cost more than her monthly rent.
The broken glass still littered the floor downstairs. The scotch stain had dried into the paint, darker now. Permanent.
I stepped over it.
Coffee. Black. Two cups while I scrolled through emails I wouldn't answer until the trainer cleared me for morning skate. Endorsement offer. Charity gala. Interview request from some podcast that thought athletes had interesting things to say about books.
Delete. Delete. Archive.
My thumb paused.
One notification. Missed call. Three-seventeen a.m.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen. Didn't recognize the area code. Voicemail icon sat there, waiting. Daring me to press it.
My jaw tightened.