Chapter 6
Gideon
The ice bit back this morning.
Good.
I drove into the boards harder than necessary. Shouldered the impact. Let the shock rattle through muscle and bone.
Five-thirty a.m. The rink empty except for the Zamboni driver smoking outside and the ghosts of a thousand drills embedded in muscle memory.
Cold air scraped my lungs raw with each breath.
Perfect.
I carved figure-eights. Hard stops that sprayed ice against the plexiglass. Crossovers so tight my edges screamed. Again. Faster. Tighter. Until my quads burned and sweat froze against my neck.
No plays to memorize.
No teammates to coordinate with.
Just movement. Precision. The singular focus that came when nothing else existed except body and ice and will.
This was the only place I didn't have to perform. Didn't have to smile for cameras. Didn't have to field questions about playoff chances or contract negotiations or which model I'd been photographed with last week.
Here, I could just be.
Brutal. Efficient. Honest in the only language that mattered.
I launched into sprints—blue line to blue line, pushing until my vision tunneled and my heartbeat thundered loud enough to drown thought.
I didn't think about Belle.
Not consciously.
But every hit landed heavier than it should.
Every drill stretched tighter.
Every stride carried an edge I couldn't quite name.
Her face surfaced anyway. Unwelcome. Inevitable.
The way she'd looked at me in the bookstore doorway.
Wary. Unimpressed.
Like I was something to be endured rather than desired.
I slammed into another drill.
The impact sang through my skeleton.
Control was easiest when everything else fell apart.
And Belle Reiss—stubborn, broke, desperate—was about to learn that falling was exactly what I'd been waiting for.
The locker room filled gradually. Voices ricocheted off tile and metal—loud, careless, alive in ways I'd learned to mimic.
"Jesus, Jones." Hades dropped onto the bench beside me, already grinning. "You trying to murder the ice or just yourself?"
"Both." I yanked my skate laces tighter. "Keeps things interesting."
"Masochist."
"Says the married man."
The room erupted. Someone threw a roll of tape at Hades' head. He caught it without looking, still smiling like he knew something the rest of us hadn't figured out yet.
Jeremy—Scar to anyone who'd earned it—leaned against his stall, all sleek menace and calculated boredom. "There's a thing tonight. Downtown. Models. Bottle service. The usual dystopian nightmare."
"I'm in," James said immediately. Of course he was.
Gang Lu didn't bother responding. He never did.
Jafar examined his stick tape like it held nuclear launch codes. "Depends. Will there be intelligent conversation, or just the kind that requires I drink myself cooperative?"
"Both, probably."
"Then no."
They turned to me expectantly.
I shrugged into my practice jersey. "Pass."
"Shocking," Jeremy drawled.
"The fearless himbo," Hades added, "allergic to fun."
"Allergic to boring." I stood, stretched. Let the smile come easy. "You want bottle service and bad decisions, be my guest. I've got film to watch."
"Film. Right." James smirked. "That what we're calling her?"
The room went quiet for half a breath.
I met his eyes. Held them until his smirk faltered.
"There's no her," I said. Calm. Final. "There are playoffs in six weeks and half of you skating like you've got concrete in your shorts."
Laughter broke the tension.
I didn't need distraction.
I had focus.
And Belle Reiss had no idea she'd become it.
Practice ended the way it always did—coaches barking final notes, equipment clattering, bodies filtering toward showers and phones and whatever passed for their lives outside these walls.
I stayed. Let the noise drain away. Let silence settle over the rink like fresh snow over old tracks.
The ice looked clean from here. Unmarked. Like we hadn't just spent two hours carving violence into its surface.
I peeled my gear off slowly. Methodically. Shoulder pads first. Chest protector. Gloves still damp with sweat.
No rush.
The locker room emptied around me. Hades clapped my shoulder on his way out. Jeremy muttered something about wasted youth. Gang Lu said nothing—just met my eyes for half a second before disappearing.
They knew better than to wait.
I headed for the showers.
Steam filled the tile room, thick and anonymous. Water hit my shoulders hot enough to sting. I stood under the spray and let it work through muscle and tension.
My mind stayed sharp.
Clear.
Belle's father owed money. Not to a bank—banks had paperwork, legal channels, predictable timelines. He owed it to someone who didn't advertise. Someone who knew how to leverage desperation.
And I'd bought that debt three days ago.
Not because I needed the money.
Because I needed the access.
The water scalded down my spine. I braced both hands against the tile and breathed through the heat.
This wasn't impulse.
Wasn't some unhinged obsession born of rejection.
I'd been patient. Calculated. I'd watched her for months—learned her routines, her weak points, the exact shape of the trap her life had become.
She thought Gideon Jones showing up at her bookstore was a coincidence.
She thought wrong.
I shut off the water. Grabbed a towel. Dressed with the same methodical precision I brought to everything that mattered.
Jeans. Dark henley. Jacket that cost more than most people's rent.
The mirror showed me exactly what I needed to see.
Composed.
Controlled.
Inevitable.
Belle Reiss had spent a year pretending I didn't exist.
That ended tonight.
My phone buzzed as I stepped into the parking lot.
One voicemail.
I listened.
"Mr. Jones." The voice belonged to someone who'd learned discretion came with better compensation than morality.
"Confirming the details you requested. Maurice Reiss.
Admitted Thursday evening, second episode in ten days.
Prognosis stable but guarded. Cardiologist recommends stress reduction, lifestyle modification, ongoing monitoring. "
A pause. Papers shuffling.
"Insurance covered the immediate intervention.
Long-term care falls outside their parameters.
Estimated out-of-pocket for recommended treatment plan runs approximately one hundred and forty-seven thousand over the next six months.
Patient's daughter was informed this afternoon.
No immediate family resources identified. "
The voice flattened further. Professional courtesy stripped to its skeleton.
"The financial coordinator offered standard payment options. Miss Reiss appeared... overwhelmed. No decisions made. She left late last night."
Click.
I deleted the message.
One hundred and forty-seven thousand.
The number settled into my mind with crystalline clarity.
Impossible.
Devastating.
Everything unfolding exactly as planned.
I slid behind the wheel. Started the engine. Didn't smile.
This wasn't pleasure.
It was inevitability.
The drive took twelve minutes.
I knew because I'd timed it before.
Main Street stretched quiet under streetlights—shops dark, sidewalks empty except for shadows that didn't move. The bookstore sat third from the corner, warm light bleeding through the front windows despite the late hour.
Still open.
Barely.
I parked across the street. Engine off. Lights killed.
Not hidden behind other cars or tucked into alleys.
Just there.
Visible.
Deliberate.
The storefront looked smaller at night. More fragile. Yellow light turned the glass into something almost welcoming—if you didn't know better.
I did.
Same windows she'd stood behind three nights ago, unaware I'd been watching. Same door she now locked early, like deadbolts could keep out what had already decided to come in. Same street where everything would change.
I didn't move yet.
She would feel me coming.
The way prey always sensed the shift in air pressure before the predator struck.
I settled back against the headrest. Watched. Waited. Patient.
Inside, Belle moved between shelves, unaware her time had just run out.
I crossed the street.
Three strides. No hesitation.
The bell chimed when I pushed through—bright, cheerful, oblivious to what it announced.
Belle looked up from the register. Her reaction arrived in layers. Surprise first. Eyes widening, lips parting on an inhale she didn't finish.
Then anger—jaw tightening, shoulders squaring like she could make herself bigger through sheer will. And underneath it all, buried so deep she probably told herself it wasn't there—
Fear.
Raw. Honest. The kind that tasted like truth.
I stepped inside. Let the door swing shut behind me. Reached back without looking. Turned the lock.
The click echoed through the narrow space between us. Not loud. Not aggressive.
Just absolute.
Her gaze dropped to my hand. Back to my face. "We're closed."
"I know."
"Then you should leave."
I didn't move. Didn't smile. Just stood there, blocking the only exit, watching her calculate odds that had already been decided.
"We need to talk, Belle."
Her name sounded different now.
Like ownership.
I didn't ease into it.
Lies required setup. Truth just needed delivery.
"Your father was admitted Thursday evening." My voice stayed level. Clinical. "Second cardiac episode in ten days. The cardiologist recommended ongoing monitoring. Stress reduction. Lifestyle modification."
Belle went still. The kind of stillness that preceded either flight or violence.
I continued. "Insurance covered the immediate intervention. Nothing beyond that. Long-term care falls outside their parameters." I paused. Let the numbers settle between us like stones. "One hundred and forty-seven thousand. Six months. That's what they told you it would cost."
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might collapse.
She didn't.
Her hands gripped the counter's edge. Knuckles white. Breathing shallow.
"How—" Her voice cracked. She tried again. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention."
Three words. Calm. Absolute.