Chapter 14
Gideon
Practice ended the way it always did—sweat dripping, bruises forming where bodies collided at speed, instincts sharpened to razor edges.
I skated hard. Harder than necessary. Let the physical punish what the mental wouldn't release.
Belle's rage this morning had been palpable even through her carefully blank expression. I'd watched her leave the house from the upstairs window, tracked the tension in her shoulders, the way she gripped the steering wheel like it might save her.
She didn't know about the renovations yet. She would soon.
The thought satisfied something dark I refused to examine.
I stripped my gear in silence while the rest of the team bantered around me. Hades made some crack about Jeremy's weak backcheck. James lobbed an insult that landed with surgical precision. Gang Lu said nothing, as usual, but his presence commanded respect, anyway.
Then Coach Edwards stepped into the center of the room.
Conversation died.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders square, gaze sweeping across us with the kind of cold calculation that separated good coaches from great ones. His eyes missed nothing—every missed assignment, every moment of laziness, every crack in our armor.
"Two days."
His voice cut through the lingering steam and sweat.
"That's all you have to fix every mistake you made this week."
He let the silence stretch. Let it press against us.
"The world doesn't reward talent." His gaze moved methodically from player to player. "It rewards obedience. Discipline."
The emphasis on those last two words landed heavier than it should have.
Obedience.
Discipline.
My father's favorite words, delivered with fists instead of speeches.
Edwards' eyes found mine.
Held for a fraction of a second.
A silent warning wrapped in silent approval.
Both.
He knew what I was. What I came from. What I'd survived to get here.
And he approved of the methods even as he warned against their excess.
I held his gaze without flinching. Nodded once.
He moved on, but the message remained.
Control was everything. Lose it, and you lost the game.
I thought of Belle kneeling in my study, defiance burning in her eyes even as her body obeyed. Thought of her rage this morning—sharper, cleaner than her fear had ever been.
Good.
Fear broke people.
Rage made them fight back.
And I wanted her to fight.
Needed her to.
Because breaking someone who didn't resist wasn't victory.
It was just cruelty.
And I'd learned long ago that there was a difference.
When we headed to the locker room, Hades tossed his stick down hard enough that it clattered against the concrete floor, still muttering.
"Breaking wills. That's what we do. Not just bodies—wills."
Scar leaned back against his locker, that sharp smirk spreading across his face like he'd just uncovered something delicious and ruinous.
"You say that like you discovered fire."
"I say it because half of you forget."
Across the room, Jafar tilted his head toward the mirror mounted on his locker door, fingers adjusting hair that didn't need adjusting. Vanity as armor. Control as performance.
"I ruin lives on the ice," he said smoothly, "and off it when the mood strikes."
His reflection caught mine. Held.
He knew.
They all knew.
Hook barked out a laugh, leaning forward to unlace his skates with theatrical slowness.
"Speaking of ruining lives—you think those girls outside realize I'm unavailable emotionally but very available physically?"
"They don't care," Jeremy said without looking up.
"Exactly my point."
In the corner, Gang Lu sat motionless except for the slow, methodical slide of stone against steel. Sharpening his skate blade with the kind of focus most men reserved for surgery or murder.
He said nothing.
He never did.
But his presence anchored the room in a way words couldn't.
I participated just enough to keep the mask intact. Laughed when expected. Nodded at the right moments. Let them believe I was still one of them—still the untouchable star who took what he wanted and discarded the rest.
They didn't need to know the truth. That I hadn't discarded anything. That I was keeping her.
Hades elbowed me mid-thought, breaking through the careful distance I maintained. "You're quiet."
I wiped sweat from my jaw with the back of my hand, buying time I didn't need. "Just thinking about going home."
The words landed exactly as intended.
Silence stretched for half a beat.
Then—grinned.
Slow.
Knowing.
Approving.
"Fuck yeah," Hook muttered.
Jeremy's smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something darker than amusement.
Jafar turned from the mirror, tilting his head like a predator scenting blood. "Good for you."
Even Gang Lu paused mid-stroke, blade suspended, gaze flicking toward me for one brief, unreadable moment before returning to his work.
They understood.
This team didn't thrive on morality or restraint.
It thrived on hunger.
On taking.
On winning at any cost.
They recognized the darkness in me because they carried their own.
Different shapes.
Different appetites.
Same foundation.
Hades clapped my shoulder, grip firm enough to remind me he was built like a fucking tank. "Don't keep her waiting too long."
I stood, grabbed my bag, and headed for the showers without answering.
Because Belle was waiting.
Whether she knew it or not.
And I had every intention of teaching her what happened when she touched things that didn't belong to her.
The engine idled at a red light, my fingers drumming against the leather steering wheel in rhythmic precision.
Practice hadn't drained me.
It sharpened everything instead.
Every nerve ending hummed with restless energy that had nowhere to go except inward, coiling tighter with each passing mile between the arena and home.
Between me and her.
I could still taste the sound of Belle's gasp in the study.
Still feel the tremble in her voice when she whispered that she hated me.
The memory hit harder than it should have—sharp and vivid and far too satisfying.
I shouldn't like that as much as I did.
But I did.
Deeply.
Viscerally.
The light turned green. I accelerated smoothly, each gear shift deliberate, controlled.
Everything in my life operated on discipline except this.
Except her.
She'd looked at me this morning like she wanted to set me on fire. Eyes burning with rage instead of fear, jaw tight with barely restrained violence.
Good.
Fear was easy to manipulate.
Rage required strategy.
And I wanted more of that fire. More resistance that forced me to press harder. More surrender earned instead of given.
I wanted her again. Wanted the taste of her defiance on my tongue. Wanted to see how far I could push before something inside her finally snapped—not broke, but transformed.
The hunger built with each block that disappeared behind me. Not just physical.
Deeper than that.
Darker.
This wasn't about punishment anymore.
It was about possession so complete she'd forget she ever existed without me.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder.
A notification from the security system.
Belle's car had just pulled into the driveway.
Six minutes early.
I smiled despite myself.
Obedience wrapped in fury. Exactly what I'd trained her for without her even realizing it yet.
I walked through the front door expecting silence.
The calm emptiness I'd grown used to over the years—the kind that filled expensive spaces when no one else lived in them.
Instead, I got a scorned woman.
Belle stood in the foyer. Arms crossed tight enough to bruise. Face flushed with color I recognized immediately. Eyes blazing with something I'd spent two days cultivating without her permission.
She didn't wait for me to set down my bag. Didn't let me close the door.
"What the hell is happening to my store?!"
The words hit like a slap shot—fast, direct, meant to hurt.
I inhaled sharply.
Fury looked good on her.
So did courage.
Better than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined it plenty.
She strode toward me, closing the distance between us with jerky, furious steps. Pointed a shaking finger in my direction like she might actually strike.
"You didn't ask. You didn't tell me. You just—just ordered people into my shop! I came in today and everything was torn apart!"
Her voice cracked on the last word. Not from weakness. From betrayal.
That was what burned in her eyes—not just anger, but violation. The feeling of something sacred being touched without permission.
I understood that more than she'd ever know.
I stepped closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Uncertain in no way whatsoever.
"You want to work." My voice came out calm. Steady. Infuriatingly reasonable. "So your shop should be the best."
She opened her mouth to interrupt.
I kept going. "You deserve that."
Belle blinked.
The anger flickered—confusion slipping through the cracks like water finding weaknesses in stone. Her shoulders stayed rigid, but something in her posture shifted. Softened. Just enough that I noticed.
"I don't need you to fix my life."
The words came quieter this time. Less certain. Like she was trying to convince herself more than me.
I corrected her gently. Stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold my gaze.
"I'm not fixing your life." I let the silence stretch. Let her feel the weight of what came next. "I'm taking responsibility for what's mine."
Her chest rose sharply at the word mine. Sharp enough that I heard the breath catch. Saw the pulse jump at her throat. Felt the air between us charge with something electric and dangerous.
She wanted to fight that claim.
I could see it written across every tense line of her body. But she couldn't.
Not completely.
Because the contract said it first.
The money proved it second.
And somewhere deep inside where she refused to look—she already knew it was true.
"I'm not yours," she whispered.
But the conviction had bled out of the statement. Replaced by something raw. Fragile. Almost pleading.
I reached up slowly. Gave her time to pull away.