Chapter 18
Gideon
I stepped onto the ice expecting to see her immediately.
The box seats first—empty except for ownership and their wives.
Then the VIP section—corporate sponsors nursing overpriced drinks.
Then the premium seats behind our bench—fans already screaming, waving signs, wearing our colors.
She wasn't there.
My stomach went tight.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Offense.
Wounded pride wrapped around something sharper I refused to name.
A spark of betrayal I had no right to feel.
She's testing me.
That was all this was. Belle pushing boundaries. Seeing how far she could stretch before I snapped the leash back.
Smart.
Strategic, even.
But deeply, deeply stupid.
I told myself that's all it was as I circled the rink during warm-ups. Stick loose in my hands. Body moving on instinct while my mind catalogued every face in the crowd. Looking for dark hair. Looking for defiance wrapped in reluctant obedience. Looking for mine.
Nothing.
Hades skated past, tapped my shin guard with his stick. "You good?"
"Fine."
He circled back around, unconvinced. "You look like you want to kill someone."
The puck hit my blade. I fired it hard into the boards. "Save it for the game."
He laughed—that dark, amused sound that said he knew exactly what was eating at me. "She didn't show?"
I didn't answer.
The irritation dug deeper into my ribs with every lap. Every scan of the crowd. Every second she continued to defy me.
I'd given her one simple instruction.
Be here.
In my jersey.
Where everyone can see you belong to me.
She'd promised nothing. But the contract didn't require promises. It required compliance.
She knew that. She agreed to that. And still…
The arena roared as the starting lineup was announced. My name echoed through the speakers. Thousands screaming.
None of them her.
I skated to center ice, jaw tight, focus fracturing in ways it never had before.
The puck dropped. And for the first time in my career, I couldn't stop thinking about what was happening off the ice.
The first period blurred into violence I barely felt.
My stick cracked against someone's ribs—legal hit, brutal finish. The boards rattled. The crowd exploded. I didn't hear any of it. Just skated back to position, chest heaving, eyes sweeping the stands one more time.
Still nothing. Still no curves tucked into my jersey. Still no proof she understood what she was to me.
I slammed into the next opponent harder than necessary. Sent him sprawling. The ref's whistle shrieked, but I was already moving, chasing the puck like it owed me something. Like punishing strangers on skates would somehow reach through the miles between here and wherever the hell Belle was hiding.
Because that was what she was doing.
Hiding.
Defiance dressed up as independence.
She thought staying away would prove something. That she could draw a line I wouldn't cross. That the contract had limits she could exploit.
Wrong.
I took another shift, legs burning, anger sharpening into something colder. More dangerous. The kind of focus that made me excellent and everyone else afraid.
Hades caught my eye from across the ice, grinned like he could taste blood in the water. He knew. They all knew. I was playing on a razor's edge tonight, and God help anyone stupid enough to test me.
The puck came my way. I didn't pass. Didn't wait for backup. Just drove straight down the center, body checking anyone who got close, until I had a clear shot.
I took it.
The goalie never had a chance.
The lamp lit red. The horn blared. My teammates swarmed me, shouting congratulations I didn't process.
I scanned the crowd again.
The announcers were saying something—dangerous energy, probably, or fired up—but all I heard was the roar of my own pulse and the quiet, furious realization that Belle Reiss had made me look like a fool.
Not to the crowd.
To myself.
Because I'd actually believed she'd come.
Actually thought last night meant something.
That feeding her, bathing her, caring for her in ways I'd never cared for anyone had shifted something between us.
Apparently the fuck not.
The locker room stank of sweat and victory I couldn't taste.
Gear clattered. Bodies slumped onto benches. Voices rose in that post-game buzz that usually settled my nerves—tonight it scraped against my skull like sandpaper.
Hook stripped off his gloves first, that cocky smirk already forming before he opened his mouth. "Thought your girl was coming tonight, Belle-rose."
I didn't look up. Just worked my laces with mechanical precision.
Jafar leaned back against his locker, stretching like a cat. "Must've found something better to do."
My jaw tightened.
Scar's voice slithered in from across the room, all silky cruelty. "Maybe she's avoiding you."
The laughter that followed wasn't mean. Just the usual locker room bullshit. Guys testing boundaries, poking at the weakest point to see what happened.
They had no idea how weak that point actually was.
I yanked my shoulder pads off harder than necessary. The Velcro ripped loud in the sudden quiet.
Hades gave a low whistle, eyebrows raised. "You still look like you want to kill someone."
I pulled off my helmet without answering. Because he was right.
I did want to kill someone. Preferably whoever taught Belle Reiss she could refuse me without consequence.
"She sick or something?" Hook pressed, too stupid to read the room.
"Drop it," I said quietly.
Too quietly.
Gang Lu glanced up from his phone, dark eyes sharp. He knew that tone. Knew what it meant when my voice went flat and cold instead of rising.
Hook didn't. "I'm just saying, man—if my girl blew off a game after I told her to come—"
"She's not your girl." The words came out measured. Deliberate. "And she didn't blow anything off. She made a choice."
"Yeah?" Scar's smile was all edges. "What choice was that?"
The wrong one.
I stood, skates half-unlaced, chest still heaving from exertion I couldn't shake. My hands flexed at my sides—muscle memory from a thousand fights I'd learned to control on the ice but never truly mastered off it.
Jafar's expression shifted, amusement fading into something more calculated. "You all right, Jones?"
"Fine."
"You don't look fine."
I grabbed my phone from the top shelf of my locker. No missed calls. No texts. No apology. No explanation.
Just silence.
The kind that felt like a middle finger wrapped in plausible deniability.
Hades stood, moved closer—not threatening, just concerned in that maddeningly perceptive way of his. "She know the rules?"
"She knows."
"And she still didn't show?"
My thumb hovered over Belle's contact. One call. That was all it would take. Hear her voice. Demand answers. Confirm she was home where she belonged and not somewhere else. Somewhere dangerous. Somewhere away from me.
I didn't press dial. Because if I called her now—if I showed that much weakness, that much need—she'd know exactly how much power she actually had. And Belle Reiss was already too smart for her own good.
"She'll learn," I said instead.
Hook snorted. "Man, you're whipped."
The locker room went very, very quiet.
I turned slowly. Met his eyes. Let him see exactly what kind of mistake he'd just made.
"Say that again."
He didn't.
Smart boy.
The locker room emptied in waves. Laughter and footsteps fading down the hallway. Car doors slamming in the parking garage below. Voices swallowed by distance until only the hum of fluorescent lights remained.
I sat alone on the bench. Jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. Hands shaking in ways I couldn't control.
Not rage.
Worse.
Hurt.
The kind that crawled under my ribs and squeezed until breathing felt like work. Until sitting still felt like punishment. Until the silence became a mirror reflecting every pathetic truth I'd been ignoring for weeks.
Yesterday, she broke for me. Not her body—that was easy, mechanical, predictable.
Her.
The part she protected. The fire she wielded like armor. The defiance I'd been systematically dismantling piece by piece until she had nothing left but need and my name on her lips.
I fed her when she couldn't feed herself. Bathed her when shame made her small. Dressed her like she was something precious instead of purchased. Held her through the night like proximity could somehow stitch together whatever I'd torn apart.
And today?
Today she couldn't even show up. Couldn't wear my name. Couldn't sit in a chair and let thousands of strangers know she belonged to someone.
To me.
The hurt twisted deeper, sharpening into something uglier. Something I recognized from childhood. From watching my father's face when my mother chose silence over obedience. When she flinched instead of complied. When her submission came too slow or not at all.
I'd promised myself I'd never feel that powerless again. Never need anyone enough to hurt when they refused me. Never give someone the ability to wound me just by staying away.
Belle Reiss had done exactly that.
Worse—she'd done it deliberately.
Tested my boundaries. Measured my reaction. Calculated how much defiance I'd tolerate before snapping the leash.
She was learning me. Studying my weaknesses the same way I'd catalogued hers. And that felt like betrayal. Like humiliation wrapped in strategy. Like rejection I couldn't tolerate.
Not from her.
Never from her.
My phone sat heavy in my palm. One call. That was all it would take to confirm she was safe. Home. Waiting for consequences she had to know were coming.
I stared at her name on the screen. Finger hovering. Shaking harder now.
I didn't press dial.
Because calling her would prove she'd won.
I drove fast.
Too fast.
Past traffic lights that blurred yellow to red without registering. Past the lakefront where water reflected city lights in fractured gold. Past reason, past control, past every rational thought screaming I should turn around and handle this tomorrow when rage settled into something colder.
More effective.
Less likely to get someone hurt.