Chapter 10
Marcus
I’m not in the mood for a skating rink.
Not for music piping through cheap outdoor speakers, not for guests wobbling on blades with spiked cider breath, not for Sarah’s forced cheer like the weekend is still on the rails.
But I can’t say no to her. Not after everything. Not after my sister died and left her behind, and the three of us stepped into the space she used to fill. We show up when Sarah asks. Even when what she asks for feels like a distraction from a fire spreading through the walls.
Sarah skates past the boards laughing, and I watch her for a beat longer than necessary.
She didn’t stand up for Mia earlier. She let Jason turn the room against her, and she just smiled through it like she was watching weather instead of cruelty.
I tell myself she’s being manipulated, that this is what Jason does, that she’s not thinking clearly.
Still.
Poor Mia.
Alexander has a plan. He always has a plan. Controlled, strategic, ruthless when he needs to be. He thinks we can use Mia’s proximity to Jason, her history with him, to push him into a mistake. Force his hand. Get proof. End it.
It makes sense.
It makes me sick.
Mia is not bait. Mia is a person. A sweet girl who has already been humiliated once today and does not deserve to be sacrificed for our timeline. I said as much to Alexander in our room ten minutes ago. He didn’t argue, not directly.
I step closer to the boards, scanning the ice.
My eyes sweep past couples clinging to each other, past bridesmaids in matching hats, past a few drunk groomsmen trying to race and failing. I search for Mia the way my body was trained to search for threats, only this is not a threat. This is something else.
There.
She’s near the bench, half-turned away from the crowd, tying her skates.
And I swear my brain stutters.
She is beautiful.
Not in the polished, untouchable way most women at these weddings are beautiful. Mia looks real. Flush in her cheeks from the cold. Hair pulled back, a few strands loose around her face. Mouth pressed into a focused line as she works the laces, shoulders hunched slightly against the air.
My brothers are into her. That’s obvious.
Alexander had a moment with her last night; I saw it written all over his face when he came back from the cellar. Controlled men don’t lose their composure like that unless something gets under their skin.
And Tyler.
This morning, after Mia dragged him away from a fight that could have turned ugly, he was gone a suspiciously long time.
I don’t want to think about what that means.
I don’t want to picture it. Not because I judge her, but because the idea of her getting pulled into this mess by any of us makes something in my chest go tight.
Mia tugs the lace too hard and winces, then tries again, fingers clumsy in the cold.
I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it.
I walk over. She looks up when my shadow falls across her hands. Her eyes widen for half a second, then soften.
“Marcus,” she says, like she’s surprised and not surprised at the same time.
“You’re fighting with those laces,” I say.
“I’m fine,” she answers automatically, stubborn as hell.
I crouch in front of her anyway. Close enough to see the faint marks on her lips from earlier kisses she’s pretending did not happen. Close enough to smell her shampoo beneath the winter air.
“Let me,” I say.
She hesitates, pride warring with relief. Then she lifts her foot slightly and gives me a tiny nod.
I take the lace ends from her gloved fingers and work carefully, steady hands doing what they do best. I keep my touch respectful, even though my mind is fully aware of her leg, the curve of her calf, the heat that seems to live in her no matter how cold it is out here.
“Hold still,” I murmur, and I hear how that sounds as soon as it leaves my mouth. Too intimate. Too familiar. Like I’ve done this before.
Her breath catches.
I focus on the knot. I do it the way I used to when Sarah was little and insisted she could skate faster than her cousins.
Firm, neat, reliable. The kind of knot that will not come loose mid-lap.
My hands are big compared to Mia’s, rough compared to her smooth fingers, and I hate that I notice.
I hate that my mind catalogs the softness of her ankle when I tighten the laces.
When I finish, I glance up.
She’s watching me.
Not with flirtation. Not with coyness. With something quieter. Like she’s surprised by kindness. Like she’s not used to men simply taking care of something without asking for payment.
It makes my jaw clench.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I wanted to,” I answer, simple.
A pause.
Her gaze flicks past my shoulder toward the ice. “Where’s Tyler?”
“He’ll be here,” I say. “He’s with Alex.” I hold out my hand, palm up, steady as ever. “Let’s go.”
She slips her fingers into mine—cold, but certain. I lead her toward the rink’s entrance, our skates biting into the snow-dusted mat, the rest of the world falling away as we step onto the slick ice under the string lights.
“You’re a soldier, right?” she asks, grinning. “Good at taking orders?”
“Depends who’s giving them.”
“Me,” she says. “On the ice? I’m in charge.”
I nod. “Fair enough.”
She steps closer, takes both of my hands, and pulls me gently forward.
I let her. The blades hum under my weight.
The movement’s not unfamiliar—I’ve skated before, trained on it, but it’s been years.
Maybe decades. My legs remember it. My center of gravity settles like it used to when I was clearing buildings with a hundred pounds of gear strapped to me.
The music gets muffled by the hush of skates gliding, by the focus it takes just to stay upright. She hesitates, wobbles, and I catch her waist, steadying her.
“You’re not going to let me fall, are you?” she says, half teasing.
“Not a chance.” I keep my grip gentle, but I don’t let go.
She’s teaching me, technically—how to relax my shoulders, how to push off and glide instead of stomping.
But she keeps sneaking glances over her shoulder, hair loose, cheeks flushed pink.
Every time she presses back into me, her ass digs right against my cock, and I know she can feel how hard I am.
There’s no way she can’t. My self-control isn’t what it was twenty years ago.
She looks back, a wicked glint in her eyes. “You’re a quick learner.”
I lean in, voice low against her ear. “I’ve always been good with my hands.”
She stumbles.
I steady her, my hand firm on her hip, keeping her close enough that I can smell the vanilla of her shampoo and the clean, cold scent of her skin.
Her body fits perfectly against mine—small, but strong.
Resilient. She doesn’t realize how much that draws me in.
I’m twice her age, covered in scars inside and out, but she makes me feel younger than I’ve felt in a decade.
I keep thinking about the man I used to be.
The soldier. The protector. The man who lost too many friends and never talks about it.
I came here to keep Sarah safe, to help Alex run damage control, to keep Tyler from doing something reckless.
I didn’t plan on Mia. I didn’t plan on the way she makes me want things I told myself were long gone.
She glances back at me, biting her lip as she pulls us forward, and I swear, my cock aches in my jeans, straining against the zipper. She knows. I can see it in her little smirk, the flush in her cheeks that isn’t just from the cold.
“Having fun?” she whispers.
I bend down, mouth just brushing her ear. “You have no idea.”
We skate in sync now—her ass grinding against me with every push.
My hands stay on her hips, fingertips digging in just enough to claim her.
I want to push her against the boards, slide a hand between her legs, show her what all that discipline and strength is good for.
But we’re surrounded by people, the lights, the music, the noise.
It doesn’t matter.
Every time she presses back, I press forward, daring her to push harder.
Her breath catches. “Marcus…”
I guide us in a slow circle, pulling her tighter so my chest is pressed to her back, my lips brushing her ear again.
“Mia,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She looks over her shoulder, all fake innocence. “Hmm?”
I slide my hands to her hips without thinking, guiding her as we move in sync.
“If you keep doing that,” I murmur, “I’m gonna embarrass myself in front of a lot of very fancy wedding guests.”
She laughs. The sound hits me in the chest, light and real. “You’re not the only one pretending to be calm, you know.”
I lean down, mouth near her ear. “Are you pretending now?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her breath hitches.
I’m not supposed to be here—feeling this. Not when I’m supposed to be protecting her. Not when Alexander’s already tangled with her, and Tyler’s looking at her like she hung the goddamn moon.
But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.
“I was serious,” I say, pulling her a little closer, my grip tightening. “You keep rubbing that perfect ass against me and I’m not gonna make it off this ice without carrying you into the first equipment shed we find.”
She glances back, lips parted. There’s a flicker in her eyes—hesitation, maybe, or heat, or both.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Instead, she drags us both toward the center of the rink, arms moving gracefully, and the crowd fades around us. Just bodies in motion and the scrape of skates and a girl who should be too young for me making me feel every year of what I’ve lost.
Her body tenses—subtle, but unmistakable if you’re paying attention. I am.
I follow her gaze. Jason.
He’s not looking at us, not yet, but the effect he has on her is instant. Her posture changes, her eyes darken, and her grip on my hands tightens for just a second before she tries to force herself to relax.