OPENING NIGHT #2
Julian stepped out.
He had showered, but the heat of the game still radiated off him in waves.
He was dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit with a dark gray button-down shirt, the collar open.
His dark hair was still damp, pushed back carelessly from his forehead.
The cut above his eyebrow had been glued shut by the team medic, adding a rugged, dangerous edge to his impossibly handsome face.
He was in the middle of answering a question from an assistant coach when he looked up.
He saw her.
Julian stopped dead in his tracks. The assistant coach kept walking, talking to empty air.
Julian’s brain is fundamentally short-circuited.
He had known she was wearing his jersey.
He had seen her from the ice. But seeing her up close, standing in the dim, gritty light of the tunnel, swimming in his colors, the hem of the jersey hitting her at mid-thigh, exposing those long, flawless legs...
it triggered a deeply primal, intensely possessive instinct that he had absolutely no control over.
She looked like she belonged to him.
The press pool was shouting questions at him about the fight, about the game-winning goal, but Julian couldn't hear a single word. His stormy gray eyes darkened to the color of charcoal as he locked onto Elara.
He didn't walk toward her; he stalked.
The media went absolutely feral, recognizing the shift in his demeanor.
Elara’s breath caught as he approached. He moved with that same heavy, predatory grace he had on the ice. When he stopped in front of her, he completely blocked out the flashing lights, boxing her in against the concrete wall with his massive frame.
The "no kissing" clause flashed through Julian's mind. It was a chain keeping him tethered to the ground, but he was more than willing to pull it right up to the breaking point.
Julian didn't hesitate. He reached out and wrapped both of his large, scarred hands around her waist, pulling her flush against his solid chest.
Elara gasped at the sudden, forceful contact, her hands flying up to rest flat against the lapels of his suit jacket.
He was incredibly warm, his body rock-solid beneath the expensive wool.
The scent of his body wash—sharp cedar and clean mint—mingled with the faint, metallic tang of the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
Julian ducked his head, completely ignoring the frenzied reporters screaming his name just feet away.
He pressed his forehead firmly against hers, his nose brushing lightly against the bridge of hers.
It was an incredibly intimate, deeply invasive position.
It wasn't a kiss, but it looked and felt like the breathless, desperate second right before one.
"You wore my name," Julian rumbled, his voice dropping into a ragged, guttural whisper meant only for her.
Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared up into his dark, dilated eyes, completely mesmerized by the raw hunger she saw there. The script, the PR team, the cameras—everything vanished.
"Sarah made me," Elara whispered breathlessly, trying to maintain some semblance of her defensive walls.
Julian’s hands tightened on her waist, his thumbs pressing firmly into the flare of her hips. A slow, dark smirk curved his bruised lips.
"Liar," he breathed, the heat of his words washing over her mouth. "You look beautiful, Elara. You look perfectly ruined in my colors. It took everything I had not to skate up into that box and drag you out of there."
Elara’s knees actually felt weak. The sheer, unapologetic possessiveness in his tone sent a shockwave of heat straight to her core.
She had never been looked at like this in her entire life.
Declan had looked at her like she was a reflection of his own ego.
Julian looked at her like she was the only oxygen in the room, and he was starving.
He didn't kiss her. He honored the contract. But he shifted his head, pressing his lips firmly against the soft, sensitive skin just beneath her earlobe.
Elara let out a soft, involuntary shudder as the heat of his mouth branded her skin.
"Smile for the cameras, sweetheart," Julian murmured against her neck, the stubble on his jaw scraping deliciously against her collarbone. "Let's give them the show they paid for."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, keeping one heavy arm wrapped securely around her waist. He turned slightly toward the press pool, anchoring Elara to his side.
"Julian! Are you dedicating tonight's win to Elara?" a reporter shouted, shoving a microphone over the velvet rope.
Julian looked at the reporter, his face slipping effortlessly back into the cool, authoritative mask of the team captain. "I think the jersey speaks for itself, Dave. We’re heading out. Have a good night."
He didn't wait for follow-up questions. He turned, keeping Elara tucked tightly against his side, and guided her down the private VIP corridor toward the secured parking garage.
The moment the heavy steel doors clicked shut behind them, severing the noise of the press pool, Elara let out a long, shaky breath, stepping out from the heavy weight of his arm.
"You play a very convincing part, Thorne," she said, her voice a little too high, a little too breathless. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly missing his body heat.
Julian stopped walking. He turned to look at her in the quiet, empty concrete hallway. The adrenaline of the game was beginning to fade, replaced by a quiet, intense focus.
"It’s not a part, Elara," he said softly, the gravel in his voice settling into something deep and true.
"Stop saying that," she whispered, her eyes pleading with him to maintain the boundary. "We agreed. This is a six-month contract. We are doing this to save my tour and to save your captaincy. If we start blurring the lines..."
"The lines were blurred the second you walked into that boardroom in LA," Julian interrupted, stepping closer.
He didn't touch her, but his physical presence commanded every inch of the space between them.
"I agreed to the six months. I agreed to the rules. I won't kiss you until you ask me to. But don't ask me to pretend that I don't feel exactly what is happening between us right now. Because I know you feel it too."
Elara stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to throw up her walls, quote the contract, and retreat back to the safety of her guarded life.
But looking at Julian Thorne—bruised, fiercely protective, and staring at her with an honesty that terrified her—she realized the lie would turn to ash in her mouth.
"I can't do this, Julian," she whispered, the vulnerability finally cracking through her armor. "I just barely survived Declan. I have nothing left to give. If this is a game to you, if I’m just a conquest because I’m wearing your jersey..."
Julian’s face hardened, not with anger, but with a sudden, profound sorrow that she could think so little of him.
He slowly reached out, his massive, scarred hand cupping the side of her face. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence she had watched him inflict on the ice just an hour ago. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheekbone.
"You aren't a game to me, Elara," Julian swore, his voice a fierce, low rumble in the quiet hall.
"And you aren't broken. You are the strongest damn thing I’ve ever seen. Take your time. Keep your walls up. Let me be the shield for as long as you need. But know this—when those six months are up, I’m not walking away. I am going to stand right here until you realize you’re safe with me."
Elara closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his palm for just a fraction of a second before stepping back. The emotional weight of his words was too much. It was too fast, too heavy, and entirely too real.
"The car is waiting," she said softly, her voice trembling.
Julian let his hand fall to his side. He didn't push. He knew exactly when to advance and when to hold the line. He had planted the seed, and he was a patient man.
"Lead the way, sweetheart," he murmured.
As they walked toward the waiting SUV in silence, Elara realized with terrifying clarity that the PR team had made a catastrophic miscalculation. They thought they had orchestrated a fake relationship.
But as Julian opened the car door for her, the stormy gray of his eyes locking onto hers one last time before they stepped into the flashbulbs, Elara knew the truth.
There was absolutely nothing fake about Julian Thorne. And if she wasn't careful, he was going to dismantle every single defense she had, one unscripted moment at a time.