PENALTY BOX
The world outside the fortress of the Hollywood Hills compound did not exist.
For twenty-four hours, the only reality Elara knew was the heavy, intoxicating weight of Julian Thorne, the slide of his calloused hands over her bare skin, and the completely ruined remnants of their PR contract scattered across his bedroom floor.
Sunlight fractured through the sheer curtains, casting long, golden geometric shapes across the tangled white sheets.
Elara lay on her stomach, her face buried in the soft down of Julian’s pillows. She was completely exhausted, her muscles aching in a deeply satisfying, unfamiliar way. Every inch of her body felt thoroughly, utterly claimed.
A heavy, warm weight settled over the small of her back.
Julian’s massive hand slid up her spine, his rough palm tracing the line of her vertebrae with agonizing, reverent slowness.
He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder blade, his breath ghosting over her skin and sending a violent shiver straight down her legs.
"You're awake," Julian murmured, his early-morning voice a devastating, gravelly rasp that vibrated directly against her skin.
Elara let out a soft, contented sigh, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.
Julian was propped up on one elbow beside her, the white sheet pooled dangerously low on his narrow hips.
The morning light caught the heavy, corded muscles of his chest and the intricate dark ink of the tattoo spanning his ribs.
His dark hair was a wild, sleep-tousled mess, and the bruised cut above his eye had faded to a dull yellow.
But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs.
The stormy gray was completely clear, stripped of any defensive walls, looking at her with an absolute, terrifyingly deep devotion.
"I think I might be dead," Elara whispered, a husky, breathless laugh escaping her lips. "I think you actually broke me, Thorne."
A dark, wicked smirk curved Julian’s lips. He shifted, moving his massive frame over hers, completely caging her beneath him without putting his full weight on her. He brushed a tangled lock of dark hair away from her face, his thumb gently tracing the line of her cheekbone.
"I didn't break you, sweetheart," Julian purred, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I just reminded you how to feel."
Elara closed her eyes, entirely overwhelmed by the truth of his words. She reached up, her hands sliding over the smooth, hard muscle of his shoulders, pulling him down until their lips met.
The kiss was slow, deep, and impossibly sweet.
It wasn't the frantic, starved desperation of the night before, when they had practically torn each other's clothes off in their haste to obliterate the physical boundaries between them.
This was the steady, burning embers of a fire that was never going to go out.
Julian kissed her like she was the only oxygen in the room, his tongue sweeping lazily against hers, taking his time to worship every breath she gave him.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving with a sudden, heavy sigh.
"What?" Elara asked softly, her thumbs stroking the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
"Reality," Julian muttered, a note of dark frustration bleeding into his voice. "Baxter just texted. We have a mandatory morning skate at eleven. And the game tonight against the Seattle Kraken is the most heavily televised matchup of the season. They’re leading the division."
The real world. The cameras. The PR team. The contract.
Elara felt a fleeting prick of anxiety, a ghost of the fear that used to dictate her life. But as she looked up at Julian, feeling the solid, immovable strength of him caging her in, the fear evaporated.
"Then I suppose we have to go back to pretending," Elara murmured, tracing the line of his jaw.
Julian’s eyes darkened instantly. He caught her hand, pressing a fierce kiss to her palm.
"No more pretending, Elara. I told you. The contract is dead. The only thing I’m faking for the cameras from now on is restraint, because if I do what I actually want to do when the paparazzi take our picture, Sarah will have a literal heart attack."
Elara laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed in the quiet bedroom. "And what exactly do you want to do?"
"I want to put you over my shoulder, carry you out of that arena, and bring you right back to this bed for another three days," Julian growled playfully, burying his face in the crook of her neck, making her gasp as he bit lightly at her collarbone.
"Julian! Stop, we have to get up!" she squeaked, writhing beneath him, entirely breathless with laughter and the sudden spike of sexual heat.
"Five more minutes," he argued, entirely unapologetic as his large hands slid down to cup her hips.
It took them an hour to finally leave the bed.
The atmosphere in the Rose City Arena later that evening was suffocatingly tense.
The rivalry between the Portland Pioneers and the Seattle Kraken was notoriously violent, and tonight, the stakes were sky-high.
But beyond the ice, the media circus surrounding Julian and Elara had reached an absolute fever pitch.
The footage of Julian defending her at the charity gala had dominated the news cycle for two straight days. The public was obsessed.
Elara sat in the owner’s suite, dressed in a sleek black turtleneck, tailored trousers, and her signature combat boots. She had refused to wear the oversized team jersey tonight. She didn't need to wear his name to prove she belonged to him. She knew it in her bones.
"Okay, the cameras are going to be locked on this suite for ninety percent of the broadcast," Sarah instructed, pacing back and forth behind the leather recliners.
The PR director looked exhausted, running purely on espresso and anxiety.
"Elara, I need you to modulate your reactions. When he gets hit, look concerned but composed. No dramatic gasping. We want the aesthetic of a confident, supportive partner, not a frantic groupie."
Elara didn't even look away from the ice. She took a slow sip of her sparkling water. "I am not a groupie, Sarah. And I will react however I feel like reacting. You don't direct my emotions."
Sarah stopped pacing, her jaw dropping slightly. She looked at Marcus, who was sitting next to Elara. Marcus just shrugged, a small, proud smile touching his lips.
"The dynamic has changed, Sarah," Marcus said quietly. "I suggest you adjust the playbook."
Down on the ice, the lights flared, and the thunderous bass of the arena’s sound system kicked in. The puck dropped, and absolute chaos was unleashed.
The game was brutal from the very first second. Seattle came out looking for blood, and they specifically targeted the Pioneers' captain. Every time Julian touched the puck, two massive Seattle defensemen were instantly on him, delivering punishing, board-rattling hits.
Elara’s hands gripped the armrests of her chair, her knuckles turning white. She knew hockey was a violent sport, but this felt personal.
Julian, however, was playing out of his mind. He was a force of pure, kinetic aggression. He didn't let the hits slow him down; he absorbed the kinetic energy and weaponized it. In the first period, he assisted on a brilliant goal, threading a pass through three defenders with impossible precision.
But as the second period began, the tension on the ice boiled over.
Seattle’s enforcer—a massive, heavily bearded player named Kovac—had been shadowing Julian relentlessly. After a whistle blew for an offsides call near the Seattle bench, Kovac skated right up into Julian’s face.
Even from the VIP suite, Elara could see Kovac’s mouth moving, the aggressive, mocking tilt of his head. Julian stood perfectly still, his stick resting on the ice, listening to whatever Kovac was chirping at him.
"What is he saying to him?" Elara whispered, leaning forward, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Trash talk," Marcus grimaced. "It’s standard. They’re trying to get under his skin so he takes a stupid penalty."
Down on the ice, Kovac laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. He turned his head and pointed his gloved hand directly up at the owner’s VIP suite—directly at Elara. He said something else to Julian, his body language entirely dismissive and vulgar.
The entire arena seemed to hold its collective breath.
Julian didn't hesitate. He didn't think so.
He dropped his gloves.
The heavy, padded gloves hit the ice with a thud. Before Kovac could even react, Julian grabbed the front of the Seattle player's jersey in his left hand, wound back his right, and delivered a devastating, bare-knuckle punch directly to Kovac’s jaw.
The crack echoed through the stadium.
The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy of screaming. Elara gasped, leaping to her feet, her hands flying to the glass.
Kovac stumbled backward, but Julian didn't let him fall.
Julian was a man possessed. He hauled Kovac back up and slammed him violently into the plexiglass boards.
It wasn't a standard hockey fight. There was no mutual grappling.
Julian was executing a brutal, calculated dismantling of the man who had just dared to disrespect Elara.
Referees swarmed them instantly, blowing their whistles frantically, struggling to pull the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound captain off the Seattle enforcer. It took three men to finally drag Julian backward.
Julian was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his dark eyes entirely feral. He didn't look at Kovac, who was currently bleeding on the ice.
"Five minutes for fighting! Thorne, you’re in the box!" the head referee shouted, pointing aggressively toward the penalty box.
Julian picked up his gloves, shaking off the referee's hold. He skated slowly, deliberately toward the penalty box, entirely ignoring the booing from the Seattle bench and the deafening cheers from the Portland fans.
He stepped into the small, enclosed glass box. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.