Chapter 19 Wren, Then
The rink is empty except for us—the way Adrian always insists.
He says we work better alone.
He says we don’t need witnesses.
He says distractions ruin excellence.
Sometimes I think he just doesn’t want anyone else seeing the way he talks to me.
“Again,” Adrian snaps, pacing a tight line across the ice.
My legs are shaking from the last hour. My lungs burn. Sweat stings my eyes.
“Adrian... we’ve done this pass fifty times,” I say, breathless.
He stops. Turns.
His smile is the kind that isn’t a smile at all. “And it’ll be fifty-one when you get it right.”
I swallow.
We move into starting position—his hands gripping my waist, mine resting lightly on his shoulders. It should feel familiar. Comfortable. Safe.
But lately, every touch feels like a warning.
“Ready,” he says.
I nod even though I’m not.
He lifts.
For a second, I’m weightless.
Then his hand slips—just barely—and I come down harder than I should, landing on his thigh instead of the ice. Not a real fall. Not dangerous.
But his face twists like I’ve humiliated him.
“Seriously?” he snaps, stepping back. “You’re not even trying.”
My cheeks burn. “Your grip—”
“My grip is perfect.”
I bite my tongue.
He skates closer, fingers gripping my chin so hard it pinches. “You keep letting your head drift. I tell you what to fix, and you ignore me.” His voice sharpens. “It’s disrespectful.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Try harder.”
He lets go, irritation crackling off him in waves. He circles me once like a predator deciding where to bite.
“Wren,” he says, softer now, coaxing, the shift so sudden it makes my stomach twist, “we’re better than this. You and me? We’re the future. Champions. Icons. We just need to get through this season. Together.”
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
Anyone watching would think he’s being tender.
But I feel the threat under it.
“You’re not thinking about quitting, are you?” he asks.
My chest goes tight.
He sees it.
He always sees too much.
“No,” I lie. “I just—needed space.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Space?” he repeats like he’s tasting the word, deciding if he likes it. He skates behind me, his hands landing on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the muscles hard enough to hurt.
“You don’t get space,” he murmurs into my ear. “Not when we’re this close to everything we’ve worked for.”
I stiffen.
His lips brush the shell of my ear. “You’re nothing without this. Without me.”
The words hit harder than any fall ever could.
A tremble runs up my spine. He notices.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, stepping in front of me again with his bright, charming smile—the one he uses for cameras. “Don’t look like that. I’m just pushing you because I love you. You know that.”
I nod slowly.
He cups my cheek. “You love me too.”
It isn’t a question.
And I know—if I don’t answer exactly how he wants, exactly how he expects—tomorrow’s practice will be even worse.
So I say it.
“I love you.”
His smile widens. “Good girl.”
He kisses me, quick and hard, more possession than affection.
Then he pulls back, breath warm against my face.
“Now,” he says, tone sharpening again, “let’s do it right this time.”
We reset.
His hands tighten around my waist.
And even before he lifts me—
I know I don’t want to be here.
But Adrian Frost doesn’t care what I want.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.