Chapter 14
Ryan POV
The edge of my skate blade carved a three-foot arc through the frost, sending a spray of white powder against the boards behind the net.
I gathered the loose puck on the backhand, accelerated across the hash marks, and snapped a crisp, tape-to-tape pass fifty feet through the neutral zone. The carbon-fiber blade struck Knox’s stick with a dry, concussive crack right at the opposite blue line, sending him in alone on the goalie.
Coach Vance blew his whistle. The sound sliced through the cold air of The Foundry, followed by two sharp claps of his gloves. "That's the transition timing, four. Run it again."
I circled back toward the defensive circle, my chest expanding with a slow, rhythmic intake of freezing air.
The suffocating pressure that had been grinding my ribs to powder for four weeks was gone.
The dull ache from the deep contusion was still there, throbbing under my pads with every crossover, but the chaotic, erratic violence that had possessed my hands had settled into absolute, deadly focus.
My resting heart rate was down to forty-eight beats a minute.
The constant, grinding tension in my masseter muscles had vanished, leaving my jaw loose, my mind clear.
We finished the drill, skates hissing across the shaved ice toward the bench.
Knox skated up beside me, unbuckling his helmet strap and shoving his visor up with the palm of his glove. He squinted at me sideways, his blue eyes sharp with curiosity.
"What the hell happened to you overnight, Cap?" Knox muttered as we hit the rubber matting near the gate. "Yesterday morning you looked like you were ready to tear the radiator pipes off the wall with your bare hands. Today you're skating like you just had eight hours of sleep and an ice bath."
I leaned my stick against the dasher rail, unstrapping my gloves with two sharp pulls of Velcro.
"I’m focused on Friday," I said, my voice coming out flat, steady, and stripped of irritation.
"Bullshit," Knox said, laughing as he stepped off the ice. "You stripped Vance of the puck three times in the scrimmage and didn't even put a shoulder into his chest. You didn't even look at him. You look like a guy who finally found what he was looking for."
I stopped on the rubber runner.
I turned my head, fixing Knox with a slow, unblinking stare. There was no heat in my expression, only the cold, immovable weight of an enforcer who had drawn a boundary line in the dirt.
"Knox," I said quietly, the low register of my voice cutting through the noise of the locker room door banging open down the hall.
Knox froze. His grin faded, replaced by that cautious, respectful stillness he only used when things were about to turn dangerous.
"Leave it alone," I told him.
He held up one taped hand, nodding once. "Message received, Ryan. Leaving it alone."
I turned toward the showers, the steam billowing out into the hallway in thick, warm clouds.
My mind didn't linger on Knox. It hadn't left Sub-Level Two since midnight.
The memory was burned into the back of my eyelids: Nylah trembling against my chest, her dark hair spilling over my forearms, her breath hitching in ragged gasps as she tried to understand what had just happened to her.
She had never been touched. She had lived twenty-two years behind an iron fortress of data sets and academic superiority, untouched and guarded, until I put my hands in her hair and tore the gate off its hinges.
The guilt about Leo was still an iron weight chained to my ribs. The NCAA probation was still a live grenade in my pocket.
None of that mattered anymore.
She was mine now. She had broken in my arms, breathed my air, and melted under my mouth. The old rules—the distance, the cold deflections, the polite lies about administrative boundaries—were dead.
* * *
At ten-fifty-five, a dense coastal fog was rolling off Penobscot Bay, blanketing the granite quad in cold, damp mist.
I stood at the base of the wide limestone steps of Keller Hall, leaning against the wrought-iron handrail.
I had left my gear at the rink, wearing my dark charcoal wool coat over a heavy black crewneck sweater, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jeans.
Twenty yards behind me, my black truck was idling by the curb in the service zone, the exhaust pluming into the grey morning air.
The heavy double doors of the science building swung open, releasing a steady stream of students into the freezing draft.
I spotted her instantly.
Nylah walked near the edge of the crowd, her head down, her dark green scarf pulled tight around her throat.
She was wearing her tailored wool coat, carrying her dark leather messenger bag diagonally across her chest, with her heavy research binder clutched against her ribs like a breastplate.
Her dark hair was pulled back into that severe, tight knot again, but her steps were hesitant, her eyes darting across the courtyard with wary, defensive caution.
She was looking for me.
I pushed off the railing, cutting through the flow of foot traffic with long, grounded strides. Two underclassmen veered out of my path when they saw the width of my shoulders bearing down on them.
Nylah reached the bottom landing, her right thumb spinning that silver band around her knuckle in a rapid, nervous tempo.
She looked up.
Her boots stopped dead on the wet granite. Her amber-flecked eyes widened, the color draining from her cheeks for a fraction of a second before a bright, defensive flush flooded the skin along her collarbone.
"Owen," she said, her voice tight, trying to summon that crisp, professional cadence she always used when she was cornered. "What are you doing here? Our kinematic review isn't until four this afternoon."
I didn't answer.
I closed the remaining five feet between us, stepping directly into her perimeter until my shadow fell over her face. The scent of winter mint and cold rain washed over my senses, clean and sharp, settling the last restless nerve in my bloodstream.
Without breaking eye contact, I reached out.
My fingers caught the leather strap of her messenger bag where it crossed her shoulder, the back of my knuckles deliberately brushing the soft curve of her collarbone. The fabric of her coat did nothing to dull the jolt of friction that passed between us.
I lifted the heavy twenty-pound bag off her shoulder in one smooth, effortless pull, transferring it to my left hand.
Nylah gasped, her hands flying up to catch the strap, her fingertips brushing the sleeve of my coat before she jerked them back as if she’d touched a live stove.
"Give that back," she hissed, her voice dropping to an urgent, angry whisper as she looked around at the passing students. "What is wrong with you? People are looking."
"Let them look," I said, my voice a low, steady rumble.
I didn't give her time to retreat. I stepped to her side, sliding the flat, heavy palm of my right hand against the small of her back, right over the curve of her hip.
The contact was firm, warm, and uncompromising.
Nylah went rigid, her spine locking into a straight line, her breath catching in her throat. Through the thick wool of her coat, the heat of my hand pressed into her lower back with the steady, authoritative weight of a brand.
"Walk, Collins," I commanded softly.
"Ryan, stop this," she whispered, her boots resisting for half a second before the steady pressure of my hand on her waist forced her forward. "I have a meeting with my department advisor in twenty minutes. I don't have time for your games."
"You don't have a meeting," I said, steering her down the wet walkway toward my truck. "Dr. Albright rescheduled the faculty review for Thursday. I checked the department board before I came over."
She glared up at me, pure indignation flashing in her eyes. "You checked my department board?"
"I check whatever I want when it comes to your schedule," I replied, my voice smooth and unhurried.
I reached the passenger side of the truck, opened the heavy steel door, and tossed her heavy bag and binder onto the floorboard. I turned back to her, my hand remaining firmly against the small of her back, crowding her until her coat brushed the running board.
"Get in," I said.
She stared at the open door, then up at my face, her lower lip trembling slightly in the freezing mist.
"Get in the truck, Nylah." The command was quiet, low, and laced with an unyielding certainty that brooked no argument.
She swallowed dry, lifted her chin in one last, futile gesture of defiance, and climbed into the cab.
* * *
I shut the passenger door with a solid, concussive thud that cut off the noise of the campus.
I rounded the hood, took my seat behind the wheel, and pulled the door closed. The heavy cab sealed us into a quiet, pressurized pocket of heat. The diesel engine rumbled beneath our feet, the heater blowing warm, dry air across the leather seats, carrying her scent through the small space.
Nylah sat rigid against her seat, her hands folded tightly over her knees, her profile sharp and defensive against the grey light of the passenger window.
"You can't do this, Ryan," she said, her voice shaking with suppressed anger. "You can't ambush me outside my classes. We have an NCAA compliance contract. If someone from the athletic board sees you hauling me into your vehicle like luggage, they will terminate the research grant on the spot."
I shifted into drive, took my foot off the brake, and let the heavy truck roll away from the curb.
"The compliance contract is about keeping me eligible on the ice," I said, keeping my gaze forward as we navigated the icy curve of the campus loop. "What happens between you and me off the ice doesn't belong to the board."
"There is no 'between you and me' off the ice!"
I turned the steering wheel with one hand, pulling the truck into the secluded, tree-lined lane leading toward the private athletic training annex behind the old boathouse. I pressed the brake, bringing the truck to a smooth stop beneath the dripping pine boughs, and shifted into park.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, turned my torso toward her, and leaned across the center console.
The space between us vanished.
Nylah’s breath hitched in a sharp, shallow gasp. She pressed herself back against the leather headrest, but there was nowhere to go. My massive frame blotted out the dashboard instruments, the side window, and the grey morning mist outside, trapping her in my shadow.
"Here is how this works from now on, Collins," I rumbled, my voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that left no room for compromise.
Her amber eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes, her pupils dilating wide.
"No more running through the concourse," I said, leaning closer until the heat of my chest brushed her lapels.
"No more ducking down stairwells because you're scared of what you felt in that basement.
You need to go across campus in this weather, you call me.
You have a session in Sub-Level Two, I pick you up.
If Julian Vance or any other bastard on this campus puts a hand on your coat, you tell me. "
Her jaw tightened. "And what gives you the right to issue orders to me, Ryan?"
"You gave me the right," I murmured.
My right hand came up, slow and deliberate.
My calloused fingers curled gently around the front of her throat, my palm cupping the warm, delicate hollow between her collarbones, while my thumb pressed upward beneath the sharp angle of her chin.
I applied just enough pressure to tilt her face toward mine.
Nylah froze. The violent, fluttering pulse beneath my palm jumped, hammering against my skin in that wild, desperate tempo that gave away every secret she had.
"Look at me," I commanded softly.
She held my gaze. For five agonizing seconds, the sharp, defensive fire in her irises fought against the steady weight of my touch.
But the resistance was hollow, crumbling beneath the heat radiating from my palm.
Her eyelids fluttered, a soft, helpless shiver rippling through her shoulders as the defiance in her jaw slowly melted away.
Her lips parted, drawing in a ragged, trembling breath.
"You're in my perimeter now, Nylah," I whispered, my thumb stroking the soft, burning skin along the line of her jaw. "The old rulebook is burned. We do this my way."
She stared up into my face, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts, her throat working on a dry swallow.
"Fine," she breathed, the word barely a whisper on the warm air of the cab.
A dark, heavy satisfaction coiled deep in my chest.
"Good girl," I murmured, my gravelly rasp thick with rough, possessive approval. "That's how it's going to be from now on."
I let my thumb rest against her trembling bottom lip for one more second, feeling the soft surrender of her breath, before I leaned back into my seat and put the truck in gear.