Chapter 40
Dual POV
The blizzard had blown out over the North Atlantic by dawn, leaving a sky of crystalline blue arched over the snow-covered pines.
Bright morning sunlight poured through the bay window of the cottage, warming the scrubbed spruce floorboards where puddles of melted slush had dried to faint salt rings. The cast-iron woodstove purred with a steady, dry heat that smelled of sweet birch smoke, roasted apples, and peppermint tea.
Ryan and I sat together on the deep window seat, wrapped beneath a heavy plaid wool quilt.
He was clean. He had shaved the dark, ragged stubble from his face with the antique razor from my grandfather’s cabinet, his damp dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
He wore an old grey t-shirt he had salvaged from his duffel bag and clean denim, his bare feet hooked over mine beneath the wool.
His heavy right arm was banded securely across my shoulders, his cheek resting against the crown of my head.
My morning nausea was quiet. For the first time in two weeks, the acid knot in my stomach had dissolved, soothed by the tea and the immovable, protective heat of the man holding me against his ribs.
My right hand rested flat over the lower curve of my abdomen, feeling the secret life thriving in the quiet warmth beneath my sweater.
I shifted slightly, turning my torso until I could look directly into his slate-grey eyes.
The hollow, haunted agony that had blackened his face yesterday was gone, replaced by a deep, grounded stillness that made the air between us feel sacred.
"If we do this, Ryan," I said, my voice steady, clear, and quiet, "the old ways are finished."
Ryan’s gaze locked onto mine, unblinking and focused.
"No more self-imposed martyrdom," I continued, laying down the iron boundaries of our future.
"No more fighting battles alone in the dark to shield me from pain.
You don't hide your father's extortion. You don't take hits meant for both of us.
We are building a family now, and that means an equal, transparent partnership.
Zero secrets. Zero lies. We bleed together, or we don't do this at all. "
Ryan didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
His jaw was relaxed, his features softened into absolute surrender. He reached down, his large, calloused palm covering mine where it rested over my stomach. His thick fingers interlaced with mine, pressing our joined hands firmly against the life growing inside my body.
"Whatever you command, Nylah," he rumbled, his gravelly voice dropping into a solemn, immovable register that vibrated straight through my ribs. "Zero secrets. I am yours to command for the rest of my life."
The chronic, defensive vigilance that had governed my existence since childhood uncoiled and vanished, leaving my pulse beating with a slow, permanent peace.
* * *
I slid my arms beneath her thighs and back, lifting her from the window seat in one smooth, continuous surge of power.
She weighed nothing against my chest. Her arms looped around my neck, her face turning into the warm hollow beneath my jaw, her soft breaths brushing my collarbone as I carried her across the sunlit floorboards into the bedroom.
The white linen sheets were warmed by the morning sun.
I laid her down in the center of the bed, stripped my grey t-shirt off, and settled my massive frame over hers with agonizing, unhurried patience.
I propped my weight on my forearms on either side of her shoulders, pressing my chest flat against hers, bracketing her hips between my thighs without crushing the breath from her lungs.
Her amber-flecked eyes were wide, clear, and glowing with an unguarded heat that made the blood in my veins run thick as asphalt.
"Ryan..."
I didn't let her speak. I dipped my head, taking her mouth in a slow, devastatingly reverent kiss that tasted of sweet tea, clean skin, and absolute reclamation.
Her lips parted on a soft sigh, welcoming my tongue with an uninhibited trust that shattered the last lingering shadows of the past week. Her small hands slid into the dark hair at the base of my skull, her fingers curling tight, anchoring my mouth to hers.
My right hand left the linen, sliding down the curve of her ribs beneath her oversized cardigan.
My palm splayed wide, settling over the soft, slight curve of her lower abdomen.
The warmth beneath my calloused fingers was a physical miracle that brought an ache to the back of my throat.
I broke the kiss by an inch, hovering over her swollen lips, my breath searing hot against her cheek.
"Good girl," I rasped, my gravelly voice thick with a ruined, worshipful awe as my hand stroked the soft skin over our child. "Look at what we made, Nylah. Look at what you're giving me."
Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes, but she didn't look away. Her fingers moved down, resting over the back of my hand where it held her stomach.
"You're my whole life," I growled, my hips pressing forward with slow, rhythmic, devastating authority, joining our bodies in the bright morning light. "Every drop of blood in my veins belongs to you and this baby. All mine."
The physical union was deep, sacred, and saturated with an unyielding devotion that healed every fracture in our souls.
Every slow, possessive stroke of my body was a vow sealed in skin and heat, driving her nervous system into pure somatic release until she shattered in my arms, weeping softly against my neck as my own release tore through my chest in shuddering, concussive waves.
* * *
Late June brought a sweltering heat wave to the city, but inside the arena bowl of the Bell Centre, the draft hall was pressurized, freezing, and electric with noise.
Thirty television broadcast cameras were mounted on risers across the floor, their red tally lights blinking beneath the glare of thousands of arena floodlights.
General managers, scouts, and team executives were huddled around thirty-two team draft tables on the arena floor, their phones buzzing with trade negotiations.
I sat in the front row of the draft gallery, smoothing the emerald silk of my evening gown over my knees.
The tailored silk hugged the distinct, rounded swell of my twenty-week pregnancy—undeniable, beautiful, and proudly displayed. My dark hair fell over my bare shoulders in loose waves, my fingers resting lightly over the firm curve of my stomach where our baby had begun kicking three nights ago.
Beside me, Ryan looked like a king.
He wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white dress shirt, and a dark navy silk tie.
His left foot had healed soundly during two months of structured therapy; the university’s forensic investigation had fully cleared our names, Arthur Vance was awaiting federal sentencing, and Julian Vance had been stripped of his varsity eligibility.
Ryan didn't watch the video screens above the stage.
His large, calloused hand was locked firmly through mine, our wedding rings pressed together against his knee. His thumb stroked the back of my knuckles in a slow, steady cadence that anchored the room.
The arena horn chimed.
The NHL Commissioner stepped to the podium at center stage, adjusting his microphone as the arena fell into a hushed, expectant quiet.
"We have a trade to announce," the Commissioner projected, his voice echoing through eighteen thousand seats. "The Edmonton Oilers have traded the fourth overall pick in the first round to the Colorado Avalanche."
The arena erupted into a collective roar of murmuring analysts and rustling draft sheets.
Beside me, Ryan’s hand tightened around mine by a fraction, his jaw setting with that calm, immovable focus that had won the regional championship.
The Commissioner adjusted his notes. "With the fourth overall pick in the NHL Entry Draft, the Colorado Avalanche select... from St. Jude University... Ryan Owen."
The roar of the crowd was a concussive wave that rattled the plexiglass boards.
Ryan didn't stand up alone.
He rose to his full six-foot-three height, turned to me, and slid both hands around my waist. He pulled me up from my seat, dipping his head to press a fierce, lingering kiss to my lips in full view of national television cameras, before turning to help me step down the gallery stairs.
He didn't walk down the draft carpet as a solitary prospect.
His thick, scarred fingers stayed interlaced with mine, guiding me down the aisle toward the center stage as the Colorado executives rose to their feet, holding up the burgundy, blue, and silver sweater.
We mounted the stage together.
The Avalanche General Manager handed Ryan the jersey with OWEN and the number 4 stitched across the back.
Ryan pulled the heavy sweater over his suit jacket, but he didn't put on the draft cap.
He stepped directly to the center podium, took the microphone off its stand, and reached out with his left arm, wrapping his thick bicep around my waist to pull me flush against his side.
His large, calloused hand rested openly, protectively, over the rounded curve of my pregnant stomach for every camera in the sports world to see.
"I have two statements to make this afternoon," Ryan’s voice boomed through the arena speakers, low, gravelly, and steady as mountain bedrock.
He looked directly into the center broadcast camera.
"First, my agent has finalized terms on my entry-level contract with the Colorado Avalanche.
I will be reporting to Denver in September for training camp, with our permanent family residence established thirty minutes south in Colorado Springs, where my wife will lead the Olympic biomechanical research division. "
The room buzzed with rapid keystrokes from seventy reporters on press row.
Ryan looked down at me, his slate-grey eyes burning with an unshakeable, worshipful devotion that made my throat tighten with sweet, overwhelming emotion.
"Second," Ryan said, his voice dropping into a register that was soft, fierce, and entirely for me, "every hit I have ever delivered, every trophy I have ever lifted, and every minute of my career belongs wholly to the woman at my side. Nylah Collins is my wife, my partner, and my home."
The flashbulbs detonated in a blinding white storm.
Reporters leaped to their feet, but the arena faded into absolute, beautiful silence.
Ryan brought his mouth down onto mine in the center of the stage—an unbreakable, public claiming that declared to the world that our battle was won, our family was invincible, and our love was forged in iron.