Chapter 14
Killian POV
For three seasons, the base of my skull had felt like a locked vice.
This morning on the ice at six AM, the iron had melted out of my jaw.
My blades cut clean arcs through the fresh sheet, carving deep, effortless grooves as I rounded the red line.
My heart rate sat at a steady, rhythmic forty-eight beats a minute, my lungs filling with cold air that didn't burn on the inhale. When Lindqvist’s tape-to-tape pass drill came up during special teams, I stepped into the lane, intercepted the puck on the backhand, and buried a wrist shot off the crossbar with a flick of my wrists that required zero strain.
The puck rattled the iron frame and dropped dead in the twine.
At the boards, Hayes Bennett let out a low whistle, resting his chin on his stick knob. His blond hair was soaked with sweat under his helmet, his blue eyes tracking my glide with narrow, suspicious curiosity.
"Who the hell are you, and what did you do with Castaneda?" Hayes asked as I coasted toward the gate. "You didn't try to decapitate Miller on the cycle once. You didn't even yell at the refs when they blew the whistle on your offside."
"Miller kept his head up," I said, my voice coming out flat, steady, and unbothered.
I reached for the dasher board, resting my forearm on the plastic.
The bruised quad from Wednesday’s session throbbed with a dull, distant ache, but the hematoma had flattened.
Her oil. Her hands. The memory of her small, cold fingers digging into the spasming fibers of my thigh sent a slow wave of heat curling beneath my ribs.
Hayes tilted his head, studying the lack of tension in my shoulders. "You're acting weird, Killian. Ever since that blizzard, you're... different. You look like you got eight hours of sleep, which is impossible because you haven't slept eight hours since freshman year."
He paused, a sly, dangerous grin breaking across his mouth.
"Did Gregory give you a sedative down in that dungeon?"
My gaze locked onto his.
I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. But the sudden, absolute stillness in my face made Hayes’s smile vanish in half a second flat.
"Mention her name again, Hayes," I said, the words low, quiet, and loaded with a finality that brooked no debate. "See where it gets you on the power play."
Hayes raised both hands in his padded gloves, backing half a step onto the rubber matting. "Message received, Captain. Off limits."
He skated off toward the showers.
I looked down at the scarred tape on my stick blade.
Off limits didn't begin to cover it.
Finding out she had never let another man put his hands on her had changed the entire board. The anger, the fighting, the ridiculous charade of keeping our distance—it was done. I had spent three weeks trying to convince myself she was an obstacle, a penalty to survive until my draft stock cleared.
That lie was dead.
She was mine. She had been mine the second she let me lift her onto that stainless-steel table, and I was done pretending otherwise.
* * *
A heavy Michigan mist hung over the campus at ten-fifteen, clinging to the granite steps of the Health Sciences building in slick beads of gray moisture.
I leaned against the stone balustrade near the main archway, wearing my black Barrow team jacket unzipped over a dark gray thermal, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jeans.
Students in parkas and snow boots hurried past, giving me a wide three-foot berth.
The enforcer reputation still kept the sidewalks clear, which suited me fine.
The heavy brass doors at the top of the stairs pushed open.
Nadia walked out.
She wore a long, charcoal wool coat that hit her mid-thigh, a thick cream knit scarf wrapped twice around her throat, and dark jeans tucked into leather boots.
She had a mountain of blue folders clutched to her ribs, her leather satchel pulling diagonally across her chest, the heavy strap dipping into the fabric of her coat.
Her head was down, dark chestnut curls spilling around the edges of her scarf, her teeth worrying her lower lip as she scanned the sidewalk like a deer checking the tree line for hunters.
She was looking for me. Hoping I wasn't there, and terrified that I was.
I stepped off the stone balustrade.
Two long, unhurried strides put me directly in her descent.
She took three steps down the granite, lifted her chin, and stopped dead.
Her honey-brown eyes went wide, the breath hitching audibly in her throat as she registered the six-foot-four wall of black wool standing in her path.
A sudden, vivid flush bloomed beneath the pale skin of her cheekbones, creeping down toward her scarf.
"Castaneda," she said. Her voice was too quick, an automatic shield thrown up against the crowd.
I didn't answer.
I reached out, took the thick leather strap of her satchel, and lifted it clean off her shoulder in one smooth, effortless motion.
"Hey!" Her small hand shot out, grabbing the leather webbing, trying to yank it back. "What are you doing? Give that to me."
"It weighs thirty pounds," I said, shifting the bag onto my own shoulder without a second thought. "You're straining your right trap."
"I have carried my own bag for four years," she hissed, her eyes darting frantically toward a cluster of physical therapy students walking past. "Give it back right now. People are watching."
"Let them watch," I said.
I took half a step forward, closing the distance until the heavy wool of my coat brushed hers. Before she could take an evasive step to the left, I brought my right hand up and planted my palm flat against the small of her back.
The contact was firm, broad, and unyielding. The heat of my hand burned through the layers of her wool coat, straight into the curve of her spine.
Nadia stiffened, an involuntary shudder rippling through her posture, her eyes flying to mine with a mixture of shock and sheer sensory overload.
"Don't cause a scene, Gregory," I murmured, my voice dropping into that dark, low register that belonged only to her. "Walk down the stairs."
"Killian, stop—"
I applied a fraction of pressure to the small of her back, not hurting her, but guiding her forward with an absolute, unhurried authority that left her no room to argue without making the spectacle she was so desperate to avoid.
Her lips parted on a shallow, ragged breath, but her boots moved.
Step by step, she descended the granite stairs, my hand remaining welded to her lower back, anchoring her to my side.
I matched her stride, keeping my shoulder positioned between her and the wind, walking her across the frosted brick plaza toward the staff lot where my black truck was idling by the curb.
* * *
I opened the passenger door, took the blue folders from her frozen fingers, and placed them on the dash.
"Get in," I said softly.
She looked at the high cab, then looked at me, her chest heaving beneath her scarf. For three seconds, her stubborn pride flared, screaming at her to turn and run back to the library.
I didn't move. I simply held the door open, my eyes holding hers, calm and unblinking.
She swallowed hard, grabbed the handle, and climbed inside.
I shut the heavy steel door with a solid, airtight thud, rounded the hood, and slid behind the wheel.
The heat inside the cab was already blowing hot, carrying the scent of cedar, worn vinyl, and the faint, sweet warmth of her unscented soap that had settled into the upholstery days ago.
Nadia sat pressed against the passenger door, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her breathing rapid and shallow in the quiet compartment.
"You can't do that," she whispered, her voice trembling with an indignation that was already crumbling at the edges. "You can't just ambush me outside my department, take my property, and herd me into your truck like I'm your property. We have twelve hours left on that mandate. We have rules."
I reached over, turned the key to kill the engine, and shifted in the seat.
I unzipped my team jacket, letting the heavy fabric fall open, and leaned across the center console. I crowded her space until her line of sight was filled with the broad shelf of my chest and the silver scar over my eyebrow.
"The rules are gone, Nadia," I rasped, the words heavy and unyielding.
Her pupils dilated instantly, black ink swallowing the amber in her eyes. "We need boundaries—"
"No," I cut in, my voice low as grinding stones. "No more boundaries. No more running down service hallways to avoid me. No more pretending you're not shaking every time I touch your skin."
I reached out. My right hand came up, broad and calloused, my knuckles brushing the sensitive curve of her jawline.
Nadia flinched—a tiny, helpless spasm of her neck—but she didn't pull away. She leaned into the heat of my palm with a soft, broken inhale that betrayed every word she had just spoken.
I slid my thumb under the edge of her chin, applying a gentle, upward pressure that tilted her face up to mine. Her lips were parted, pink and soft, trembling with the shallow air escaping her lungs.
"From now on, this is how it works," I rumbled, holding her gaze until the last spark of clinical defiance began to melt into the dark heat between us.
"When your classes are done, I pick you up.
When I text you, you answer. When we're in that basement, you don't look at the clock, and you don't look at the door. "
"What gives you the right?" she breathed, the question devoid of venom, sounding like a desperate plea for reason.
I leaned down until my lips were a millimeter from hers, my breath washing hot over her mouth, letting her feel the raw, untamed hunger vibrating in my chest.
"You did," I whispered against her mouth. "The second you let me taste you on that table. You're mine now, Gregory. Say it."
Her breath hitched in a ragged, shuddering gasp. Her fingers came up, resting against the heavy cotton of my thermal shirt, curling into the fabric over my ribs. She looked into my ruined face, saw the absolute, terrifying truth written there, and her defenses collapsed into ash.
"Fine," she whispered, the syllable wet and trembling on her lips.
A dark, slow wave of satisfaction bloomed in my chest, loosening the final knot in my sternum.
I dragged the pad of my thumb slowly across her bottom lip, parting it further, feeling the soft, burning heat of her mouth against my skin.
"Good girl," I murmured, the praise thick, gravelly, and deep as an ocean. "That's my girl. That's how it's going to be."
Her eyelids fluttered shut on a long, shuddering sigh of surrender, her forehead resting against the hard angle of my jaw as the cold November mist swirled against the glass outside.
She was locked in my perimeter now.
And neither of us was ever looking back.