Chapter 30
Killian POV
The sharp, chemical tang of fresh zinc adhesive and black friction wax cut through the scent of birch smoke in the quiet living room.
It was nine-forty on Friday night. Outside the double-paned windows, the sub-zero gale was throwing sheets of hard snow against the cedar shakes, rattling the glass in its wooden frames with steady, dull vibrations.
I sat on the braided wool rug beside the coffee table, my bare back leaning against the base of the sofa, wearing only dark gray sweatpants. Between my knees was my primary composite stick—the black Bauer vapor I had used to score two goals against Minnesota.
I pulled the roll of black tape tight, wrapping the carbon blade from heel to toe with mechanical, overlapping precision.
With each turn of the roll, the tape pulled taut with a sharp snap-shhhk, the adhesive binding tight to the carbon fiber.
I took a puck from the floor, using the hard vulcanized edge to smooth the wax into the fabric until the surface was black and impervious to moisture.
My resting pulse sat at forty-four beats a minute.
Slow. Rhythmic. Grounded.
For four seasons, the night before a regional qualifier had been a sleepless, poisonous ritual.
I would sit in the dark, my jaw clamped until my back molars ached, feeding the rage in my chest with memories of the Minnesota camp, the sight of Mateo’s limp legs on the ice, and the certainty that violence was the only language this world understood.
Tonight, the poison was gone.
Every wrap of tape, every deep inhale of the cold air drifting from the sill, had a single, unshakeable purpose: sixty minutes of hockey tomorrow night against Northland State.
Sixty minutes to lock up the regional championship, secure the number-one seed in the Frozen Four, and put the final nail in the entry-level contract that would pay off Mateo’s promissory note once and for all.
I set the stick against the brick hearth and turned my head.
Across the room, curled into the corner of the deep leather sofa beneath my heavy wool fleece throw, was Nadia.
She was drowning in my clothes again—wearing my oversized black crewneck with the sleeves bunched past her elbows, her knees drawn up to her chest beneath the blanket.
A ceramic mug of chamomile tea rested between her hands, steam curling into the amber firelight, but she hadn't taken a sip in twenty minutes.
Her chestnut curls were pinned back haphazardly, soft tendrils falling around the hollow of her throat.
She was staring at the flames dancing behind the mica glass of the woodstove, her face bleached of color, her skin pale as skimmed milk under the dim lamps.
A quiet, protective tightness gathered behind my ribs.
She had been like this since I picked her up outside the Science Library at noon. Quiet. Fragile. Flinching whenever the radiator clanked, holding her coat around her middle like she was trying to protect herself from a draft that wasn't there.
I stood up from the rug, crossing the pine floorboards with silent, unhurried strides.
* * *
I didn't ask her what was wrong.
I reached down, took the warm mug of tea from her frozen fingers, and set it on the side table. Then I slid my hands beneath her thighs and behind her back, lifting her clean off the leather cushions in one smooth, effortless pull.
Nadia let out a tiny, startled gasp, her hands flying to my shoulders as I sank onto the sofa, settling her across my lap.
Her body was shivering.
Not from the cold—the room was seventy degrees, warmed by the iron stove—but with a fine, continuous tremor that ran through the muscles of her thighs and the delicate bones of her wrists.
She curled into my chest like an abandoned child, tucking her face into the crook of my neck, her breath hitching in short, shallow bursts against the bare skin of my collarbone.
"Easy, sweetheart," I rumbled, my voice thick with gravel, scraping low in the quiet room.
I wrapped my massive arms around her waist, locking my hands over the small of her back, pulling her flush against my chest until her ribs were pressed hard against mine.
The physical mass of my body swallowed her whole, shielding her from the draft, from the storm, and from whatever shadows were clawing at her head.
I began rubbing her back in long, slow, grounding strokes. My broad, calloused palms generated immediate heat through the heavy cotton of her sweater, tracing the ridges of her spine, pressing warmth into the tight, defensive knots along her shoulder blades.
"Look at me, Gregory," I murmured into her hair.
She didn't lift her head. Her fingers curled into the hair at my chest, clutching the skin over my sternum with an intensity that felt like drowning.
"You're shaking like it's you skating against Lindqvist tomorrow," I murmured, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her temple. "Breathe with me, Nadia. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Good girl."
She dragged in a ragged, shuddering gasp that rattled her small frame, her cheek pressing harder into my throat.
"I heard the news in the training room," she whispered, her voice so thin and fragile it made my chest ache. "The scouts... the compliance inquiries... the pressure on tomorrow's game."
A soft, dismissive breath huffed from my nostrils.
I thought she was terrified for me. I thought she was sitting in my house carrying the weight of my draft status, the threats from Palmer, and the fear that a single loss tomorrow night would derail the life we were trying to build.
"Look at me, Nadia," I commanded gently.
I slid my right hand from her back to the side of her face, my broad, calloused fingers cupping the sharp angle of her jawline. My thumb pressed under her chin, applying a firm, unyielding upward pressure until her face tilted toward the firelight.
* * *
Her honey-brown eyes were wide, dark, and drowning in a sea of unshed tears that glittered like glass against her pale lashes.
The look in her face took the breath clean out of my lungs.
It was an agony so profound, so raw, that it made my back teeth grind together to hold back the sudden, violent surge of protectiveness roaring in my blood.
"Listen to my voice," I rasped, holding her gaze with unblinking, absolute certainty. "Tomorrow night, the buzzer sounds. We beat Northland State. We take the trophy, we lock the number-one seed in the Frozen Four, and we put sixty scouts on their heels."
Her lower lip trembled, her throat working on a dry, silent swallow as she stared at the scar through my eyebrow.
"And when the game is over," I continued, each word low, heavy, and driven into the room like forged iron, "the hiding ends, Nadia."
A single tear broke free from her eye, tracking hot and silent down her cheek. My thumb caught it instantly, wiping the moisture away with firm, possessive friction.
"I'm walking off that ice," I whispered, leaning in until my mouth was a millimeter from her parted lips, "and I'm taking your hand in front of the cameras, in front of the scouts, and in front of every bastard in that building.
I'm telling Palmer, I'm telling Briggs, and I'm telling the whole damn country that you belong to me. "
Her breath hitched in a broken, ragged sob that tore straight through my breastbone.
"Killian—"
"No more back stairs," I growled softly, my hand sliding into the curls at the back of her neck, tilting her head back against my arm.
"No more secret basements. In four months, the entry-level contract is signed. We pay off Mateo’s paper.
We buy an apartment wherever your research takes you.
I swore to you in the blizzard that you're mine, and I meant every word.
Nothing touches you, sweetheart. Nothing in this world is going to tear us apart. "
Nadia let out a tiny, choked whimper—a sound that broke under the weight of an unsaid world—and surged forward.
Her small hands tangled violently into the hair at my temples, pulling my head down as her mouth crashed onto mine.
The kiss was desperate, starved, and drenched in a wild, bleeding hunger that tasted of salt and fire.
Her lips were trembling against mine, opening wider, her tongue meeting mine with a frantic, clinging ferocity that made my pulse roar in my ears like a turbine.
She climbed higher into my lap, her knees bracketing my hips, her small body pressing so hard against my chest that our hearts seemed to beat inside the same ribcage.
I groaned into her mouth, my arms wrapping like steel bands around her waist, lifting her against me, kissing her with the heavy, unhurried devotion of a man who held everything he loved in the dark.
She loved me. She was terrified of the game, terrified of the stakes, but she was mine.
I held her through the long, silent hours of the night, listening to the gale howl against the cedar shakes, feeling the steady, sacred heat of her skin against mine.
Tomorrow, I would take the ice and tear Northland State to pieces.
Tomorrow, I would win her the world.
And as her breathing finally deepened into sleep against my chest, I closed my eyes in the warm dark, completely blind to the fact that while I had been sharpening my blades for battle, the enemy had already sprung the trap behind our backs.