Chapter 17
GRACE
The ice feels thinner today. Sometimes I swear the echoes in my skull—metal on metal, skate blades shaving down the months—make it impossible to track the real surface beneath me. But today it feels less like walking on glass and more like belonging on it.
I float through the curtain of fog that the techs blast before every show, prepping the air for the magic vibe they’re going for. It sticks to my hair and my lashes, adding a dewy shimmer to my cheeks.
The arena’s already humming tonight. Kids in plastic tiaras shriek as I skate out in my dress of champagne silk spangled in stones, so the spotlights make me look more fairy than human.
My cue comes right after the Black Swan’s—she launches into her triple axel, lands a little rocky but upright, and the crowd roars. My turn.
I slice in, the familiar spiral building in my thigh and core.
The music surges and the Prince glides into frame, tall and so golden-haired he might as well have a built-in halo.
Connor. His eyes flick to mine, lightning-bright and aware.
His peppermint scent fills the air and draws my instinct and focus toward him and away from the performance at hand.
But we’re professionals, so we do the choreography—hand in hand, a waltz across freshly resurfaced ice.
My legs, traitorously, keep wanting to lean into him.
I don’t. Not until the next sequence, the throw jump, where I’m supposed to spin and land so perfect in Connor’s arms that it stuns the audience into silence.
The wind-up is flawless. Up, up—I see the world invert—and then I feel it: that familiar sick twist in my ankle, a slip at the moment I’m meant to soar.
Panic flares. On opening night, this is when I crashed.
There’s no time to think. My body screams, “Brace for the boards!” My mind’s already scripting an apology for Hannah.
But Connor doesn’t let me fall. He’s there in an instant.
He twists, muscles flexing, and his other arm wraps around me mid-air.
The crowd gasps. There’s a flurry of feathers and sequins as he catches my entire weight and skids us into an awkward but upright stop.
We are inches from disaster and somehow—impossibly—upright.
He’s breathing hard, face inches from mine. I can feel the shudder all through his frame, but his grip never wavers.
“I got you,” he whispers.
All air has left my lungs, but I manage, “Thank you.”
He nods, blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Let’s finish this.”
The next number is a blur. I follow the choreography, grateful for the muscle memory. The final act is the rescue scene. Connor, still the Prince, fights his way through the villains to get to me. I’m supposed to play the captive princess, tied in a web of white ribbon and hope.
He breaks through the last “guard” and slides to me, breathless and panting. I’m not acting when my heart thuds loud enough to drown out the piped-in orchestra.
For whatever reason, tonight Connor looks every bit as impressive and princely as he’s costumed up to be.
“Are you ready?” he whispers as he untangles the silk from my wrists.
I nod, barely trusting myself to speak. “Just don’t let go.”
He grins. The cue comes. Connor sweeps me up in his arms and spins us so the skirt of my dress floats around us both like a frosted dome. The audience claps. The house lights dim except for the one spotlight on us for the “kiss” moment.
He lowers me to the ice, both hands on my back.
My omega instincts crack open at the edges.
Ever since night one, I’ve been able to do this kiss by thinking about literally anything other than Connor.
I’ve ignored his scent, his touch, his everything so that I can complete this last moment of the show.
Tonight feels different. His scent impossible to push away.
Connor leans in for the stage kiss, the same we’ve rehearsed and performed dozens of times without any actual feelings involved. I don’t meet him there.
Tonight, I lean back.
It’s not a retreat. I tilt my chin, catch his gaze, and just for a second I let every raw nerve show. How the pack’s rejection hurt me. How honestly into each of them I was. What it all cost.
It’s not the audience that matters in this moment, but the question in his eyes in response. May I?
Yes. I nod.
He kisses me. Actually kisses me. This is not a stage kiss yet the arena falls silent all the same—until it erupts in cheers. It’s nothing like the ugly, embarrassing scramble of our first “chemistry test” in prep camp, or the awkward first stage kiss back during rehearsals.
This is slow and deliberate. Our mouths barely part from this gentle claiming.
Connor’s pupils are wide when I pull away. Before either of us can speak, the house lights snap on and the curtain drops. It’s the end of the show while the start of something else wildly kindles.
I stand there, dizzy and not sure where to put my hands.
Connor touches my elbow, steady as a railing, and draws us toward the exit off the ice. “Good job, Grace.”
I feel like something permanent just happened—as if some tectonic plate shifted under my skin.
My walls start to break.
I escape the post-show buzz before the credits have even finished scrolling across the jumbotron.
The backstage corridor is an artery of shouting.
I snake past all of it. No one expects a princess in full sequin regalia to jog, but I do—my duffel bag knocking against my hip.
I don’t want to answer any questions, not from the gossipy sidekicks or the techs with their knowing smiles.
And Connor is nowhere to be found. Does he regret the real kiss? Does he think this as stupid an idea as I’m starting to think it was?
I make it to the parking lot just as the humid night finishes swallowing the last of the show lights. The air smells like rain on hot asphalt. I just want to get home and drown my brain in old true crime podcasts until I can’t even hear Connor’s voice replaying in my head.
But the universe can’t let anything go unpunished, so I barely make it five steps past the arena doors before I hear him. “Grace, hey—wait up!”
I don’t stop walking, but I slow. We have to talk about this.
He jogs up next to me, still in his Prince costume, crown slightly askew. “You’re fast for someone in tights.”
“It’s just practice.” I shoot back. My heart thumps so loud I’m more than confident he can hear it.
Connor falls in beside me, matching my stride. For a while, we walk in silence, except for the click of my skate guards and his nervous clearing of the throat. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was shy. I definitely know better.
Finally, he hurries ahead of me and stops, so I’m forced to stop walking. “So, um. About that ending?”
I don’t look at him. “Yeah?”
“Was that—” He stops and scrapes a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t just acting, was it?”
My cheeks blush. “Are you asking if I messed up the scene or if I meant it?”
He swallows hard. “Grace, you haven’t messed up a single scene since the show started. I’m asking what that kiss meant. Because I felt something. And I think you did, too.”
So he’s not going to tip-toe around it. Probably for the best.
I squeeze the handle of my bag until my knuckles ache. “Maybe I took it too far,” I mumble. “Sorry if that was weird. You’re right, I did feel something, too. I mean, the bond hasn’t exactly gone away, has it?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
I look into his blue eyes. There’s not a single guard put up against me at this moment. I hate how honest and open Connor is. Where was this honesty months ago?
I glance away. “My suppressants aren’t foolproof against you three, that’s all. Your scents are incredibly strong, and my inner omega sometimes takes lead.”
“‘That’s all,’” Connor echoes. “How can it be that simple for you?”
Anger flits through me. “How can it be that simple for you? You three looked down the barrel of this strong and very real connection, and rejected me like I was a bad organ transplant.”
Violently, to save the rest of the body.
“We did.” His eyes fall. “That was the biggest mistake of our lives. But you didn’t take that too far at all. That was…” He grins. “Honestly amazing.”
The anger flashes away into a warm blush. “Yeah?”
He nods and meets my gaze. “Yeah.”
“Thank you for catching me.”
Connor touches a hand to my below. “Always, Grace. I don’t plan on ever letting you fall again.”
Unfortunate phrasing because I think I already am. For all three of them. All over again.
Which makes me scared as hell. Doubly so as the omega in me wants to curl up and purr.
He pushes out a breath and braces himself like he’s going for a triple axel.
“I don’t want to hurt you again, Grace. I meant it when I said I was sorry.
” His scent spikes—a hungrier peppermint, edged with something I can’t name.
I feel it swirl toward me, tugging at the part of me that wants to run right into his arms and never leave.
I grip my skate bag like it’s a lifeline. “Promise me you won’t hurt me again.”
He nods, eyes serious. “I don’t intend to ever let that happen again.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I close the gap between us.
He looks at my mouth, at my eyes, and then back again. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”
I nod.
He kisses me with no stage lights or choreography this time, just the warm pressure of his lips and the trembling in us both. I let myself feel all of it, the terror and the sweetness. Most of all the hope that maybe this pack scent match isn’t as doomed as I keep insisting.
Connor pulls away first and rests his forehead against mine. “Goodnight, Grace.”
“Goodnight, Connor.”
I walk away with my heart doing cartwheels, the scent of roses and peppermint following me all the way home.
Maybe second chances are sometimes worth it.