Epilogue
Adrian
Three Years Later
Then, the puck drops. A detonator. Sticks collide with a sharp crack that triggers a thousand honed reflexes.
My blade meets the puck with a satisfying precision, a clean connection that feels like the only thing that has ever truly fit in my hands.
I drive forward. One shoulder, then another, absorbs the impact of opposing players.
Bodies collapse around me like waves breaking against a rock.
I don’t think; I move, an instinctual flow of learned motions and raw desire.
I see the gap open, a sliver of opportunity, and I take it, as if it was always waiting for me.
The net swallows the puck with a hungry gulp. The horn rips open the sky, a triumphant, deafening shriek that signals the end.
The arena detonates into white noise—screams of jubilation, the thunderous stomp of thousands of feet, the electric hiss of a hundred thousand voices rising in a single surge. But amidst the chaos, one sensory thread, fine and unbreakable, pulls me through the pandemonium: her.
I don’t need to search. My gaze, even through the sweat and the blur of the lights, knows exactly where she is.
Ten rows up, in our private box, past the cold glass and the blinding glare, is Clara.
My wife. My anchor. She is draped in my jersey, the familiar blue and white swallowing her small frame, her hair a loose, dark cascade around her shoulders.
She isn’t waving pom-poms or screaming herself hoarse; she never needs to perform.
Her eyes are a scalpel—precise, unblinking, cutting through the noise and straight to me.
Her mouth parts on a soft breath. And then she gives me the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. Steady. Certain. Mine.
I skate off the ice, the scent of sweat and ozone clinging to my uniform.
The crowd’s noise tapers, receding into a distant thunder.
In the locker room, the boys are a tidal mess of exhilaration—beer sprays, chests are slapped with the rough, untamed joy that rips out of you when you’ve survived.
Calder is whooping. Declan offers his usual quiet grin.
But none of it truly lodges. My head is a tunnel, and at the end of it, illuminating everything, is the quiet, steady look she gave me.
Hours later, the adrenaline has burned down into a deep, hollow ache that hums. Our apartment sits like a dark bowl above the lake, quiet and small and exactly ours. I drop my bag by the door, and the soft click of the lock sounds like the closing of a covenant.
She’s on the couch, laptop on her knees, the glow painting her face gold. My jersey hangs over her thighs, the hem fluttering with every small breath. The sight of her—ordinary and devastating—hits me harder than any goal.
“I knew you’d win,” she says without looking up, the smirk in her voice pure provocation.
I cross the room in two steps, my palms already wanting skin. “You always do.” My voice is gravel and promise.
Before she can say anything else, I'm on my knees, my hands finding their way up her thighs.
I push the jersey upward, the fabric gathering around her waist, revealing the pale, inviting sweep of her hips.
The air in the apartment is thick with her scent: citrus shampoo, coffee, and the lingering trace of the vanilla lotion she adores.
It's a heady combination, potent enough to make my vision narrow, focusing solely on her.
“Not because of me,” I rasp, the words scraping out. “Because of you. Always you.” I take her laptop and place it on the coffee table.
Her breath hitches, sharp and wet. “Adrian—” she starts, the syllable equal parts warning and invitation.
I don’t let the caution hold. With a predatory smirk, I spread her thighs.
A triumphant hum rumbles in my chest when I confirm she’s bare underneath, already anticipating my touch.
My fingers slide through her wet folds. She’s molten, slick, ready.
I bring my fingers to my mouth, tasting her—a dizzying blend of musk and honey that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Always ready for me, baby,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. She moans, a low, guttural sound that spurs me on, and I pull her to the very edge of the couch, her hips tilting perfectly for my assault.
My mouth finds her, hot and immediate. I taste the salt of her skin, the tang of adrenaline, and the sweetness that is uniquely, intoxicatingly her. She folds under me, her fingers tangling in the back of my neck, her nails digging in with a desperate, exquisite surrender.
“God—” she breathes, her voice splitting.
“Say my name,” I demand between licks and kisses.
She does—in pieces, in gasps, each syllable a worship that reverberates through my chest. “Adrian.” A prayer. A surrender. “Adrian, oh God, Adrian—” Her voice breaks on my name, the sound a raw testament to the power I hold over her.
I keep my mouth busy, a relentless force of worship and brutality.
Her body goes taut, a vibrant, living wire, before it shudders, a brittle thing collapsing.
Her thighs clamp around my shoulders, anchoring me as she comes in a violent, beautiful explosion—hot and bright and jagged, like shattered ice catching the sun.
Her voice, usually so controlled, breaks into a ragged shout that drowns out any memory of the crowd.
I hold her through the last, exquisite tremors, my tongue working slow and patient, savoring the aftermath.
When I rise, I don’t give her a second to recover.
I pull the jersey off her, the fabric clinging to her damp skin before yielding.
I peel myself out of my own damp uniform, pushing inside her with one deliberate, full-body motion that feels like coming home.
Her wet heat surrounds my cock, a molten embrace that threatens to unravel me instantly.
I have to bite my tongue to prolong the exquisite agony.
She arches into me, a guttural sound of pleasure and pain escaping her lips.
Her fingers claw at my shoulders until white crescents bloom on my skin, and her eyes, wet and brilliant, smile like she’s breaking and remaking all at once in the crucible of our passion.
“Tell me,” I growl, my voice low and ragged. “Tell me who you belong to.”
She looks at me—the tired, messy man who scores goals and would burn the world down for her—and answers without hesitation. “You,” she says, every syllable a blade. “Always you.”
I take the word in like sustenance. The rhythm is savage and strategic: hard thrusts, soft recoveries, my thumb finding her clit, circling in a way I know drives her crazy. She bites her lip. I bite back, down the line of her jaw, until she whimpers and laughs in the same breath.
“Say it again,” I demand.
“Yours,” she moans, twisting her hips, her nails tracking down my back. “Always yours.”
There’s nothing gentle in this. It’s worship disguised as war, a beautiful, brutal conflict where both sides emerge victorious.
It’s ritual. As she builds toward the next wave, I slow my movements, holding her tremor in my hands like something holy.
Then, with a surge of renewed power, I drive into her until we both shatter, breaking at the exact same second, our cries mingling in the air.
After, we lie tangled, the city’s distant lights painting patterns across the ceiling. Her breath slows; mine rattles like a train coming off the tracks. She snuggles her head against my chest, and for a second, the hunger that defined our early days eases into something like peace.
I trail a finger over the stitched letters on the jersey lying across her thighs—HALE—and the motion is reverent.
Then, because owning isn’t just a metaphor for me, I lean down and press my teeth to the soft curve of her neck.
The bite is sharp and quick, not cruel but chosen. She gasps, a small, involuntary sound.
“Mine,” I murmur against her skin.
The mark blooms red, honest and loud. It’s not the first, and it won’t be the last. It’s a punctuation that folds back to the first moment that started everything—a deliberate, possessive brand that matters more than any ring.
She runs a palm down my back, fingers splayed over the brand, eyes half-closed. “You always need to make it permanent, don’t you?” she teases, her voice tired and fond.
“You love it,” I counter, my voice softening just enough for her to hear it.
She smiles then—crooked, feral, beautiful. “I always will.”
The jersey’s hem brushes my thigh. The bite mark that glows warm on her neck is the only history that matters. She’s my anchor. My fire. My obsession. My wife.
And in the quiet after the storm, the city keeping its secrets below us, I press my forehead to hers and let the vow sit, heavy and honest between us.
You belong to me. Always.
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