Chapter 11
Mia
Marcus skates back to us, face grim. His jaw is locked, shoulders tense. The second I see him, I know something’s wrong.
He doesn’t waste time. “It’s gone,” he says quietly, barely above the music and the scrape of blades on ice.
Tyler frowns. “What’s gone?”
“The phone,” Marcus says. “The burner. It’s not in the bag anymore.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“What do you mean, burner?” Alexander asks, straightening beside me.
I open my mouth. My tongue feels heavy. “I—” I swallow hard.
“I found it. Earlier. When Sarah let me borrow some skates. I opened the wrong gear bag, I thought it was just extra boots or something, but it had Jason’s stuff inside.
And there was this phone. Not his usual one.
Cheap. No passcode. I didn’t mean to,” I add quickly.
“It just…lit up when I touched it. There was a message. A woman. She called him her husband. Said he took money from her company and if he didn’t return it, she’d sue. ”
Tyler’s mouth opens, then closes again. “Holy shit.”
“I should’ve taken it,” I murmur, guilt crawling up the back of my throat. “I just—everything happened so fast. I panicked. I tucked it back in the bag because I didn’t want him to see me with it. But now it’s gone.”
“It means he knows someone found it,” Marcus says. “And he moved it.”
“Or destroyed it,” Tyler mutters.
“Whatever we do next,” Marcus says, voice low and steady, “we need to be subtle. Jason’s watching. I think he’s on to us.”
I glance behind us.
And I see him.
Jason skates by in a wide loop, coasting too close to our little circle, body low and fast. His blades carve hard into the ice at the last second, throwing a spray of cold shards right into our legs. I yelp, flinching back, and Tyler instinctively moves to shield me.
Jason laughs like it’s nothing. Like it’s all in good fun. Then he coasts backward, skating slow, showy, just past us—and calls out, “If you can keep up, old man”—his eyes flick to Tyler, smile smug and bright—“let’s race.”
My stomach twists.
Everyone around us laughs. Some of the guests cheer like they think this is hilarious. Harmless. Boys being boys on the ice.
But I see it.
I see the way Jason’s eyes don’t match his smile.
I see the way Marcus stiffens beside me. The way Tyler’s hands curl into fists at his sides. Even Alexander shifts like his instincts are firing up, calculating damage control.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please.”
Tyler turns to me.
“Please don’t make a scene,” I beg, voice low and urgent. “Everyone’s watching. If you react, you’re the bad guys. That’s how he plays it. He wants you to take the bait.”
Marcus exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing as he tracks Jason’s retreat.
“He’s trying to push us,” I say. “And if we push back in public, we lose.”
They don’t respond right away. But no one moves either.
Jason disappears into the crowd of skaters again, still laughing, spinning in a perfect circle like this is his rink, his show. But I see the way he looks back at us.
He knows.
And now I do too.
This isn’t just about a wedding anymore.
It’s a countdown. And we’re running out of time.
Tyler looks pissed. So does Marcus. But they listen.
Alexander nods. “Let’s leave.”
“I know Sarah will be disappointed,” I whisper.
Tyler leans down, voice gentle near my ear. “She’ll understand. We’ll handle it.”
I nod, shaky but certain. My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
We step off the ice and change quickly, our breath fogging the air inside the rink’s boot tent. I peel off my skates with stiff fingers and tug on my boots, knees sore from tension, hands fumbling through the motions.
The snow crunches underfoot as we walk along the packed path toward the lodge, the three of them surrounding me like a silent shield.
I’m just about to glance back one last time when—
Whap.
A snowball hits Tyler square in the back.
We all freeze.
He turns slowly, mouth opening to say something, and Jason is standing a few yards behind us, holding another snowball, grinning like a devil.
“Come on,” he calls, arms spread wide. “We’re at a ski lodge. Don’t tell me you’re too old for some snowball fun.”
Tyler scoffs, half laughs—and before any of us can stop him, he bends, scoops up snow, and fires back.
The snowball hits Jason in the shoulder with a satisfying thud, and for a moment it’s exactly what Jason wanted: the crowd around the rink cheers, a few other guests dive for snow, and suddenly it’s a party again.
People are laughing. Ducking. Running.
But I feel it. I feel it. This isn’t innocent.
I bend to scoop a snowball of my own just as Jason’s eyes snap to me.
And then he throws.
Crack.
The snowball hits me in the face.
It’s packed, hard and icy, and the impact explodes across my cheek like fire. My head jerks back and I go down.
The snow is cold and rough against my knees as I hit the ground, palms scraping hard over the ice-crusted path.
My breath rips out in a sharp gasp. I can’t see out of my left eye for a second, and everything stings, burns.
I blink through tears, confused, pain blooming behind my eye socket, and I feel wet warmth on my legs—blood.
My knees. They’re bleeding.
It takes me a moment to realize someone’s calling my name.
“Mia—!”
Marcus is the first to drop to his knees beside me. “Jesus. Hey—look at me. Are you with me?”
I nod, dizzy.
Tyler’s crouched on my other side, his face twisted in disbelief. “That wasn’t an accident. He aimed for her.”
Alexander’s already up, eyes locked on Jason, who stands on the edge of the group, still smiling—but his hands are empty now. No more snowballs. Just that sick satisfaction in his eyes.
“Get her inside,” Alexander says tightly. “Now.”
They lift me gently, one on each side, careful but fast. My knees throb as I hobble between them. My face pulses with pain. I press a gloved hand to it and feel how swollen it’s already getting.
We break away from the guests, from the fake laughter and the distracted crowd who didn’t see the impact. Who don’t know that what just happened wasn’t a prank.
It was a message.
Marcus asks where the medical kit is.
“Right down the hall,” I rasp. “There’s a medic shed.”
The door to the lodge swings open in front of us. I barely register the path we take—down the hall, around the corner, past the kitchen. Tyler opens the old medic’s shed tucked at the end of the hallway near the ski storage lockers.
The medic’s shed is small, plain, and too quiet after the noise outside. One overhead bulb flickers. The air smells like antiseptic and old wood. My knees burn. My cheek throbs where the snowball hit. I sit on a narrow bench, boots still on, hands in my lap, trying to steady my breathing.
Alexander closes the door and turns the latch. It’s a simple sound, but it makes me feel safer right away.
“Okay,” he says. Calm. Firm. Like he’s done this before. “Let’s take a look.”
He crouches in front of me, not touching yet, but close enough that I can feel his presence. He has that gentle authority that makes you want to listen. He doesn’t ask permission in a controlling way. He asks like he respects me.
“Can I roll your leggings up?” he says.
I nod.
Marcus is already on the other side of me, opening the first aid kit. He doesn’t talk much. He just moves. Practical. Focused. He pulls out gauze and antiseptic wipes, sets them within reach, and then looks at my knees.
His face hardens, and I know he’s angry. Not at me. At what happened.
Tyler stays close, a hand hovering near my shoulder like he doesn’t want to crowd me but also doesn’t want to leave me alone for one second.
“You’re okay,” he says softly. “You’re with us.”
I swallow. My throat is tight.
Alexander rolls the fabric up carefully. My knees are scraped raw, one worse than the other. Blood is already drying in thin lines down my shin.
Marcus presses gauze against the worst scrape, steady pressure, controlled. It stings, and I flinch.
“I know,” he says, voice low. “Breathe. You’re doing good.”
His hands are warm even through the gauze. Strong hands, careful hands. The kind that could hurt someone badly and choose not to. That contrast makes my stomach twist.
Tyler shifts closer. “Look at me,” he says, like he’s trying to pull me out of the panic. “Don’t look at the blood. Look at me.”
I do.
His expression is softer than I expect. He’s usually teasing, cocky, always half smiling.
Right now he looks protective, almost tender.
Older than I pretend he is. The lines at his eyes show when he gets serious.
The silver at his temples catches the light.
He looks like a man who has been through real things and still chooses to be gentle.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I hate that the words come out at all.
Alexander’s eyes snap up. “Don’t apologize.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tyler adds, immediate.
Marcus doesn’t say anything, but his hands press a little more firmly, as if he’s anchoring me to the bench.
Alexander reaches for the antiseptic wipes. “This will sting,” he says. “I’m going to clean it fast. Ready?”
I nod again, and he does it exactly like he promised. Quick, efficient, gentle. It hurts, but he doesn’t make a big deal of it.
“You’re safe,” he says. “He doesn’t get to touch you again.”
The words hit me harder than the antiseptic. My chest tightens. I look at him and I realize he means it in a way that goes beyond anger.
And it is not polite. It’s personal.
Marcus changes the gauze and checks the bleeding like he’s trained. He glances up once, eyes meeting mine, and there’s something raw there. Not softness exactly, but restraint. Like he’s holding himself back from doing something violent.
My pulse jumps.
Tyler brushes my hair away from my face, careful not to touch my cheek. “Does your face hurt?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
He looks furious for a second, then controls it. He doesn’t put that anger on me. He gives me comfort instead. “We’ll ice it,” he says. “We’ll get you cleaned up. Okay?”