Chapter 32
Edge of the Ice
Leo
Sleep doesn’t stick. A cold draft slips through the cracked window, raising goosebumps along my arms and setting my pulse racing before I can shove the sheet aside.
Every time I close my eyes, that message burns through the dark again—You can’t protect her forever.
Five words. Anonymous number. No context.
Just enough poison to keep me wide awake.
The glow of dawn cuts through the blinds, sharp and colorless. I’ve been lying here for an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city below. Beside me, Sage’s breathing stays slow, even. I should wake her.
When she finally stirs, it’s with that quiet grace she always has in the mornings.
She stretches, soft sound escaping her throat, and pads toward the kitchen, still half-asleep.
The smell of coffee follows her, rich and grounding, and for a second I almost forget about the phone burning a hole in my nightstand drawer.
I pull on a T-shirt and follow her out, trying to look normal. She’s already at the counter, hair pulled back, wearing one of my hoodies that nearly swallows her. She moves like she’s chasing stillness—methodical, calm, the exact opposite of what’s eating me alive.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks without turning around.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Just wired. Thinking about practice, maybe.”
She hums softly, unconvinced. I sit across from her, watching her pour two mugs of coffee. The simple, domestic rhythm of it almost untangles me—until she finally looks up, eyes sharp in a way that tells me she’s been thinking, too.
“You didn’t tell me you’re still thinking about that message.” The words land like a body check to the ribs. My grip tightens around the mug. “What?” I manage, but it comes out rough, unsteady.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Last night—you brushed it off like it was nothing. But I know you, Leo. You haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
My heartbeat stutters, then kicks into overdrive. I try to laugh it off, to shake my head like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a threat, Sage. Probably some troll with too much time and a fake number.”
She just stares. Quiet. Still. And it’s worse than if she were yelling. “You don’t protect me by hiding things,” she says finally, voice low but sure.
Something in me flinches at that. Because she’s right. I’ve been here before—carrying the weight alone, convinced it’s the only way to keep everyone else safe. And look how that’s worked out.
I reach across the table, meaning to touch her wrist, to say something—anything—that might soften the tension strung tight between us. But when my fingers brush her skin, everything shifts.
The air feels charged, fragile, alive. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
Her eyes lift to mine, steady and searching. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air feels too thick to breathe, and every sound—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the clink of ceramic when she sets her mug down—feels amplified.
“You really think keeping things from me keeps me safe?” she asks softly.
I swallow hard. “I think it keeps you from being dragged deeper into my mess.”
She shakes her head slowly, a strand of hair slipping free from her bun. “That’s not protection, Leo. That’s isolation.” Her tone isn’t sharp—it’s worse. It’s tired. Honest. “You build walls and then wonder why no one can reach you.”
Her words hit harder than I expect. Maybe because she’s not wrong. My whole career’s been about control—on the ice, in the locker room, in my own damn life. But control doesn’t look like strength right now. It looks like fear.
I push away from the table, pacing, because sitting still feels impossible. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just noise anymore. Someone knows where we live, what we’re doing. I can handle it if it’s about me—but if they come after you—”
She stands too, stepping into my path before I can get another word out. Her hand presses against my chest, grounding and unyielding. “Then we deal with it together,” she says. “That’s what this is supposed to mean, right? Partnership?”
Her palm is warm through my shirt, and I can feel my heart hammering beneath it.
Every instinct in me screams to argue, to pull her back, to keep her away from the worst parts of me.
But her eyes—steady, fierce, sure—cut through the noise.
She’s not afraid of the storm. She’s demanding a place in it.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I whisper.
“I already did,” she says, voice soft but unflinching. “The day you started deciding for me.”
That lands like a slap—one I deserve. My breath leaves me in a rush, and before I can stop myself, I reach for her again. This time she doesn’t just let me—she steps into it, into me, closing the last inch between us.
The touch isn’t gentle. It’s desperate.
The kind of collision that happens when words fail and everything else takes over.
The kiss starts soft—hesitant, uncertain—but that restraint lasts maybe a second. Then it’s fire. A breaking point. Every unspoken word turns to heat, to movement, to the need to feel something other than fear.
I slide my hands to her waist, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, memorizing the tremor in her breath as she leans into me. “Sage,” I murmur, my voice low, unsteady. “You sure?”
She looks up at me then—eyes dark, determined. “I’m done being afraid of what people think,” she says. “Aren’t you?”
It’s not just a question. It’s a challenge. And it knocks the air right out of me.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, until the counter gives way to the couch, until thought dissolves into heat and instinct. Every touch feels like a confession—of fear, of want, of everything we’ve tried to outrun.
Sage’s lips are still pressed against mine, her breath is hot and unsteady, as I guide her back. The couch presses against the backs of her thighs, a silent witness to the raw hunger between us.
Her hands begin to claw at my shirt, nails scraping against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I rip the fabric off, tossing it aside without breaking our kiss, the sound of tearing cloth lost in the urgency of the moment.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her body arching into mine, and I could feel her heartbeat racing against my chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrors my own. The air is thick with the scent of her skin, the taste of her still lingering on my tongue, a heady mix of desire and desperation.
I am hard, achingly so, my cock throbs against her as she grinds her hips into mine. Her movements are both desperate and deliberate, a dance of need that leaves me breathless. “Leo,” she pants, her voice a raw whisper, “now.”
I tear my mouth from hers, trailing kisses down her neck, my lips brushing the delicate skin of her collarbone.
My teeth graze the swell of her breast, and I pause to unhook her bra with one hand, the fabric falling away to reveal her full, heavy breasts.
I cup her in my hands, my thumb brushing her nipple until it tightens into a peak, a testament to her arousal.
She moans, her head falling back, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and I kiss my way lower, my lips mapping the contours of her body.
My hands move with rough urgency, unbuttoning her jeans, sliding them down her legs until they pool at her ankles. I pause, drinking her in, my gaze lingering on the lace panties that barely contain her.
Her skin is flushed, her body trembling, and I feel a surge of possessiveness, a primal need to claim her as mine. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur, my voice hoarse, my breath ghosting over her skin.
I hook my fingers into the elastic of her panties and pull them down, my eyes never leaving hers. She steps out of them, and I am on my knees, her thighs parting as I press my mouth to her core.
She is wet, so wet, and I groan against her, my tongue plunging deep, circling her clit, sucking gently. Her hands tangle in my hair, her hips bucking against my mouth, and she cries out, her body tightening like a drawn bow. “Yes Leo,” she begs, her voice breaking, her need echoing my own.
I begin shedding my pants and boxers in one swift motion, my cock throbbing, pre-cum glistening at the tip.
She watches me, her eyes dark with desire, and I grip her hips, guiding her to the edge of the couch.
She spreads her legs, her hands reaching for me, and I slide inside her in one slow, relentless thrust. She gasps, her walls clenching around me, and I swear I’d never feel anything so tight, so hot.
“Fuck,” I grit out, my voice rough, “you feel incredible.”
I start to move, pulling back slowly before slamming into her.
Her nails dug into my back, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and I lean over her, our bodies press together, my mouth finding hers again.
Our kisses are fierce, desperate, each one a promise and a plea.
“Harder,” she demands, her voice fierce, and I give her what she wants, pounding into her with a force that makes the couch creak.
Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels dig into my ass, pulling me deeper, and I can feel her building, her body tensing around me.
She screams my name, her body shaking as she shatters around me, her walls milking my cock, dragging me over the edge. I follow, my orgasm ripping through me, my cum pulsing deep inside her, and I hold her tight, my forehead pressing to hers, our breaths mingling.
For a moment, we are still, our hearts pounding in unison, the world outside forgotten.
I brush her hair back, my thumb tracing her cheek, and she looks up at me, her eyes soft but steady.
“You can’t protect me from everything,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “But you don’t have to face it alone.”
I kiss her, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken fear, every ounce of trust, into that touch. When I pull back, I see it in her eyes—the same surrender I felt. We aren’t just fucking. We are fighting—for each other, for us. And in this moment, it is enough.
Her hands slide up my chest, her touch gentle but insistent, and she pulls me down beside her on the couch.
The room was quiet now, the only sound is our ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close, her head resting on my chest, her heartbeat slowly syncing with mine.
When it finally slows, the silence that follows is different. Not tense. Not heavy. Just full.
Sage’s head rests against my chest, her breathing steady. I can still feel the thrum of my pulse where her fingers trace lazy circles along my jaw.
“Whatever comes next,” she whispers, voice soft but sure, “we face it together.”
For the first time in too long, I believe her. I press a kiss to her hair and close my eyes, letting the quiet settle around us like armor.
Until my phone buzzes on the table. Once. Twice.
The spell breaks. I glance at the screen, heart kicking when I see the name: Anya Lopez.
I think I just found something that can fix everything for you two. Call me.
Hope flickers sharp and bright—and right behind it, the familiar edge of danger.