CURFEW RULES
The adrenaline from the arena tunnel didn't fade; it mutated.
As the heavy doors of the matte black SUV slammed shut, severing them from the blinding flashbulbs and the deafening roar of the Portland press pool, the chaotic energy morphed into a thick, suffocating heat that filled the back of the car.
Elara was entirely pinned against Julian’s side.
He hadn't let go of her waist since the moment he kissed her in front of a hundred cameras.
His massive frame was still humming with the residual kinetic violence of the game, his chest rising and falling in heavy, rhythmic breaths beneath his sweat-soaked black undershirt.
"Leo," Julian rasped, his voice rougher than usual. "The penthouse. Now."
"Yes, Mr. Thorne," Leo replied, the SUV immediately surging forward, leaving the Rose City Arena in the rearview mirror.
Elara looked up at Julian’s profile in the dim light of the streetlamps flashing by.
His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle feathered beneath his dark scruff.
The bruised cut above his eyebrow was stark against his pale, exhausted skin, and his knuckles—resting heavily on her thigh—were split and raw from where they had connected with Kovac’s jaw.
He was a beautiful, entirely terrifying disaster. And he was hers.
"You're bleeding," Elara whispered, gently lifting his massive, battered hand from her leg. She traced the angry red skin around his knuckles with feather-light fingertips.
Julian looked down at her, the stormy gray of his eyes instantly softening. The lethal warlord who had just dismantled a two-hundred-and-forty-pound enforcer on the ice vanished, replaced entirely by a man who looked at her like she was the only fragile thing in the world.
"It looks worse than it is," Julian murmured. He turned his hand over, intertwining his thick fingers with hers, holding her palm flat against his racing heart. "Are you okay? He pointed right at the suite, Elara. The entire arena saw it. I couldn't—"
"I'm fine," Elara interrupted softly, her thumb stroking the heavy pulse point at his wrist. "I didn't hear what he said. But Julian, you can't throw your career away for me. They’re going to suspend you."
"Let them," Julian said, his voice dropping into a dark, absolute purr of possession.
He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet, smoky scent of her perfume.
"He told me he was going to find out if you screamed for him the same way you screamed on that leaked audio tape. I would have taken a suspension for the entire season just for the privilege of breaking his jaw."
A violent shiver ripped through Elara’s body.
The sheer, unapologetic ferocity of his protectiveness was a physical weight.
Declan had let the world tear her apart to save his own skin.
Julian Thorne had just stopped a nationally televised game and invited the wrath of the NHL disciplinary committee to defend her honor.
She turned her face into his hair, pressing a fierce kiss to his temple. "You’re a lunatic, Thorne."
"I'm deeply, irreversibly in love with you," Julian corrected smoothly, the words tearing out of his chest like a confession he had been drowning in for two years.
Elara stopped breathing.
The SUV hit a pothole, but she didn't feel it.
The entire world seemed to tilt on its axis.
He had said he cared. He had said she was his.
But hearing the actual word—hearing this massive, immovable mountain of a man surrender completely to her in the back of a moving car—shattered the last remaining fragments of the walls around her heart.
Julian pulled back slightly, his gray eyes searching her wide, shocked whiskey gaze. He looked suddenly vulnerable, a fleeting shadow of fear crossing his face that he had pushed too hard, too fast.
"Julian," Elara breathed, her hands sliding up to cup his bruised face. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, hot and entirely overwhelming. "I love you too. Heaven help me, I have never felt this safe in my entire life."
Julian let out a ragged, desperate sound, a cross between a groan and a sigh of pure relief. He captured her lips in a blistering, devastating kiss. There were no cameras here. There was no PR protocol to uphold. This was raw, desperate, and completely untethered.
The SUV pulled into the secure underground garage of a sleek, glass-paneled high-rise overlooking the Willamette River. This was Julian’s Portland residence—closer to the arena than his secluded summer cabin, and entirely fortified against the media.
They didn't break apart until the elevator doors slid open into the sprawling, dimly lit penthouse.
The space was distinctly Julian. Dark hardwood floors, heavy charcoal furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering, rain-slicked Portland skyline.
Elara kicked off her combat boots near the door. Before she could take another step, Julian stepped behind her, his large arms wrapping securely around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her through the living room and down the wide hallway to the master bathroom.
He set her down on the cool marble floor, flipping the light switch.
"Sit," Elara commanded, pointing to the edge of the massive, sunken soaking tub. Her voice found its natural, husky authority. "Take the shirt off. I am cleaning those hands before you get an infection."
Julian offered a slow, wicked smirk. "Yes, ma'am."
He reached down and grabbed the hem of his sweat-soaked undershirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion.
The heavy, corded muscles of his chest and abdomen flexed beautifully under the harsh bathroom lighting.
Elara’s mouth went completely dry, but she forced herself to focus, opening the mirrored cabinet and retrieving a first-aid kit.
She stood between his spread knees, soaking a cotton pad in antiseptic.
"This is going to sting," she warned softly, taking his massive left hand in hers.
"I won't feel a thing," Julian murmured, his eyes entirely fixed on her face.
As Elara carefully dabbed the raw, split skin over his knuckles, Julian didn't flinch.
His attention was completely absorbed by her.
He watched the way her dark hair cascaded over her shoulder, the gentle furrow of her brow as she concentrated on patching him up.
His free hand slid up her side, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist through the thin fabric of her black turtleneck.
"You realize Sarah is probably drafting my obituary right now," Julian said softly, breaking the quiet. "The kiss in the tunnel completely destroyed the 'slow burn' PR narrative."
"Sarah can draft whatever she wants," Elara replied, wrapping a clean strip of gauze around his knuckles and securing it with tape.
She moved to his right hand, her touch incredibly gentle.
"The contract is dead, Julian. We killed it the moment you dragged that reporter on the red carpet. Tonight was just the nail in the coffin."
"Good," Julian rumbled, his hand sliding higher to rest on the small of her back, pulling her an inch closer. "I hate rules."
Elara laughed softly, securing the tape on his second hand. "That’s ironic, considering Coach Baxter texted Marcus during the third period to say the team is under a strict midnight curfew tonight because of the back-to-back games."
Julian’s eyes darkened, the stormy gray turning into a heavy, turbulent charcoal. He reached up, his newly bandaged hands gripping her hips with a firm, possessive pressure. He pulled her flush against him, forcing her to step directly between his thighs.
"The only curfew rules I care about are yours, sweetheart," Julian whispered, his voice dropping into that ragged, devastating octave that sent fire straight through her veins. "And as far as I’m concerned, we have all night."
Elara’s breath hitched. She looked down at him, her hands coming to rest on his bare, broad shoulders. The heat radiating off his skin was intoxicating. The scent of him—adrenaline, ice, and raw masculine desire—was completely overwhelming.
"Then I suppose we shouldn't waste any time," Elara breathed.
Julian didn't need to be told twice.
He stood up, towering over her. He didn't carry her to the bedroom; he backed her against the cool marble wall of the bathroom, his mouth crashing down onto hers. It was a hungry, desperate collision. Elara gasped into his mouth, her fingers tangling frantically in his damp, dark hair.
Julian’s hands were everywhere, desperate to map every inch of her. He grabbed the hem of her turtleneck, pulling it swiftly over her head and tossing it onto the floor.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at her. The raw, unfiltered adoration in his eyes was staggering. He looked at her like she was holy, like she was the only piece of art he had ever truly understood.
"You are so damn beautiful," Julian rasped, his thumbs tracing the lace of her black bra. "I have thought about this every single night for two years, Elara. Every single night."
"Show me," she whispered, her voice a smoky, desperate plea.
Julian groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated straight to her core.
He kissed a burning path down her jaw, his lips pressing into the sensitive pulse point of her neck.
His hands deftly undid the clasp of her bra, tossing it aside, before his palms flattened against her bare back, pulling her entirely flush against his chest.
Skin against skin, the contrast was violently beautiful. His chest was hard, scarred, and covered in dark ink; hers was soft, pale, and completely surrendering to his strength.
He unbuttoned her trousers, his movements frantic but incredibly careful. When they were finally completely bare, Julian lifted her, his hands gripping the back of her thighs. Elara instinctively wrapped her legs around his narrow waist, her arms locking securely around his neck.
Julian carried her out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom, entirely illuminated by the city lights filtering through the rain-streaked glass.
He laid her gently in the center of the massive, dark linen bed, following her down immediately. He didn't want any space between them. He bracketed her body with his massive arms, hovering over her, his chest heaving as he looked down into her flushed, beautiful face.
"Elara," Julian whispered, her name sounding like a prayer on his lips.
"I'm right here," she promised, her hands sliding down his heavy chest to rest on his hips. "I'm yours, Julian."
When he finally pushed into her, the breath was violently knocked from both of their lungs.
Elara cried out, her eyes flying wide open as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him anchored her to the bed.
Julian squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles trembled.
He buried his face in her neck, holding perfectly still, giving her body time to adjust to the massive size of him.
"Are you okay?" he gritted out, his voice shaking with the monumental effort of his restraint. "Am I hurting you?"
"No," Elara gasped, her hands digging into the heavy muscles of his back, pulling him closer. "No, Julian, please. Don't stop."
He let out a ragged breath and began to move.
It was a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm. There was no rush, no frantic race to the finish. This was a profound, physical claim. Julian made love to her with the same intense, unwavering devotion that he had shown on the red carpet, on the ice, and in the quiet sanctuary of his home.
Every thrust was a physical manifestation of the words he had spoken in the car. I love you.
He learned her body instantly, adjusting his angle and his heavy weight to ensure she was completely, utterly consumed by pleasure.
Elara writhed beneath him, her husky voice broken into soft, desperate whimpers that drove Julian completely out of his mind.
She dragged her nails down his back, entirely abandoning the careful, guarded woman she had been for the last three years.
"Julian," she sobbed his name, the pleasure building into a sharp, blinding crescendo.
"Let go, sweetheart," Julian commanded, his voice dark and rough in her ear. He slipped one bandaged hand between their bodies, his thumb finding the sensitive core of her. "I've got you. I'm right here."
The dual friction shattered her entirely.
Elara arched off the mattress, a beautiful, broken cry tearing from her throat as wave after wave of intense, blinding ecstasy ripped through her body.
She clung to his broad shoulders, completely untethered, anchored only by the heavy, driving force of the man above her.
Julian felt her walls clench around him, the exquisite sensation shattering the last remnants of his iron-clad control. He let out a harsh, guttural roar, driving into her one final, impossibly deep time before his own body bowed rigidly, entirely overcome by his release.
He collapsed against her, carefully shifting his massive weight so he didn't crush her, burying his face in her tangled dark hair. His heart hammered violently against her chest, matching her own frantic rhythm beat for beat.
The silence of the penthouse slowly returned, broken only by the sound of the Portland rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows and the heavy, synchronized sound of their breathing.
Julian didn't pull away. He gathered her completely into his arms, rolling onto his side and taking her with him.
He pulled the heavy duvet over them, tucking her flush against his chest, her back pressed securely against his front.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, his large hand resting flat against her stomach.
Elara closed her eyes, a profound, heavy peace settling into her bones. The anxiety, the media, the scandal—it all felt like it belonged to a different lifetime, a different girl.
"You realize," Elara whispered sleepily, her fingers lightly tracing the dark ink on his forearm that was draped across her, "that when the sun comes up, the world is going to completely lose its mind over us."
Julian pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the back of her neck.
"Let them," he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion and absolute contentment. "They can write whatever they want, Elara. But they don't get to touch this. They don't get to touch you. You are the only headline I care about."
On the nightstand, Julian’s phone buzzed aggressively. The screen lit up in the dark room. It was 12:05 AM.
Coach Baxter: Curfew check, Thorne. If you aren't in your bed, I am skating you until you throw up tomorrow.
Julian didn't even lift his head from Elara’s hair. He reached out blindly, his large hand finding the phone, and silenced it completely.
"Everything okay?" Elara asked, feeling the shift in his movement.
"Everything is perfect," Julian rumbled, his arm tightening around her, pulling her even closer to the heavy heat of his body. "Curfew is enforced. And I am exactly where I am supposed to be."