Ezio swallows; his jaw clicks painfully. He winces.
I laugh again.
But Rafe’s grip shifts—not tighter, lower. His hand slides from my neck to my collarbone in a slow, controlled descent meant to anchor me. Heat floods where his skin meets mine, and the laughter dies in my throat like someone snuffed a candle.
I inhale.
Rafe’s chest brushes my back.
I exhale.
The rage loosens—just a fraction, just enough for control to slip back into the room instead of spilling out of me in teeth and blood.
Ezio takes another step back. Good. Run.
Rafe’s breath ghosts against the side of my face, his voice a low warning only I get to hear. “Not him,” he murmurs. “Not today.”
My jaw ticks. My smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—less feral now, more lethal promise.
Fine. Not today.
But soon.
Ezio leaves—backing through the doorway with one hand clutching his jaw, eyes never breaking from mine, as if he’s certain that if he turns his back even once I’ll sprint across the ice and rip his spine out through the tapes on his throat.
Good instinct. He stays gone. But I don’t calm down. Not even a little.
Rafe’s hand stays locked around the side of my neck for a few more seconds—steady, controlling, right where the panic used to live—before he loosens the grip just enough to ease the pressure without ever fully releasing me.
I’m still smiling. Still vibrating. Still half feral.
Ezio is nowhere in sight now.
And all that rage, all that humiliation, all that leftover acid from yesterday’s breakdown, last night’s nightmare, and the morning’s slow burn under my skin—it’s still here, churning, with nowhere to go. I don’t say a word. I just push off the ice hard. The force shoots up my calves, snaps into my thighs, sets my ribs buzzing as I cut through center ice like the surface personally offended me. My blades scream against the frozen sheet; the cold bites deep into my lungs; my heart slams against my sternum fast enough to bruise.
I fly across the rink like I’m trying to outrun myself—like if I don’t move, if I don’t burn every last inch of this adrenaline off, I’ll end up punching through the boards or putting my head through a wall.
Finn sees me coming and grins like a lunatic. He doesn’t grin long. I body-check him so hard he actually skids three feet, slams into the boards, and slides down them like a cartoon character whose legs gave out mid-run. He wheezes. I don’t stop.
Kai lifts a brow from the bench. Misha mutters something in Russian that sounds impressed and terrified. Luca barely has time to blink before I steal the puck right off his blade and rip it past the goal like I’m trying to kill a ghost hiding in the net.
Rafe watches. Eyes tracking every violent turn of my body like he’s storing them somewhere deep, somewhere private, somewhere I’ll pay for later.
I skate until I’m dizzy. Until sweat drips down my spine. Until my legs feel like I’ve been dragging the weight of the entire fucking compound behind me. Because I need to put this energy somewhere. Because if I don’t bleed it out on the ice, I’ll spill it on someone’s face. Because Rafe told me to breathe—and skating is the only way I know how to do that without steel in my mouth. And because underneath the rage and the fire and the leftover nightmares…I’m hungry. For the game. For the violence. For him. And every lap burns the world a little cleaner.
The second the whistle blows, I don’t wait. I don’t cool down. I don’t breathe. I skate straight to the boards, throw myself over them like they’re on fire, and rip my helmet off before I even reach the tunnel. My breath is still ragged. My legs still shake. My throat burns from cold air and swallowed filth, and none of it matters.
Because I need him. Now.
The locker room is still echoing with the sounds of practice—water bottles slamming shut, skates clacking on concrete, someone yelling for more towels. None of it touches me. None of it registers.
I stalk straight to where he is—near the showers—stripping off his pads like nothing in the world can touch him. His black undershirt clings damp at the collar, hair slicked back from sweat, jaw tight, mouth red from chewing tension through the entire practice. He doesn’t look surprised when I approach, but this time I don’t chirp, don’t tease, don’t flirt. I drop to my knees in front of him—hard. The sound echoes across the tile—sharp, filthy, final.
Rafe’s hands freeze mid-movement. His breath stops. His eyes drop to mine—those storm-gray eyes that see through every layer, every lie, every scar.
I don’t let him speak. “If I suck you off with the same mouth you taped,” I whisper, voice cracked and shaking, “does that make it mine again?”
Rafe growls—low, primal, wrecked.
