I bolted. Shoved off the wall and sprinted down the hallway in the opposite direction. My sneakers squeaked on the floor. Storage carts blurred past. The exit sign glowed ahead—red and distant and possibly my only chance.
Behind me, his footsteps pounded. Closer than they should be. Faster than I'd expected.
I'd forgotten how athletic he could be when rage fueled him. Forgotten the way he used to catch me before I reached my bedroom door. Forgotten the inevitability of being smaller, weaker, always destined to lose.
"You can't run forever!" His voice boomed through the corridor.
My lungs burned. Side cramping. Vision tunneling.
Twenty feet to the door.
Fifteen.
His hand grazed my shoulder.
I jerked sideways, slamming into a storage rack. Metal clanged. Something clattered to the floor. Didn't matter. Couldn't stop.
Ten feet.
His fingers caught my shirt.
I twisted hard, fabric tearing, momentum carrying me forward even as cloth ripped free.
Five feet.
My hand hit the exit bar… but my father yanked me back and I hit the wall so hard I saw stars.
I tried to move. Tried to scream. But my head throbbed and I couldn't… I couldn't stand or walk or…
My father’s face suddenly appeared inches from mine. "Let's go."
Chapter 28
Rhys
The final buzzer cut through the arena noise like a blade. Win or loss—I'd stopped caring somewhere between the second period and now. The scoreboard numbers blurred into irrelevance. My job was done. Lines managed. Players positioned. Coach Barrett's nod of approval barely registered.
I moved through the post-game routine on autopilot. Handshakes with the other coaches. Brief comments to players filtering past. The usual chaos of bodies and equipment and adrenaline slowly draining from the rink.
My feet carried me toward the café before I'd consciously decided to go.
Just checking in. Making sure the closing shift was handling the crowd. Normal assistant coach responsibilities. Nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with the way I'd left marks on her throat last night or the sound she'd made when I'd?—
I shut that line of thought down hard.
The café came into view through the corridor windows. Still packed with lingering fans, the line stretching halfway to the concessions. Jenna worked the register with practiced efficiency. Ben moved between the espresso machine and the pickup counter, expression tight but focused.
My gaze swept the space once. Twice.
She wasn't there.
The wrongness hit before my brain caught up to what I was seeing. Some primal part of my nervous system registered her absence like missing a step in the dark—that stomach-dropping sensation of wrongness, of danger, of something fundamentally off.
I stopped walking. Scanned again. Methodically this time. Every corner. Every angle. Behind the counter. Near the storage entrance. By the condiment station.
Nothing.
My pulse kicked up. Slow at first, then faster. A warning drumbeat under my ribs that said pay attention, something's wrong, move.
