My voice was cold. Unyielding. “I know exactly what’s at stake.”
And I did.
Not just thirty days.
Not just a girl.
Mina wasn’t a prize.
But Petrov had made her one.
And now? I would treat this like every other challenge—surgical, clinical, inevitable. That was what I told myself. Over and over.
But my mind kept drifting. Back to that night. The moment Petrov laughed, and she didn’t. The look in her eyes—not fear, not anger. Disbelief.
He had gambled her dignity.
I would not.
Not unless she gave it willingly.
The room carried on around me. Boys pretending to be men. Warriors pretending they were friends. I stared down at my gloves, then slipped them on slowly, each finger a quiet reminder.
We go to war tonight.
And this time, the target isn’t the net.
The moment my skates touched the ice, the world narrowed.
The crowd roared—pointless noise. Background static. My focus cut through it like a scalpel. Breath in. Cold. Clean. Sterile. I exhaled once and moved forward.
Each stride was precise. Not rushed. Not showy. Calculated.
Predator, not performer.
The puck found my blade. I guided it—not with force, but understanding. It wanted to obey. I feinted left. The defenseman bit. I sliced right. Fluid. Surgical.
Someone lunged. I did not flinch. I moved.
Passed to Jared—always ready, always loud. He fired.
Goal.
They screamed.
I did not.
Noise didn’t matter. Goals were expected. Glory was not the reward. Dominance was.
Another shift. Another opponent charging in my direction. Tall. Heavy. Too much chest, not enough brain.
He thought collision would frighten me.
It did not.
I dropped my shoulder and met him squarely. The crunch of impact reverberated through my bones, a language I understood. He fell. I didn't.
I didn’t look back. He did not matter anymore.
