He snapped.
He charged like he’d been waiting for this moment. And when he collided with Logan, it was all fists and fury—brutal and beautiful in a way I didn’t have the words for.
Each punch echoed through the arena, but all I could feel was the heat rising beneath my skin.
What is wrong with me?
I gripped the edge of my seat like it could anchor me to something safe. But there was no safety in him. Not on the ice. Not in that house. Not in my head.
And still—my body betrayed me.
The way he moved. The way he dominated. It wasn’t just aggression. It was claiming. And some twisted, fucked-up part of me wanted to be the thing he claimed.
Logan hit the ice again, blood blooming beneath him like spilled ink. Hades didn’t stop. Not until the refs dragged him away, teeth bared like an animal mid-feast.
I should’ve felt disgusted.
Instead?
I felt alive.
Shaken. Burning. And completely owned by the chaos that man carried like a crown.
He was the war. The fire. The damnation I should’ve run from the second he touched me.
But as I watched him stare across the rink—at me—with that blood-smeared mouth and that wild, satisfied grin, I knew:
There was no going back.
Not for him.
Not for me.
Not after this.
After the game, a nice gentleman in a blazer ushered me downstairs and led me to the locker room. I stood just outside, heart pounding like I’d been the one on the ice. The roar of the arena was still echoing in my bones—adrenaline still threading through my veins like fire. I tried to breathe, to ground myself in the quiet of the hallway, but everything felt off-kilter. Like I wasn’t supposed to be here.
The door loomed in front of me—bold, black, unwelcoming. Loud voices filtered through the cracks: laughter, slaps on backs, the rough cadence of victory.
A woman in a blazer approached me. Cool. Composed. Like none of this touched her. “You can go in now,” she said, her voice clipped but polite.
I nodded, stepping inside as she held the door open. The moment it shut behind me, the air changed. It was cooler in here. Damp with sweat. Sharp with soap and leather. The locker room didn’t smell like celebration—it smelled like battle aftermath.
I hovered near the entrance, trying not to draw attention as players bantered around me. They moved like wolves in their den—half-dressed, cocky, loud. I caught fragments of conversation.
“Did you see him lose it out there?”
“Bet it was about the wife.”
“Wonder how long she’ll last.”
I straightened my spine and stared straight ahead.
The team began to drift out, brushing past me like I didn’t matter, like I was just another fan who’d wandered too far backstage. Until I heard his voice.
Deeper than the others. Calmer. Lethal in the way only Hades could be.
He stepped out of the showers, hair damp, a towel slung over his neck, and still—still—he moved like a predator. Even post-game, he owned every inch of the room.
