If I stopped, I'd burn the whole fucking world down.
The door clattered open behind me. Metal on metal. Sharp and loud.
I didn’t look.
I already knew who it was.
The other monsters.
The Wraiths were here.
And for the next hour, we’d bleed together.
Because when the world tried to cage you, you laced your skates, grabbed your stick, and you fought like hell.
The sound of skates echoed behind me—sharp, steady cuts across the ice.
They filtered in one by one. No jerseys. No names. No cameras.
Just midnight warriors in black hoodies and muscle memory, dragging blades over the ice like it owed them blood.
The Hollowgrave Wraiths.
My pack.
My hell.
Leading the slow procession was Rhys Ackerman—assistant coach, ex-enforcer, still skating like he could tear someone in half if he had to.
Guy took a puck to the throat five years ago. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fucking blink.
Now he watched from behind the glass like a sniper on a tower—quiet, ruthless, and the only man I’d ever let talk to me like I wasn’t a bomb.
He didn’t waste time.
“You skate like a man who’s either in love,” he said flatly, not missing a beat, “or about to kill someone.”
I didn’t answer.
Didn’t stop.
Didn’t even look at him.
Because both were true. And he knew it.
Behind him, Sam Harding stepped onto the ice like he belonged to it. Big. Smiling. Dangerous in a way most people wouldn’t see until it was too late.
Off the ice? Golden retriever. On it? Bulldozer with blades.
He took one look at me and laughed, shaking his head. “Midnight heartbreak skate again?”
I kept skating.
Didn’t even blink.
He chuckled and skated off toward the other end. Didn’t take it personally. Sam never did. That was why he’s still alive.
Because he knows when to back off the rabid dogs.
