A cold wave rolls through my chest.
The comments underneath are multiplying by the second.
“Does anyone know who she is?”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“Wait—isn’t she the woman from Vegas?”
My pulse spikes.
Vegas.Where it all began.
I open the replies.
Most are bullshit. Speculation. Jokes.
But it only takes one person. One article. One tagged photo. One idiot trying to play internet detective.
Landon’s locked up, awaiting trial. But prison doesn’t stop people from hearing things. Doesn’t stop the obsession. Doesn’t stop a man like him from learning her name is suddenly attached to mine across every hockey account online.
My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
Before me? Peyton could quietly disappear.
Now she’s becoming visible.
And somehow that realization terrifies me almost as much as the look on my own face in that photo.
Like I’d burn the world down before I let anyone touch her.
Like I already belong to her.
26
DALTYN
The next morning feels wrong the second I open my eyes.
Birds chirp outside my window. Leaves rustle softly in the breeze.
But inside? It’s quiet.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling for a long moment, too fucking aware of the woman sleeping downstairs.
Exhaustion grinds behind my eyes.
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those photos again. The comments. The headlines. The look on my own face staring at Peyton like she’s already mine. Like I’d die before I let anyone take her from me.
My jaw tightens.
The sun is barely up, pale morning light creeping through the windows of the loft, but my mind is already running at full speed.
Damage control.
Media. Tags. Her name spreading.
