That part of me holds.
Zoë doesn’t move safely within orbits. She cuts across trajectories. Exists where she wants, on her terms.
And Rylan—fuck—Rylan understands exactly how systems respond to women like her.
At the blue line, my hands clamp the rail. Declan’s voice drifts across the ice. Adrian laughs at something stupid. Familiar. Contained.
The crowd swells, vibrating through the boards and into my bones. That sound demands hunger.
What unsettles me more than Rylan running his mouth is how fast my instincts turned feral at the thought of her getting pulled into any of this. How possession surfaced before I could cage it.
Control is shifting. Quietly. Subtly.
And the one person capable of unbalancing me doesn’t even know she’s doing it yet.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 4
Zoë
Sensory overload hits the moment I step into the arena—sweat, stale beer, metallic ice. A living roar presses against the glass, vibration humming up through the soles of my boots. I’m squeezed into the stands, shoulder-to-shoulder with Clara, Talia, Genny, and Maya. Heat radiates off three thousand bodies, leaving the chill in my chest intact and sharp.
“Drink,” Clara shouts, shoving a plastic cup of lukewarm beer into my hand. Steady as always, she scans the stands like she’s counting exits. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”
“A slaughter,” I correct, taking a sip just to wet my dry throat. “I’m here for the violence over the sport.”
Talia laughs, nerves threading the sound. They all know what tomorrow morning holds. They all know why I’m here, vibrating at a frequency sharp enough to crack the glass around us. Noisehelps. Distraction helps. Something loud enough to scream back feels necessary.
“Violence is good,” Maya says, voice cutting through the din. Leaning forward, she locks onto the rink with predatory focus. “But Rossi looks like he’s trying to kill someone tonight.”
“Who pissed in his cereal?” Genny asks, frowning as the players line up. She tracks formations, not bloodlust. Strategy over spectacle.
On the ice, play blurs into speed and impact. Final period. Tied score. A deadlock tight enough to choke. Everyone’s on their feet, restless and hungry.
Number twenty-two jumps out instantly.
Gio Rossi.
Something about him reads wrong tonight. The calculated, arrogant winger is stripped down to an edge that looks jagged and mean. His body slams into checks with reckless force, boards rattling under impact. Across the rink, he hunts, skirts the edge of legality, snarls at the refs when the whistle cuts him off.
A shriek of sound. Bodies peel apart. The Titans reset for the faceoff.
Backward momentum carries him toward the blue line, like stillness irritates him. He drops into a stretch—knees bending, skates angling out, hips opening into a butterfly with effortless control. Gloved hands brace on his thighs, head tipped down for half a beat, breath fogging the inside of the cage. Muscle, violence, bad decisions—he wears all of it easily.
My mouth goes dry.
I bet he fucks good.
The thought lands hot and stupid, shame chasing right behind it. Pressure mutates into pornographic curiosity, stress twisting into something visceral and distracting, shredding focus when I need it most.
“Looks like he’s got a personal vendetta against the laws of physics,” Clara mutters as Gio slams an opposing forward into the plexiglass directly in front of us. The floor shudders. “That was a full-on collision.”
“Who cares?” I snap, eyes locked on him.
Hard breathing lifts his chest under the pads, helmet shoved back just enough to show eyes gone dark and feral. Dangerous. Unhinged. My stomach knots tight, pulse spiking in unwanted sympathy.
That look is familiar. It’s the same one staring back at me in the mirror at 3:00 AM when the portfolio collapses and the future looks like a cliff edge.
