Chapter 12

Twelve

The sound of skates carving into the ice was one of the few things that could quiet my mind. Out here, under the bright, artificial lights of the rink, there was no basement, no chains, no whispers of Kira’s tears haunting the edges of my thoughts. Just the cold air, the sharp sting of breath in my lungs, and the raw, animal simplicity of the game.

Practice was in full swing, a chaotic symphony of shouts, pucks ricocheting off the boards, and sticks smacking against the ice. I wove through my teammates with precision, my focus honed on every movement—every chance to be faster, sharper, better.

“Owen!” Coach barked from the bench, his voice cutting through the clamor. “You want to tell me where your head’s at today?”

I blinked, the haze of my thoughts scattering like glass under a hammer. I skidded to a stop, ice spraying up around me as I turned to face him.

“I’m here, Coach,” I said, my voice smooth, controlled.

He didn’t look convinced. “Then prove it. Five laps, now.”

I didn’t argue. I dropped my head and pushed off, my muscles burning as I sped along the rink’s edge. Lap after lap, I channeled everything—the restlessness, the weight pressing down on my chest, the need to get back to her—into the rhythm of my strides. The sharp turns. The sting in my thighs as I powered forward, faster, harder.

Kira’s face slipped into my mind. The way she’d looked last night, her body wrecked beneath my hands, her voice raw and broken as she whispered my name.

Mine.

The word echoed through me like a drumbeat, fueling the fire in my veins. I’d counted every mark I’d left on her—every bruise, every bite. They were tally marks in my mind, proof of her surrender, proof that she belonged to me in ways she didn’t even understand yet. But the image shifted. Her tears. The soft, muffled sobs she thought I didn’t hear.

My skates hit a divot in the ice, sending me stumbling forward. I caught myself quickly, a surge of anger flaring hot in my chest. Focus.

“Owen!” Liam’s voice broke through the noise, skating up beside me as I finished the final lap. His tone was casual, but there was a thread of curiosity beneath it. "What’s up with you today? You look like you’re ready to murder someone."

I forced a smirk, pushing down the knot tightening in my chest. “Maybe I am.”

He laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as we skated back toward the group. “Save it for Saturday. Thompson’s gonna eat ice when you hit him with that look.”

Thompson. The opposing team’s top defenseman. It wasn’t enough for me to beat him. I wanted to break him. But not like I’d broken Kira—piece by piece until she couldn’t remember a world without me in it.

She tried to leave you.

The thought struck hard, hot and unwelcome. My jaw clenched as we lined up for drills, my fingers curling tight around my stick. She’d stacked those desks like she really believed she could get away. Like I wouldn’t have been there to stop her. To save her. The window had been her way out, and I’d taken it away, boarded it up while she watched. I’d seen the way her face crumpled, the way hope shattered in her eyes.

Good.

Because hope would only hurt her.

“Owen! Eyes up!”

I barely heard Coach’s shout before the puck hit my stick, a sharp sting vibrating up my arm. I gripped harder, pivoting as Liam shot forward. The two of us weaved down the ice, moving as one.

Liam feinted left; I shot right. I deked around the goalie, the net wide open—an easy shot. Instead, I slammed the puck hard enough to rattle the pipes, sending it flying past him and into the boards with a deafening crack.

The rink went silent.

“What the hell was that?” Coach barked, his face flushed red as he stomped toward the ice. “I said we’re working plays, not anger management, Sinclair!”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said smoothly, letting my stick rest casually against my shoulder. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, but I didn’t let it show.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he shot back, glaring. “Hit the bench. Take a minute before you lose your damn head out here.”

I didn’t argue. I skated off, the sting of disappointment tempered by the pulse of rage still pounding in my veins. I sank onto the bench, ripping my helmet off and dragging a hand through my damp hair. The cold air did nothing to cool the fire smoldering beneath my skin.

Kira.

I could see her in my mind, curled up on that mattress, her wrists bruised and raw from the cuffs. The marks I’d left on her thighs. The way she’d whimpered my name through every one of them, her voice a plea and a prayer.

You love me.

She wouldn’t say it out loud yet, but I knew. I saw it in her eyes when she let herself look at me. Felt it in the way her body responded to mine, even when her words told me no. Read it in her note to me.

She didn’t understand yet. That was the problem. Kira didn’t see what I saw—that I was saving her from herself. From the edge she kept trying to throw herself off. If I had to break her to make her whole, I would. I’d do it a thousand times over.

“You good, man?” Liam’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, the easygoing grin on his face barely masking the edge of concern. “Coach looks ready to bench you for the season.”

I forced a smirk, slipping my helmet back on. “I’m good. Just needed a minute.”

“Yeah, well, pull it together before he pulls you from the starting lineup. Saturday’s gonna be brutal.”

Saturday. The game. The crowd. The lights.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except getting back to her. To Kira.

The whistle blew, and I pushed off the bench, skating back onto the ice with renewed purpose. My mind narrowed, my focus sharpening like the blade of a knife. Kira would be there when I got home. Waiting for me. Needing me.

I would remind her of that.

I was hers. And she… she was mine.