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But deep down?

She longed for something real—something messy—and that made her vulnerable.

I just needed to push her over the edge.

I stood in front of the mirror as I stripped off my shirt. The early morning light spilled through the window, illuminating the scars and bruises that told a story of their own—each mark a reminder of battles fought, both on and off the ice. I ignored the ones on the inside of my thighs, ignored all of them.

Holly’d be pretending to be fine, pretending Logan was enough for her. But I could see it in her eyes—the way they widened with fear when she caught me staring. I didn’t want her scared; I wanted her to remember who she belonged to. I wanted her to want me again—even if she hated herself for it.

Just as I was about to reach for my clean shirt, the door swung open.

“Damien!” My mother’s voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.

I turned, pulling my shirt down just in time to shield myself from her gaze. Her expression shifted from annoyance to something colder—a sharp edge that had always made me uneasy.

“Why are you hiding yourself?” she asked, her eyes roving over me. “I'm your mother."

“What do you want?” I shot back, trying to mask my irritation with bravado. “It's not even six in the morning."

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she warned, stepping further into the room. “I wanted to check on you."

I clenched my teeth.

We both knew it wasn't that.

She might have been able to do that when I was a kid, when I didn't know better, but now?

Her eyes narrowed as she took another step forward, closing the distance between us. “You seem tense. Let me make you feel better."

I leaned against the dresser, my heart pounding in defiance. I hated the way my body fucking reacted to her, hated that I was fucking scared. Of her. “I don't want you to make me feel better."

"You always liked when I?—"

I grabbed my keys and left the room, ensuring I didn't touch her. I knew how she would make me feel better, and bile rose up to my mouth.

I didn't want any part of that.

Of her.

Of this fucking place.

I needed to leave.

I slammed the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, my fingers tightening around the wheel. The engine roared to life, drowning out the echoes of my mother’s words still ringing in my ears. Not today.

The road blurred beneath me as I sped toward Pandora's Box, the on-campus rink that had always felt like home—at least when I was on the ice.

But today?

Today it wasn’t just about hockey; it was about losing myself in something darker.

I parked in the back lot, my heart racing with anticipation as I stepped inside. The air buzzed with a familiar energy, a blend of sweat and adrenaline. Players milled about, some gearing up for scrimmages while others lingered, exchanging low whispers that masked what was really happening beneath the surface.

But I wasn’t here for practice. I made my way down a narrow corridor hidden behind a wall of soundproof glass. This place held more than just hockey; it hid secrets—like an underground fight club that thrived in the shadows.

With each step deeper into the bowels of Pandora’s Box, I felt the weight on my shoulders ease just a fraction. The world outside faded away—the expectations, the judgments—until only chaos remained. The darkened room pulsated with life, a makeshift ring set up under flickering lights where bodies collided with bone-crushing force.

I stripped down to my muscle shirt, sweat already pooling at my temples from anger and anticipation. A crowd gathered around me as I stepped into the ring, their shouts a cacophony urging me forward.