Page 7

Chapter seven

~IRENE~

I’m dreaming. Somehow, I know I’m dreaming, but it feels so real. A heavy weight presses me down, locking me in place. Strong fingers wrap around my wrist, pinning it above my head. I can’t move. Even if I could, I don’t want to. A warm breath skims my cheek. A voice, deep and dangerous, murmurs against my ear.

“You should be more careful where you put your hands, little thing.”

A shudder rolls through me. My stomach flips, and heat spreads like wildfire under my skin. His body shifts over mine, pressing me deeper into the mattress. Heavy. Unyielding. Everywhere. I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

His grip on my wrist tightens—not hard, just enough to make my pulse spike again. His other hand moves lower, slow and cruel. It skims down my ribs, over my stomach, fingers brushing the edge of my sleep shorts.

My body reacts before my mind does. My back arches, my thighs press together, a quiet, needy sound slipping from my throat.

I don’t recognize myself. I’ve never felt this before. I’ve never wanted anything like this before. Ares’ breath is hot against my skin. His lips are right there.

Hovering over my throat. My jaw. My mouth. He’s going to kiss me. I feel his fingers dip lower. And then—

I wake up.

My body jerks, a sharp inhale punching from my lungs. Everything is hot. Too hot. My skin is burning up, a thin layer of sweat covering it. I blink at the ceiling, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. My pulse pounds between my legs, deep and aching. My thighs clench, my walls squeezing around nothing.

Oh my god.

I swallow. My throat is dry; my skin is damp, and my stomach is tight. I reach up, pressing trembling fingers to my lips. They’re parted and hot. Like I just woke up from being kissed senseless. Like I just woke up from something more.

I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation flooding through me. I’ve never had a man touch me before like that. So why does my body seem like it knows exactly how it would feel? Why does my skin still tingle where I imagined him touching me? Why is my heart still racing like I just barely got away?

I’ve always played it safe.

The one who followed the rules, skipped the parties, and never stayed out past curfew.

I did what was expected of me. What was smart. What kept things simple.What was safe. And honestly? There was something comforting about it. No risk. No drama. No heartbreak.

Just...safety. My nice, quiet little bubble.

But Ares?

Ares is the opposite of safe. He’s the wild, untamed edge that calls to me. The flashing red warning sign I want to touch. Every time I’m near him, it feels like I’m seventeen again—standing at the edge of something I know I shouldn’t do…except now, I really want to cross the line.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid. And I can’t stop thinking about him.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I’m the team’s PTA. I’m supposed to do my job, not be fantasizing about the tattooed menace with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. I groan, pressing the heels of my palms into my face.

It was just a dream. A stupid, stupid dream. I exhale slowly. Because on Monday, I have to see him. I have to touch him. Put my hands on those muscles, check his hip, and watch him move for me.

Pretend like I didn’t just wake up soaking wet from a dream where he pinned me down and growled “little thing” in my ear.

I shift under the sheets, pulse still thumping between my legs, thighs pressed tight together in a pathetic attempt to will away the need. It doesn’t work.

It’s been two days since I saw him. Two days of having him on my mind. It’s Sunday, game day, and I walk into the arena with a plan. Act normal. Be professional. Forget. It was just a dream, that’s all. A stupid, meaningless dream. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything. I tell myself that over and over again.

And yet, what is the first thing I do when I step inside the rink? I look for him.

The arena is a war zone. The roar of the crowd is deafening, the walls practically shaking with the pulse of thousands of fans. The Panthers are hosting the NY Bears, and the energy is unlike anything I’ve seen. There are screaming fans, pounding drums, flashing lights, and the smell of ice and fresh popcorn. It’s chaos. It’s noise. It’s everything a home game should be.

But I can’t focus on any of it, not with the buzz in my chest and heat in my cheeks. I look around, scanning the ice, my eyes searching for him.

I spot his jersey immediately. He’s lightning-fast.

He moves like a force of nature, all power and precision, like he was born to do this. Like nothing can touch him.

The crowd’s roar grows louder as he skates past the Plexiglass, the sound of his blades carving into the ice, slicing through the madness around us. He moves like a beast in the wild, his body cutting through the chaos with brutal precision. He’s everywhere, slamming into the Bears’ defenders, dominating the puck, orchestrating the play along with DiMarco like he’s the conductor of a symphony of violence. His every stride looks effortless and powerful. Every hit is a message. He’s untouchable.

But I know better. I know he’s playing through pain. And yet, he gives away nothing. His strides are sharp, his hits brutal and unforgiving.

How the hell is he doing this? That has to hurt like hell. He’s skating like a machine, but I can see the cracks. I can see the way his body moves, the way he compensates, shifting his weight ever so slightly.

No one else notices, but I do. I watch his hips rotate, the sharp angles of his body cutting through the ice. I see the tiniest hesitation, the microsecond pause, the flicker of tension before he absorbs or delivers a hit.

The crowd is too loud to notice. Too caught up in the game, in the action. But I’m watching him like he’s the only one in the entire arena. I see the flex of pain every time he braces himself for impact.

It’s so fast, so subtle, but it’s there. He’s hurting. I swallow, my fingers tightening around the tablet in my hands.

He shouldn’t be playing like this. He should be resting. Healing.

But, of course, he’s not. And that’s what makes this worse.

I should be watching all the players. But I can’t because my eyes are glued to him. The intensity of the game, the hits, the battles for possession, the roar of the fans—none of it matters. My heart thunders in my chest every time he skates past. Every time his body collides with another player, I feel it in my own fucking bones. My body reacts like it’s happening to me.

I catch his eyes through the glass as I make my way to the area designated for staff. The crowd’s roar is suddenly a muffled hum in my ears. He slows down for a second, just long enough for our gazes to lock. His eyes pierce into mine, intense and so blue. My breath stalls. The entire rink could be shaking, but I wouldn’t notice. All I see is him.

Ares Black. In the middle of his storm. And then, just as fast as he looked at me, he turns away. He skates off toward the puck, knocking the rival team’s forward with his shoulder before stealing the puck. He’s momentum in its purest form. A train barreling down the track. A storm that doesn’t yield.

The final horn sounds, and the arena erupts like a volcano. The Panthers have won, and the place shakes with the roar of thousands of screaming fans. The glass rattles from the force of it, the lights flash in victory, and the air smells like sweat and triumph.

“Hell yeah, boys!” my dad screams. The players are celebrating, slapping each other on the back, and raising their sticks to the crowd. It’s pure chaos, pure joy. But not for me. My eyes are on one thing, one person.

Ares.

The adrenaline of the game still runs high, but I can see the toll it’s taken. The celebration is loud and chaotic, but I can barely hear it. The crowd’s cheers blur into a dull hum as I watch him glide across the ice, leaning slightly to his left side, favoring his hip. I watch as he pulls himself off the ice with more weight on that side, clearly compensating for something.

My stomach tightens. This can’t go on. It just can’t.

The other players are celebrating, their bodies circling around the rink like it’s still part of the game. But Ares is already moving toward the tunnel. That’s not how you celebrate a victory.

I have to help him.

I force myself to stay calm, swallowing down the hesitation building in my chest as I watch him disappear. I can’t let him get away with this, not when he’s pushing himself and hiding the damage.

The celebration rages around me as I take a heavy breath. But I don’t feel the thrill of victory; I don’t feel the rush of the win.

I just feel the weight of what’s about to come when I confront him again.

Ares Black is not a man you stop.

Not on the ice. Not off it.

And yet? Here I am.

Standing in front of him in the private hallway. Blocking his path.

He stops, sweat still slicking his brow, his hockey gear clinking with every movement. The adrenaline from the game still buzzes in the air around us, but the celebration is out there. Not in here. In here, we’re alone.

Ares stops dead in his tracks when he sees me standing in his way, blocking the tunnel. His gaze flicks to me, then straight past, like I’m nothing more than a shadow in his path.

“No,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

“Is this how you react when someone wants to congratulate you on the win?” I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms.

“You’re not here to congratulate me,” he mutters and tightens his jaw. “You’re ambushing me.”

I chew on my lip for a moment, hesitating. Then, I let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say to you after I congratulate you.”

“I do.” He tilts his head just an inch. “You want me to do my physical.”

I scoff, feigning mock offense.

“I’m worried about you,” I say, my voice quieter now. It comes out before I can stop it. “I saw you out there.”

“You and twenty thousand other people.” His voice is suddenly low, a challenge in his tone. “What’s your point, Irene?”

His expression doesn’t change as he says my name. But something inside me does. My name sounds different on his lips. He says it like he owns it. And now I’m the one who feels cornered.

Ares hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done a single thing. And yet, somehow, he’s winning. What exactly, I’m not sure yet.

“I saw you limping.” I hesitate for just a moment, trying to find the right words. “I saw you fight through it. You’re hurt, Ares. You’re not invincible, no matter how much you think you are. Let me help you.”

His jaw tightens, and his fingers curl slightly.

“I’m fine.” His voice stays steady. “I need to get ready for the press.” And with that, he turns, giving me his back.

I’ve always played it safe. Always tiptoeing around, always cautious. But I’m done playing that role. I’m a PTA now, and I have a job to do. A real job. Working with children is my dream, my future. I can’t be soft, not if I want to make a difference. I can’t just back down whenever a child is scared of the doctor’s office, afraid of what might happen. And that’s exactly what Ares is doing right now. He’s acting like a child, too scared to admit he’s hurt. Why? I still don’t know, but I need to be the one who stands firm. I’m here to help him, and he’s not going to stop me.

I don’t think; I react. My hand shoots out, and I grab him. I only realize this once I look down and see my hand wrapped around two of his inked fingers.

Uh-oh.

His entire body locks up. The air splits. Something dark, something deep, something dangerous crawls into the space between us. And then his head turns slowly like the barrel of a loaded gun shifting in my direction. His gaze drops. Lower. Lower. Until it lands on my hand where I’m touching him. Holding him, stopping him.

My stomach flips at the way he looks back at me. I swear the temperature in the room drops. I ignore the warning in his stare and the narrowing of his eyes like he’s trying to figure out if I really just did that.

Yes, unfortunately, I did. And now I have to follow it through.

“If you don’t do the physical, I’ll tell Dr. Mathews and Coach Brown. And I don’t care if you hate me for it. You need to rest and recover.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does.

His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, then stops.

His pupils dilate against his pale irises as his gaze drags over me.

Then, a slow tilt of his head.

“You just threatened me,” he says with a slow tilt of his head, disbelief in his deep voice. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. His voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t waver.

I should regret this. But I can’t stop my mouth from moving. I force my smile to stay in place. This is both thrilling and reckless. But it feels good.

“Yep.” I nod, popping the P. “Precisely!”

His eyes darken before they drag over me again. And then the corner of his lips twitches upward. I’m not sure if it’s a smirk or a sneer, but whatever it is, it sets butterflies off in my tummy.

“You really are a persistent little thing, aren’t you?” His voice is low but too deep to be swallowed by the buzz and noise coming from the arena.

There it is again. ‘Little thing.’ I try to swallow, but it gets stuck. I’m not afraid of him. At least, I don’t think I am. What I feel isn’t fear; it’s something lighter, something that makes me run toward him instead of away from him. Without thinking, I tighten my hold on his fingers.

His eyes darken, and his entire body goes still when the air thickens to the point of suffocation.

I feel it before it happens—a shift in the air, a slight movement before his hand snaps forward. Before I can react, his fingers clamp around my wrist. Again.

He yanks my hand off his fingers, and I let out a small gasp, my pulse slamming against my ribs. But he doesn’t stop. With the same hand, he grabs my other wrist. Now, he has both of my wrists trapped in his grip. One of his huge, tattooed hands completely wraps around them.

I can’t do anything except stare up at him, wide-eyed, breath shallow, and heart racing.

He takes a single step forward, and everything inside me locks up. The heat of his body, the sheer size of him, is too much. He tilts his head, slow and calculating.

“What did I say about touching me?” His voice is low and deep. My stomach flips as he tightens his grip enough to make my thighs press together.

That’s not fear coiling in my gut. That’s not anxiety clawing up my throat.

A heat so deep, so sharp, it crackles up my spine like an electric current.

Oh, God .

A spike of arousal, immediate and undeniable, shoots through me.

No. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

I suck in a shaky breath. I need to say something. I need to break this moment.

But I can’t. I’m frozen. And I’m sure Ares can see it. He watches me, his gaze dragging over my face, taking it in.

His thumb presses against my pulse, and I know he feels it. He has to because it’s racing. Because I’m giving myself away. I see the moment he realizes. The moment he understands. His lips twitch. He knows what he’s doing to me. And I don’t know if I want to die or sink deeper into it.

Ares leans in so close I feel his breath skim my cheek. So close, my knees threaten to buckle.

“I’ll do your exam on Tuesday.” His words are quiet and final. “But you’re going to be good for me.”

A shiver races through me violently at his words. My lungs forget how to work.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about my injury.” His breath is warm. He pulls away enough to look down at me. “Can you do that for me?” His voice is almost inaudible over the roar of the arena now. I catch myself nodding, saying yes. He mimics me, his chin bobbing up and down with mine. “Good.”

And I am not okay. Because I should be pushing him away, but I’m not. Because the moment he finally releases me, the moment he lets me go, my wrists feel empty.

And I know that whatever he just did unlocked something in me.

And I don’t know how to stop it.