Page 10

Chapter ten

Noah

T he sound came first—steel cutting ice, echoing through my skull like a bone saw. Each precise stroke counted down toward the collision. My body remembered what was coming before my mind did.

The hollow, vacant rink stretched around me, cavernous and wrong. There was no crowd noise and no teammates on the ice. It was just the two of us in the artificial cold.

I tried to turn and skate away, but my legs betrayed me. Bolted to the ice, my skates fused with the rink. My arms hung leaden at my sides, gear suddenly ten times its normal weight.

The scrape of blades grew louder—first behind me and then to my left. Next, it was everywhere at once. The arena lights flickered, shadows lengthening across the ice.

Micah appeared at the edge of my vision, emerging from the darkness. His movement wasn't the efficient power I'd studied in-game footage; this version of him flowed like water over stone, something primal in his approach. His face twisted into an expression I couldn't define—a mix of hunger and apology. His eyes burned like blue flames, pupils wide, fixed on me like I was the only thing in the universe.

He barreled forward, each stride eating the distance between us. I counted my panicked heartbeats: one-two-three-four. My body tensed, muscles locking in anticipation. The hit should've come—right at that moment—but it never did.

Or maybe it already had? Perhaps I was already broken, down, and bleeding onto the ice while some demented loop in my brain reset the clock, forcing me to experience the anticipation again and again.

Cold air filled my lungs. My throat constricted, and my collarbone began to throb, not with the dull ache of an old injury but with nerves firing warnings about damage yet to come. The pain radiated outward, following a spiderweb of fractures that hadn't yet occurred.

I tried to raise a hand. I didn't know whether it was to defend myself or beckon him closer. I failed anyway. My fingers merely twitched against the ice, useless as broken twigs.

"Please," I tried to say, but no sound emerged, only puffy ghosts of breath in the air.

What was I trying to say? Please stop? Please continue? Come closer?

Micah was suddenly above me, no longer approaching but looming. He stood over me, breathing hard. His chest heaved beneath his jersey—no, the jersey was gone, leaving bare skin slick with sweat despite the cold.

I was on my back, the ice burning cold against my spine. Micah's stick clattered beside me, abandoned. He knelt, one knee pressed against my hip, and reached down with bare fingers. They hovered over my chest, not quite touching.

"I saw you," he said, but the voice wasn't right—deeper, rougher than it should be. "You wanted this."

His hand descended, fingertips grazing the hollow of my throat, trailing down to where my collarbone jutted out of my skin. The touch wasn't violent. It was reverent, and somehow that was worse. My body arched into it.

He lowered himself, body covering mine, his weight crushing and anchoring. He held his mouth near my ear, breath warm where everything else was cold.

"Noah."

Wrong voice. Wrong tone. Too gentle for the monster in my mind.

My lungs seized. I gasped awake, throat raw as if I'd been screaming for hours. The cabin's guest room materialized around me in fragments—wooden beams overhead, a scratchy blanket tangled around my legs, and darkness pressing against the windows.

Sweat popped out on my skin despite the chill. My chest heaved with each shallow breath, ribs squeezing like they might crack inward and pierce my lungs.

I curled into myself, knees drawing up, spine curved, protecting what was already broken. The position was familiar—a reflex honed through years of hiding pain. My body always remembered what my mind tried to forget. I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the ragged sound of my breathing.

The pain wasn't real, but my body hadn't gotten the message. Phantom aches pulsed through my collarbone, an echo of what had healed weeks ago. I pressed my palm against the spot, fingers digging into the ridge of bone as if I could convince my nerves they were lying.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the night sounds of the cabin. Too fast. Too loud. I couldn't catch my breath. Couldn't stop shaking.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

My body tensed further, muscles coiling as tight as steel cables. The footsteps outside my door weren't cautious or hesitant—they moved with purpose, heavy enough to sound through the cabin's thick walls.

It was Micah. I recognized his tread, the distinct rhythm of his weight shifting from heel to toe.

Somehow, he'd heard me. My panic closed the space between us, bleeding through the walls.

The door opened without a knock. A wedge of pale blue darkness spilled across the floor. Micah stood silhouetted in the doorframe, broader than seemed possible, breathing almost inaudible.

He didn't speak or rush forward. He merely stood there, a sentinel watching from the threshold. I sensed rather than saw his assessment—taking in my curled posture, the tangled bedding, and my chest's shallow rise and fall.

"Go away." The words rasped out of me, hoarse and unconvincing.

"No."

He uttered the one syllable without heat or judgment. Next, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room darkened again.

I couldn't see his face, only the bulk of him moving through the shadows. The mattress dipped as he sat on its edge, careful to maintain space between us.

"Nightmare?" The word emerged surprisingly gentle for such a rough voice.

I didn't answer. Pride warred with need. I clenched my jaw tighter, willing my breathing to calm.

Minutes passed. Five. Maybe ten. My heartbeat began to slow. The iron bands around my lungs loosened. I became aware of Micah's breathing—deep, steady, almost meditative. Without a conscious decision, my breathing began to align with his.

"The ice?" he asked after my breathing had steadied.

I uncurled slightly, easing onto my back. "Yes. It was the hit, but not the hit."

"I know," he said, and somehow, he did. Of course, he did. He'd probably seen that look in other men's eyes after he'd plowed them into the boards.

Micah waited patiently.

How strange that the man who'd once loomed like a pure destructive force could be so quiet. I'd imagined many versions of Micah Keller over the months of recovery—the monster, the machine, the mindless enforcer—but never this: a man who could sit quietly in the darkness, guarding someone else's space until the demons decided to flee.

When his hand finally moved, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist where it lay exposed on the sheet. He didn't grip or restrain. He connected, his calloused thumb resting lightly over my pulse point.

"Still here," he said.

I turned my hand, wrist rotating in his loose hold until my palm faced upward. His fingers slid against mine.

In that moment of contact, something clicked into place. The nightmare receded further, dissolving into fragments of images that could no longer threaten me. Micah's presence—patient, undemanding—tethered me to the present.

My heartbeat gradually settled into something approaching normal. I studied the shadow of him in the darkness—the broad slope of his shoulders, strong column of his neck, and profile that could have been carved from granite.

"Feel my heart," I whispered.

I lifted our joined hands, guiding his palm up my arm, across my shoulder, until it rested over the left side of my chest. I'd worn an old threadbare t-shirt to bed, and it did little to separate Micah's skin from mine. His hand was heavy, heat radiating through the thin cotton. I splayed my fingers over his, pressing them more firmly against my pec.

My voice was barely audible in the quiet room. "Still beating… fast."

Beneath my fingers, Micah's hand tensed slightly, but he didn't pull away. His thumb swept once across my firm muscle, testing boundaries neither of us had clearly defined.

"Noah." I felt the vibration of his voice through his palm against my chest. It traveled straight to my core.

"I'm here."

His pulse throbbed against my fingertips, where they pressed against the back of his hand. Strong. Steady, but growing faster. The rhythm of it matched the blood rushing in my ears.

I lifted my free hand through the darkness, finding the rough edge of his jaw. His stubble scraped my palm, coarse and electric. He inhaled sharply at the contact but didn't flinch away. My thumb traced the edge of his mouth, mapping the surprising softness there.

He lowered his chin. "This is a bad idea."

"Probably. Do you want me to stop?"

His silence spoke volumes. The hand on my chest curved slightly, fingers spreading wider as if trying to capture more of my heartbeat. I felt a slight tremor in them—Micah Keller, the immovable object, was shaking.

I rose slowly, pushing up on one elbow, bringing our faces closer. His breath mingled with mine, warm and coffee-scented. We hovered there, breathing the same air and feeling the heat radiating between us.

Micah exhaled. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know." It was an honest answer. "I do know I'm tired of being afraid of it."

My fingertips touched his lips, and they parted slightly under my touch, warm breath brushing my skin. The darkness hid his expression, but he leaned closer.

He took two fingers into his mouth, sucking lightly, and I gasped. My body responded, arousal flooding through my veins. Micah reached out with his free hand and rested it on my thigh.

When he released my fingers, we kissed. It began as nothing more than a brush of lips, testing.

As the kiss deepened, Micah's hand slid from my chest to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.

The taste of him flooded my senses. We didn't rush anything or desperately claw at each other. It was the slow uncovering of what had been building since I'd arrived at his door.

His hand moved from my neck to my shoulder, then down my arm, touch light but deliberate. I mirrored the movement, fingers finding the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to trace the ridges of muscle beneath warm skin.

He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. "You sure about this?"

The question wasn't just about what was happening now in this bed. It encompassed everything—his hit, my injury, my arrival at his cabin, and the complex web of choices and consequences that had led us here. Was I sure? About any of it?

"Yes. Are you?"

Rather than answer with words, Micah reached down and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The moonlight filtering through the window illuminated the outline of his chest and the defined muscles of his abdomen.

I followed suit, tugging my shirt off, the cold air raising goosebumps across my exposed skin. We studied each other in the dim light, taking a moment to simply look.

His gaze traced the line of my collarbone, lingering on the raised ridge of scar tissue where it had broken under the force of his hit. Without speaking, he reached out, fingers hovering just above the mark but not quite touching, as if asking permission.

I nodded once. His fingertips descended, tracing the evidence of our shared history with a gentleness that made my heart flutter. There was something reverent in his touch, almost apologetic. I placed my hand over his, pressing his palm flat against the scar.

"It's part of me now. Like I'm part of you."

He drew in a sharp breath and raised his chin until our eyes met. His free hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip.

His free hand slowly moved over my shoulders and chest, kneading muscle as he went.

I responded in kind, fingers tracing the firm muscles of his biceps. We shed the rest of our clothes. Naked, we faced each other on the narrow bed, the sheets cool beneath our heated skin.

I reached out, finding a jagged scar that curved around his ribs.

"Hockey?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Before that."

I didn't press for details. We could save some stories for later. Instead, I leaned forward, pressing my lips to the mark, hearing his sharp intake of breath at the contact.

He moved his hands down to my hips, gripping and pulling me closer until our bodies aligned, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His heat against me was nearly overwhelming, starkly contrasting with the cabin's chill.

I rolled onto my back, pulling Micah with me. He braced himself on his forearms, careful not to crush me, his face hovering inches from mine.

"You can look at me," I whispered. "All of me."

He lowered himself slightly until our chests touched, one hand trailing down my side, over my hip, along my thigh. As he pressed one of his legs between mine, his hard cock pressed against my flesh. I gasped slightly.

As I arched upward into him, sensations rippled through me like the first cracks spreading across spring ice—dangerous, inevitable, transforming.

My hand moved between us until my fingers found him, hard and warm.

"Is this okay?"

He didn't speak; he only met my eyes with a hunger that answered better than words could.

His mouth found the hollow of my throat, lips pressed against my pulse point. He traced a path with his tongue down to my collarbone, then across to my shoulder.

I explored him with my free hand as I started to stroke—the broad expanse of his back and the curve where his spine met his hip. We moved together in synch.

His hand joined mine between us, wrapping both of our cocks, rubbing vein against vein. I bit my lip. My hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction and more pressure.

Micah set the pace, slow and languid, with his eyes never leaving mine.

The intimacy of his gaze drove my arousal even more than the physical sensation. It left nowhere to hide. He saw me—truly saw me—and I saw him in return.

We weren't the enforcer and the rookie. We were Micah and Noah.

"Stay with me," he murmured. "Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."

I nodded, struggling to maintain the connection as pleasure built at the base of my spine, radiating outward. My breath came in short gasps, matching his own increasingly ragged breathing.

He kissed my lips again, exhaling into my mouth. He stroked faster. I knew neither of us could last much longer.

The fingers of his free hand swept into my hand, gripped and tugged my head back slightly, exposing more of my neck. I couldn't hold it any longer.

Release crashed through me like a wave breaking against rock, powerful and inevitable. I muffled a cry against his shoulder, teeth grazing his skin as my body shuddered beneath his. Seconds later, he followed, with a low groan rumbling through his chest as he shot thick, sticky cum against my abs.

For several heartbeats, we remained locked together, trembling in the aftermath. Then, he shifted, careful not to crush me, one arm still curved protectively around my ribs as if afraid I might disappear.

No words followed. None were necessary. Our breathing gradually slowed, syncing once again into a shared rhythm. He kissed my chest and flicked his tongue across a hard nip. I moaned softly and arched my back.

Pulling back, Micah chuckled softly, and I looked up at him. The hardness I'd come to associate with him had softened, revealing something younger, almost vulnerable in its openness.

We lay like that for what might have been minutes or hours, connected by touch and shared breath. In the pre-dawn quiet, I found a peace I hadn't expected when I'd made the journey to confront him.

Micah finally climbed out of bed and retrieved a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom. He cleaned us both with unexpected tenderness before pulling the blankets over our cooling bodies.

Shifting positions, I lay sprawled across his powerful chest, my cheek pressed against his heart as our legs tangled beneath the sheets.

Micah's voice pierced the silence. "It never should've been you."

I lifted my head slightly, staring into his face. The moonlight cast half his face in shadow, giving him the appearance of a statue—something ancient and weathered by time.

"It had to be."

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I considered my words carefully, trying to articulate something I'd only just begun to understand myself. "If it had been someone else... someone who didn't see what you saw... we wouldn't be here."

His fingers traced the outline of my collarbone scar again, feather-light. "You came all this way because I hurt you."

I corrected him. "I came because you saw me in that moment before the hit."

"You couldn't have known that."

"I did. It was unmistakable."

Micah was silent for a long moment, his hand resting on my shoulder. "I saw something in myself, reflected in you. Something I'd been running from."

I nodded against his chest, understanding without needing him to elaborate. We'd both been hiding—from ourselves and from desires that didn't fit the narrow confines of who we were supposed to be. The hit had been both destruction and creation at the same time.

"And now?" I asked.

"Now we're here."

It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was honest.

"I don't regret coming, whatever happens next."

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "No matter what happens next... this was real."

Real. The word hit me hard. Micah confirmed that it was not a dream or a momentary lapse in judgment. It was real, like the solid weight of his body against mine and the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

I drifted toward sleep, lulled by Micah's steady breathing and the cocoon of warmth we'd created. Micah's lips pressed against the top of my head, so softly I would have believed I'd imagined it.

"Sleep," he whispered. "I'm here."

Just before consciousness slipped away completely, Micah murmured something against my hair. The words were too soft to distinguish, half-formed things that might have been my name or a prayer or nothing coherent at all.

I smiled into his skin and let sleep claim me, anchored by his presence and the certainty that whatever had begun between us was far from over.