Page 35

Knox

I stood at the edge of the rink, hands jammed deep in my pockets, jaw locked tight as I watched Iris skate like she had something to prove. Every sharp pivot, every reckless stride screamed frustration, and I knew exactly where it was coming from.

Sloane.

Her laughter still rang in my ears, fake and sweet, a reminder of how easily she wormed her way into every conversation—how she played the part of someone I might have wanted in the past.

And how Iris had fucking felt it.

I’d seen the way her expression shifted when she caught Sloane flirting with me, that split second where jealousy burned bright enough to light up the entire goddamn rink.

And I liked it.

That realization twisted in my gut like a blade. Because it meant she cared. And caring? That was dangerous.

Not for me.

For her .

I wasn’t some guy she could wrap around her little finger, wasn’t some safe bet. I was the fucking wreckage waiting to happen, and if she got too close, she’d end up swallowed by it. But even knowing that, even feeling the weight of that warning hammering through my ribs, I couldn’t stop.

She had already stepped into the storm.

And part of me wanted her there.

The team moved around me, oblivious, bodies in motion while I stood still, caught in this war brewing between us. Every time she glanced at Chris across the ice, that tight, ugly thing in my chest twisted deeper. I still remembered how he spoke to her, and she bit her lip— fuck .

A sharp pulse of possession surged through me, dark and consuming. I clenched my fists inside my pockets, forcing myself to stay planted, to not drag her off the ice and remind her exactly who she belonged to.

Because she did belong to me. And she knew it.

But that truth terrified me as much as it thrilled me. Because this wasn’t just about claiming her. This wasn’t some game we were playing anymore. This was real , and real meant consequences—meant that at some point, this would come crashing down around us.

And when it did?

I wasn’t sure if she’d survive the wreckage.

Or if I would.

I told myself to stay away today. To cool down. To get my head on straight before this thing between us spiraled even further out of control.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I sat there, eyes locked on her as she cut across the ice like she was carving her anger straight into it. Every stride, every sharp pivot, felt like a challenge—a dare she knew I couldn’t fucking ignore.

And damn her for it.

I clenched my jaw, fingers digging into my thigh as I forced myself to stand still.

The sounds of practice blurred into nothing, drowned out by the steady drum of my pulse.

All I saw was her —the way her muscles coiled with every push, the way her ponytail whipped behind her, snapping like a flag in the wind. Like a warning.

She was daring me to react.

And fuck if I didn’t want to.

Our eyes met for a split second, and it was like a live wire snapped between us. Electricity. Heat. A tension so sharp it cut straight through my ribs.

I should have looked away. Should have broken whatever the hell this was before it burned me alive.

But I didn’t.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus. On anything but her. On anything but the way her body moved. But it was impossible. She was under my skin, buried so deep I wasn’t sure I’d ever get her out.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want to.

Practice wrapped up, the sound of skates grinding against the ice fading into the background. I walked off, forcing every muscle in my body to stay rigid, controlled, when all I wanted to do was turn around and find her.

I needed to stay away.

I should stay away.

But I didn’t.

Players trickled out, laughter and low murmurs filling the space as they slung bags over their shoulders, talking about plans for the night. I stayed put, waiting.

Because I knew.

She was still here.

I felt it like a goddamn pulse, like an ache in my ribs that wouldn’t settle no matter how much I tried to push it down.

The second the last voice faded into silence, I turned toward the locker room.

I pushed open the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over my chest. The air inside was thick, heavy, like it carried the weight of everything we weren’t saying.

She sat on the bench in front of her locker, lacing up her shoes with a focus so sharp it made my blood boil. Like I wasn’t even standing there. Like she hadn’t felt it too.

I shoved the locker room door shut behind me; the slam echoing off the walls like a gunshot. The sound sealed us in—cutting us off from the rest of the world.

Just me and her now.

Iris’s head snapped up, her breath catching for a split second before her expression hardened. Surprise flickered into something hotter—anger, maybe. Humiliation.

I didn’t give a damn.

“What the hell was that yesterday?” My voice came out low, edged in something I barely had the energy to disguise.

She stiffened, but didn’t look up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bullshit.

My jaw ticked, frustration curling up my spine as I pushed off the doorframe, closing the space between us.

“Don’t play games with me, Evans.”

Her fingers froze on her laces. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see it—the hesitation, the crack in her armor before she smoothed it over again.

“I’m not playing games.”

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I took another step, crowding her space, drinking in the way her breath hitched, the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed hard.

Liar.

“Don’t play dumb, Evans.” My voice came out rough, sharp edges laced with something darker. Something possessive. “You glared fucking daggers into Sloane all morning.”

Her jaw clenched. The fire in her eyes burned brighter, and I felt it like a hit to the gut. “So what?” she snapped. “You liked it, didn’t you? Watching her flirt with you. Watching me squirm.”

A slow smirk curved my lips—dark, twisted—because she was right. And she fucking knew it.

Her breath hitched, fury crackling off her like a live wire. “You’re a fucking asshole, Callahan.”

I stepped closer, invading her space, letting her feel the weight of what was happening between us. The thing she kept pretending didn’t exist.

“Yeah?” My voice dropped lower, threading through the thick tension between us. “And you’re a goddamn liar.”

She went still, but I caught it—the flicker of something deeper beneath her defiance, the quick rise and fall of her chest.

“I’m not lying,” she gritted out.

“You think I don’t see you?” I pressed in, barely an inch between us now. “Running to Langley like a fucking safety net every time you get scared of this ?”

Her hands shot up, shoving my chest—hard—but I didn’t move. Didn’t fucking blink. If anything, it only made me hungrier.

“Get out of my face,” she snapped.

“Make me.”

The challenge left my lips slow and deliberate, meant to cut, meant to provoke.

The heat between us snapped like a frayed wire, thick and dangerous. Her bright green eyes locked onto mine, fury burning in their depths, but it wasn’t just anger. It was something else. Something she wasn’t ready to admit.

“I won’t let you play me like this,” she whispered, voice raw, breathless.

But even as she said it, her fingers curled into fists at her sides, like she was holding herself back. Like she wanted to hit me. Or kiss me. Or both.

Good.

She was fighting. Just like I knew she would.

Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, her body taut beneath my grip. I felt the way she trembled—not in fear, but in frustration, in the same twisted need that coiled in my own gut.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she spat, but her voice wavered at the edges, cracking under the weight of everything pressing down on us.

I leaned in, pressing my body against hers just enough to feel her react. Just enough to let her know she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I already fucking told you,” I murmured, my voice low and rough. “You’re mine.”

She struggled against me, testing my hold, but we both knew she wasn’t trying to get away. Not really. She was pushing—pushing me, pushing herself, pushing whatever invisible boundary still remained between us.

Her glare could have cut through glass, but her eyes told a different story. Fire and fury mixed with something deeper, something she refused to name.

“You can’t just?—”

“Say it,” I cut her off, voice sharper this time, laced with warning.

Her chest heaved beneath mine, her pulse a frantic beat against my fingers. She was on the edge, caught between defiance and surrender, her lips parting just enough for a shallow breath to escape.

I could taste it—her hesitation, her want.

“Say it,” I murmured again, softer now, letting the words curl between us like smoke.

Her fingers twitched where I held them, her body shifting just enough to brush against mine. I could feel every inch of her pressed up against the cold metal lockers, trapped between the fight still raging inside her and the inevitable truth closing in.

Her gaze flickered to my mouth for just a second—one single fucking second—and that was all I needed to know.

She wanted this.

She wanted me.

Even if she hated herself for it.

Even if she hated me for it.

And that was the most intoxicating thing of all.

She didn’t say it. But she didn’t fight me either. And that was all I needed.

I crashed my mouth against hers—rough, unrelenting, no hesitation. Teeth, tongue, heat. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim, a demand, a goddamn war. The taste of her drowned out every rational thought, and I gave in, pressing her hard against the lockers, the cold metal rattling with the force of it.

Her wrists were still locked in my grip, pinned above her head, but she didn’t try to pull away. No, she met me with fire, her lips parting on a gasp before she bit down—sharp, punishing, like she wanted to prove she wasn’t breaking first. But she was burning. Just like me.