Page 47

But inside? I was fucking unraveling.

Chambers knew something. I felt it. The way he watched Iris with that smug, knowing smirk—it set my teeth on edge. He was waiting, circling, biding his time until he could sink his teeth into the truth.

And Brooke? Too fucking perceptive. Her eyes had narrowed when I got too close to Iris, like she was already piecing things together.

Like she saw something no one else was supposed to.

The whispers were coming—I could feel them creeping in, threatening to dismantle everything before I had the chance to figure out what the hell I was even doing.

And then there was my dad’s voice in the back of my mind, low and unshakable:

Don’t ruin her.

Too fucking late.

I’d already crossed the line, already let her slip beneath my skin, claw her way into parts of me I didn’t even know were still alive. And now? She was under my control on this ice, but off it? She was everywhere.

Her mother left her at fifteen. Walked out like she was nothing. That kind of abandonment left scars. Deep ones. And now she had me—the last person who should be holding her together. Because I knew myself.

I destroyed things.

I fucking ruined them.

I forced my focus back to practice, forcing every second into the rhythm of drills and the sound of skates biting into ice. Iris skated past me, and for just a second, I saw it—that flicker of doubt.

I snapped.

“You think this is easy?” My voice cut through the air as she stumbled slightly—a split-second mistake, but enough to fuel the fire burning inside me. “You want that jersey or not?”

Her eyes blazed as she shot me a glare, sharp as a blade, defiant as ever.

And fuck—I liked it.

Liked the way she pushed back. Liked the way she never crumbled beneath my weight. Liked the way that fight in her made me want to grab her, claim her, ruin her all over again.

But beneath all of it, beneath the ice and fire and fury, a voice whispered—one I couldn’t ignore.

You’re going to break her.

Everyone left after practice.

Everyone except her.

I paced the locker room, fingers raking through my hair, my jaw locked so tight it felt like my teeth might shatter. My pulse was a war drum, pounding out the reality I didn’t want to face.

This was getting dangerous.

Iris walked in from the shower dressed in sweat, and the second she saw me—saw the tension wrapping around me like a fucking straitjacket—her expression shifted. Concern flickered in her eyes, and I hated that she could read me so damn well.

I hated that she saw the cracks.

“What happened?” Her voice cut through the heavy silence, steady but edged, like she already knew the answer would be bad.

I snapped. “Chambers is watching you.”

Her breath hitched—just for a second—but I caught it. I saw how quickly she recovered, how her shoulders squared, chin lifting in that stubborn way that made my blood burn.

“What do you mean?”

“Brooke’s asking questions.” I stepped forward, closing the space between us in one stride, until I could see the pulse hammering in her throat. Until I could feel the heat rolling off her like a warning. “This is getting out of control.”

She crossed her arms, stubborn as ever, refusing to give an inch. She never did. “What do you want me to do about it?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because she was right. This wasn’t just her problem; it was mine. Ours.

I dragged a hand down my face, frustration clawing at my ribs. I didn’t fucking know what to do.

“We can’t keep pretending this is fine.”

She just stared at me, her gaze searching, as if trying to find something steady in the mess of me. She wouldn’t find it.

“Knox…”

The way she said my name—it wasn’t soft, wasn’t pleading. It was a warning. But I couldn’t stop now.

“I don’t want anyone fucking with your head.” The words came out sharp, edged with something too raw to name.

She opened her mouth to argue—because of course she did—but hesitated.

Iris pushed back, chin high, eyes burning with a fire that only made me want her more. She was scared too—I knew it, felt it—but she wouldn’t let me in. Not when everything between us was one wrong move away from falling apart.

“We’re fine. We’re being careful—” she started, voice controlled but taut, stretched too thin over the weight of everything pressing down on us.

I snapped.

“No, we’re not!” My hand slammed against the boards beside her, the sharp crack slicing through the empty locker room like a gunshot. Loud. Violent. Final.

She flinched—but she didn’t back down.

Not because she was afraid of me.

She was afraid for me.

“If this blows up, you don’t get that jersey, Iris,” I ground out, my voice low and edged with something rough, something close to desperation. “You don’t get anything.”

Her breath hitched, but I wasn’t finished. I leaned in closer, dropping my voice to something darker, something raw.

“Because I touched you.” I exhaled sharply, feeling every inch of restraint unravel between us. “Because I couldn’t fucking stay away.”

Her eyes flashed with something unreadable before she moved—quick and decisive, fingers wrapping around my wrist, tight enough that I could feel her pulse hammering against my skin.

Defiant. Fierce. Mine.

“Don’t you dare put this on yourself.” Her words cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unwavering, stripping me bare. “I chose this. I choose you.”

The words landed between us like a lit match, striking the gasoline that had been pooling for weeks.

My body locked up, my breath stalled, because—fuck.

She meant it.

She had no idea how deep this ran, how much worse it could get, how easily I could ruin her.

I wanted to shake her—to make her see what this meant, what I was—but instead, I stood there, trapped in the gravity of her words.

Four little words that wrecked me.

Four little words that told me it was already too late.

She had chosen me. And now?

Now, I had to decide if I was strong enough to walk away—or too far gone to even try.

Her words hit like a gut punch, ripping through the carefully built walls I had around me. She chose me.

And fuck, I wanted to believe that. Wanted to let it sink into my bones and settle there like it belonged. But it didn’t. Not with the weight of everything I was dragging behind me.

I was too reckless. Too dangerous. The kind of man who ruined everything he touched.

But even as that thought clawed at my insides, my body betrayed me, moving toward her like she was the only thing tethering me to this world. Because she was.

Every time we fought, every time I tried to push her away, we snapped back together like a fucking collision—violent, inevitable, leaving nothing but wreckage in our wake.

With hands.

With teeth.

With skin.

Before I could stop myself, I grabbed her—rough, desperate, possessive. I backed her into the wall, lifting her without a second thought, like she weighed nothing to me—when the truth was, she was the heaviest thing I’d ever carried.

“Knox,” she gasped, her breath catching as her hands fisted in my shirt. Wide eyes, parted lips—shock and need tangled together.

“Shut up.” It came out raw, barely human, more of a growl than words.

And then I kissed her.

Hard. Brutal. No finesse. A claim, a warning, a promise—all in one devastating crash of lips and tongue and teeth.

She gasped against my mouth, but she didn’t pull away. She never did.

Her fingers clawed at my back, dragging me closer, like she needed this as badly as I did—like she knew we were careening toward something neither of us could stop.

I tore my mouth away just enough to look at her—those fucking eyes, burning with fire and fear and something deeper I wasn’t ready to name.

“I don’t want you to regret this,” I murmured, my voice rough against her skin.

But even as I said it, I knew the truth.

It was too late for regret.

Too late for either of us to walk away from this wreckage we’d built.

And still—I kissed her again, harder this time. Because if we were going to burn, we were going to burn together.

I could feel it in the way her body trembled against mine, the way her nails dug into my shoulders as I pulled her closer. She felt it too—the desperation, the need that clawed at us like a living thing.

This wasn't about control or power. This was about survival.

I tore her pants down, her underwear following suit, and lifted her up again, pressing her back against the cold, hard wall of the locker room. She gasped as I slid inside of her, her body arching to meet mine like it was the only thing that could keep her from breaking apart.

And maybe it was.

Maybe this was all that was keeping either of us from shattering into a million pieces.

My fingers dug into her hips, holding her in place as I moved inside of her, each thrust a prayer, a plea for something I couldn't even name. Her name fell from my lips like a curse, like a benediction, like the only thing that mattered in this world.

I could feel the tension building inside of me, the pressure that threatened to tear me apart. But I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except the way she felt in my arms, the way she moaned my name like it was the only thing that could save her.

But as I felt her body tighten around mine, as I heard her cry out in pleasure, I knew that wasn't true. She was the one saving me. She was the one keeping me from drowning in the darkness that threatened to consume me.

Being inside of her was like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was like coming home, like finding a piece of myself that I didn't even know was missing. She was so tight, so warm, so wet, and I couldn't get enough of her.

I was rough with her, taking out all of my anger and frustration on her young, pliant body. I thrust into her hard, slamming her against the wall with each movement. She took it all, meeting my thrusts with her own roll of her hips. She was strong, so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for.