Page 55

Knox

I stood in front of the fridge, shirtless, sweat cooling against my skin, heart still hammering from the gym.

My hand hovered over a beer, fingers curled around the neck of the bottle like it might be the thing to settle the storm inside me.

The cold metal bit into my palm, grounding me for all of two fucking seconds before the restlessness kicked back in—sharp, clawing, impossible to ignore.

The weight room hadn’t burned it off. Nothing ever did.

Her name pounded through my skull in time with my pulse, a relentless rhythm I couldn’t escape. She was out there right now—at that bonfire—with him. Langley.

My grip tightened on the fridge door, the sick feeling in my gut twisting deeper. I could picture it too easily—her standing too close to him, her laugh lighting up the night, her fingers brushing his arm in that unthinking way that made men believe they had a shot.

They didn’t.

He didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the rage from curling through me, hot and volatile, setting my nerves on edge. I wanted to wreck something—someone—for even thinking they could get close to her. For making her think she had another option, when we both knew she didn’t.

Chris Langley’s face flashed in my mind, that easy, bullshit grin that made people think he was harmless. I knew better. And if he touched her tonight? If he looked at her like she was his for the taking?

I’d fucking end him.

My fingers flexed, aching to connect with something solid, to feel the crack of bone beneath my knuckles. Instead, I exhaled sharply and let the fridge door slam shut, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen.

I ran a hand through my hair, jaw locked tight. This wasn’t just jealousy. It wasn’t just anger. It was need—pure, primal, and all-consuming.

Because no matter how much she fought it, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise—Iris was mine.

And I wasn’t about to let her forget it.

My jaw clenched, the frustration clawing at my insides as memories surged up, uninvited. The hit. The whistle. The fists and the blood. The wild rush of adrenaline that had felt better—truer—than any goal I’d ever scored.

I didn’t regret it. I never would.

But regret or not, it had cost me everything.

And now? Now, I was on the verge of losing something else. Someone else.

Iris.

She had started as just another player. A name on a roster. A challenge. But somewhere between the drills and the late nights, between the fights and the fucking, she had embedded herself inside me. Like a knife. Like an addiction.

And that scared the shit out of me.

Because I knew exactly what I was—I was the storm, the wreckage, the inevitable disaster waiting to happen. And Iris? She was better. She was fire and grit and determination wrapped up in a body that moved like she was born for the ice.

I braced my hands against the counter, my breath coming too hard, too fast. She deserved that jersey. She deserved everything she had fought for. But instead of clearing the way for her, I was dragging her down—pulling her deeper into the mess that was me.

My demons were hungry, and they were circling her now.

The thought twisted something in my gut, sharp and relentless. She deserved more. More than whispered conversations in the dark. More than the constant threat of discovery. More than me.

I exhaled sharply, stepping away from the counter as the weight of it all crushed down on me. My fists curled at my sides, itching for something to hit, to break, to destroy.

But what was left to ruin except the one thing I didn’t want to lose?

I slammed my fist into the wall—pain flashing white-hot up my arm, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

If Chambers found out, if my father found out, if she finally realized that I was the thing standing between her and everything she had ever wanted?—

I’d lose her.

And the fucked-up part?

Maybe I should.

I sat on the couch, elbows on my knees, fingers digging into my scalp like I could claw the thoughts right out of my head. The air in my apartment was thick—suffocating. The silence pressed in on me, amplifying the single, brutal truth I could no longer outrun.

I loved her.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing. I fucking loved her. And the worst part? It wasn’t some slow, creeping thing that I could pretend I didn’t see coming. No, it was a wrecking ball, slamming into me full force, leaving destruction in its wake.

I had spent so long convincing myself this was just heat, just obsession, just something reckless and dangerous that I would eventually walk away from. But that was a lie. I had never been capable of walking away from Iris Evans.

And now? Now, I didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

The panic set in fast, coiling around my ribs, squeezing tight. What if I ruined her? What if I had already ruined her? I had dragged her into my chaos, into my fucked-up life, and I couldn’t shake the fear that one day she’d wake up and realize she wanted out.

The thought alone made me feel sick.

Then—a knock.

The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. My head snapped up, my body tensing instantly, a sharp jolt of adrenaline firing through me.

I moved before I could think, crossing the room in three long strides. When I swung the door open, my pulse flatlined.

She was there.

Soaked. Shaking.

Wrecked.

Iris stood on my doorstep, her dress clinging to her body, rain dripping from her hair in rivulets down her pale skin. Mascara streaked in smudged trails beneath her eyes, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

She looked like she had fought through a goddamn storm to get to me.

“Iris.” Her name barely made it past my lips.

She blinked up at me, something desperate and unbreakable in her expression. “Knox.”

That was it. Just my name. But it sounded like surrender. Like a confession. Like she had nowhere else to go but here.

I stepped aside without a word, and she moved into my space like she had always belonged there.

And I knew—nothing would ever be the same after tonight.

Then I saw her dress. Torn.

Shredded at the hem, ripped along the side like someone had put their hands on her.

A fire ignited inside me so fast, so violent, it blurred my vision.

Who the fuck touched her?

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I forced myself not to grab her—not to pull her into me and search every inch of her for bruises, for proof of what had been done.

“Who did this to you?” My voice was low, a growl from the depths of something feral, but beneath it, I felt the tremor.

Because this was my worst fucking nightmare. She had been hurt, and I hadn’t been there.

I took a step forward, closing the distance between us, my body wound so tight I thought I might snap. I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t—couldn’t—because I was barely holding my control together.

She lifted her gaze to mine but looked away too fast, like she was afraid of what I’d see.

“It’s nothing,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing?

The word cracked through me like a gunshot.

“You call that nothing?” I gestured sharply to the torn fabric, my breath coming harder now, my chest tight with a fury I had no place to put. “Who the fuck did this?”

“I told you—it’s fine.” She set her jaw, her shoulders squaring, but I saw the cracks. I saw the way she swallowed hard, how her fingers trembled at her sides.

“Fine?” My voice was deadly quiet now, the rage simmering beneath the surface. I was losing my grip. “You show up looking like this—and you think I’m just going to let it go?”

“I can handle myself.” The fire in her eyes sparked to life, that same fight I had always admired in her—but not now. Not when she was hurt. Not when she looked so goddamn fragile.

I stepped even closer, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. “Tell me who did it, Iris.” My voice was rough, edged with something desperate, something dark.

She didn’t answer.

And that silence? It was enough to send me over the fucking edge.

Whoever had touched her—whoever had put their hands on what was mine—they had just signed their own death warrant.

I cupped her face, my thumbs wiping away the cold rain that clung to her cheeks. The chill of the droplets only fueled the fire burning inside me, and I fought to keep my voice even.

“Tell me who.”

Her eyes flickered, darting away, and the tension between us thickened like a noose. I’d never wanted to demand anything from her, but this was different—this was about protecting what was mine. Whoever had hurt her wasn’t walking away unscathed.

“Tell me who.” I kept my gaze locked on hers, unyielding, not willing to let go until she broke.

After a long, excruciating moment, she nodded—barely, but enough. The confirmation sliced through me like ice.

“Chris?” The name tore from my lips in a low growl.

She nodded again, and that was the final spark. Rage exploded inside me. It wasn’t just jealousy—this was something darker, raw and consuming. This was about protecting what was mine—what had always been mine, even before I knew it.

Images of Chris’s hands on her flashed in my mind, the way he’d smiled at her earlier, that possessive touch that should have been mine alone. My blood boiled hotter than any fight I’d ever been in.

I pulled her closer, drawing her into the storm of my body heat as the cold rain battered us. “I’ll make him regret ever laying a finger on you,” I promised, my voice low, dangerous—an ultimatum.

Her eyes widened, a brief flash of fear, but then defiance reasserted itself, a spark that reminded me why I was drawn to her in the first place.

“You can’t just go after him,” she warned softly, though the words lacked conviction. She knew as well as I did that this wasn’t going to end well if Chris ever thought he could claim her.

“Watch me,” I spat through clenched teeth.

I didn’t hesitate. The second Iris confirmed Chris had touched her, something inside me snapped.