Page 39 of Shattered Ice
But my body is a liar. Every nerve angles toward the space he takes up. My traumatized brain screams.He’s crowding you. He’s too close. This is how it starts.
“You’re crowding me,” the words tear out, sharp and necessary.
“I’m walking.” His voice is low, threaded with something that brushes too close to smug. He shifts deliberately closer as a group of students spills onto the path, their laughter cutting the cold air. His shoulder presses into mine for a second—hot, solid, inevitable. I hold my line.
My mind fractures. One part screams, a primal, terrified response that has nothing to do with Adrian Hale and everything to do with a shadow in a hallway a decade ago. It’s the feeling of being trapped, of a larger body imposing its will on my space, and the urge to shove him away, to claw free, is so strong it makes my muscles lock. But another, deeper, treacherous part registers the contact as something else entirely. Not just a threat, but a brand. A solid wall of heat that I lean into for a split second before I catch myself—a traitorous, involuntary shift ofmy own weight. The dual signals of ice-cold panic and white-hot awareness are a dizzying, sickening combination.
The students are gone, but he hasn’t moved back. He’s still a solid wall of warmth against my side. My chest is too tight. My voice scrapes, thin and dry. “You’re the one crowding.”
We pass under a stone archway. A few legacy kids nod at Adrian. He doesn’t acknowledge them. His eyes stay on me, steady and testing, measuring my reaction. I see a phone lift, a camera catching us as we pass.
The heat of my shame and fear crawls higher until the words slip out sharper than I mean. “You test people.” It tastes like a confession of my own weakness.
He doesn’t deny it. His mouth tilts, half curve, half blade. “And you don’t break.”
The words land too close, like his thumb pressing a bruise I don’t admit is there. My stomach knots. I stop at the base of my dorm steps, needing the solid boundary of the building at my back. My fingers tighten on my bag strap until it bites into my palm. “Goodnight, Hale.”
“Goodnight, Harrington.” His reply is soft, but it stamps me with ownership.
I climb fast, my shoes hitting the stone too loud, a desperate retreat. I don’t look back. Not until the dorm door shuts, heavy and final, the lock clicking home like a vault. I lean against the solid wood, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in ragged gasps. The notes are still warm in my hand, creased from his grip. My hands shake where his heat branded me through my sleeve.Fear and want snarled tight in the same wire.A small, physical proof he isn’t just in my head. He is a real, physical threat.
And tomorrow, I pick the ground.
Chapter 23
Adrian
Theweightroomisempty when I arrive, the air cold and still, thick with the smell of rubber and iron. It’s not even dawn. The sun is a lazy coward, still hiding below the horizon, but I couldn’t sleep. The restless, coiled energy from last night still buzzes under my skin, a low-grade fever that refuses to break. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back on that dark path with her, the space between us charged and electric. Her sharp “You’re crowding me” still rings louder than the clang of iron.
I don’t bother with a warm-up. I go straight to the bench, loading the bar with more weight than I should, chasing a burn that might cauterize the wound she’s leaving in my head. The knurled metal tears at my palms as if it wants blood. I push through the first set, my movements fueled by a raw, unfocusedaggression, my mind a relentless replay. Her, standing outside the café, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the lamplight. The way her body went rigid with fear when she first saw a shadow, and the way that fear just changed shape when she realized it was me. Her fear wasn’t rejection. It was recognition.She already knew who owned her pulse.
“How would you know what I usually do?” The accusation in her voice.
“I notice things.” The possessive truth in mine.
I had her. For the entire walk back to her dorm, she was caught in my gravity, off-balance and hyper-aware. Every time her sleeve brushed mine, I felt the jolt arc through her. When my shoulder pressed against hers, I felt the war in her body—the recoil of terror and the traitorous lean of attraction. I saw all of it. I cataloged every tell, every hitched breath, every flicker of defiance in her stormy eyes.
It should feel like a victory. Like winning. It should taste like blood and triumph. Instead, it tastes like rust. Why do I feel like I’m the one losing control? Why does it feel like she’s prying the blade out of my hand?
I rack the bar with a clattering roar that shatters the silence, my arms trembling. I sit up, chest heaving, and that’s when I see him.
Declan is standing by the racks, methodically wrapping his hands. He moves with a quiet, deliberate grace that is the complete opposite of the chaos churning in my gut. He must have come in while I was under the bar. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he heard the angry clang of the weight. I know he’s been watching. His silence is different from the team’s—theirs is empty, waiting to be filled with noise. His is analytical, heavy with observation. It puts me on edge more than any shout from Addison ever could.
We don’t speak. We work. He moves to the squat rack, his form perfect and economical, a study in controlled strength. I move to the deadlifts, pulling weight off the floor with a raw, ugly force that has more to do with anger than technique. Every rep is her name, every slam of metal a vow. The silence between us isn’t empty; it’s a conversation. He’s waiting. I’m pretending I don’t know it.
Finally, as I’m stripping plates from my bar, he speaks. He doesn’t even turn around.
“Saw you outside the café last night.” His voice is flat, an observation with no judgment, which somehow makes it worse.
A muscle in my back tightens, a defensive reflex. My hands still on the cold iron. “So?” My teeth grind so hard I taste iron.
He finishes his set, racking the bar with a soft, controlled thud. He turns, leaning back against the rack, and fixes me with that steady, analytical gaze that sees right through my bullshit. “You looked like a wolf circling a rabbit,” he says, his voice still quiet. “It was sloppy.”
Just one word, and it hits like a fist to the gut.Sloppy.The one thing I am never allowed to be. The dirtiest word in my language, worse than weak. It’s a direct attack on my control, my precision, the very foundation of my identity. A hot, defensive rage flares in my chest. I have to physically clench my jaw to keep from snapping at him.
“I was walking her back to her dorm,” I bite out, my voice a low growl.
“No,” Declan says, his voice unyielding. “You were hunting. There’s a difference. You were backing her into a corner on a public path. You were feeding on her fear.”
