Page 48 of Shattered Ice
I’m completely speechless. The words wash over me, and I feel the crushing weight I’ve been carrying for weeks simply dissolve. The constant, grinding fear for my future, the humiliation of being a pawn in their game—he just erased it. Not with a wave of his hand or a show of his wealth, but by taking the burden entirely onto himself. This is the most ruthless act of devotion I have ever seen. It’s dangerous. And it’s for me.
“Why?” I finally manage to whisper.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Because it was never fair,” he says, his voice a low growl. “And I’m done playing their fucking games. No one touches what’s mine. Not Lansing. Not my father.”
The raw conviction in his voice, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes—it shatters the last of my defenses. He’s not just talking about his father’s games; he’s talking about the entire system we live in, the one that crushes people like me and props up people like him. And he’s choosing to stand with me against it.
“No,” I say, my voice trembling slightly, but full of a new, unwavering conviction. He looks at me, confused, about to argue, but I shake my head. “No, you listen to me now, Adrian Hale,” I whisper, stepping a fraction of an inch closer. My hand instinctively reaches out to touch his arm. His pulse thrums beneath my fingers, sharp as a war drum, and I don’t pull away even when I know people are watching.
“Iamgoing to think about you. Because I’ve seen you work. I’ve seen how your mind operates. It is not broken; it’s brilliant. It just speaks a different language.”
His expression shatters as if struck, the sound of my words a physical blow. The confident mask, the tense focus—it all just falls away, leaving raw flesh exposed. His jaw goes slack, his blue eyes deepening with an emotion I can’t possibly name. He looks like he’s never heard words like this in his life.
“You see patterns and angles that no one else does,” I continue, my voice gaining strength, fueled by the fierce need to make him believe it, to give him an armor of my own. “You are not a liability. You are thesmartestperson in that room when it comes to the things that actually matter. You just have to trust yourself the way I trust you.”
He’s completely still, his eyes wide and unguarded. He looks like a man who has been fighting a war his entire life and has just been told, for the first time, that he doesn’t have to fight it alone. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He just swallows, a muscle working in his throat.
The professor’s voice cuts through the air, calling for students to take their seats. The spell is broken. Adrian blinks, the mask of the captain sliding partially back into place, but it’s not the same. Something is different.
We walk into the lecture hall, the air thick with the smell of paper and panic, the scent of ink and chalk dust suffocating. We take our seats, rows apart, but the invisible thread connecting us feels stronger and more real than ever.
I look across the room at him as I pull out my pen. He catches my eye and gives me a single, almost imperceptible nod. It’s not just an acknowledgment anymore. It’s a thank you.
And for the first time, as I stare down at the blank blue lines of my exam booklet, I realize I’m not just rooting for him to pass for my own sake.
I’m rooting for the man who just stood up to a system to protect me. I’m rooting for the brilliant mind that the world has tried to convince is broken.
The feeling is a fierce, protective ache in my own chest. I’ve just placed a weapon in his hands—my belief—and I know he’ll wield it like a blade.
Chapter 29
Clara
“It’snotacostume,it’s a statement,” Genny says, her expression serious as she adjusts the delicate silver filigree mask over my eyes. It’s cool against my skin, a promise of anonymity. “You’re Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. You’re not just visiting his world anymore. You’re staking a claim.”
“You look hot enough to cause a seven-car pile-up,” is Zoë’s less poetic assessment from her perch on my desk chair. She leans forward, applying a final, dramatic swipe of a dark, plum-colored lipstick to my mouth. A final coat of armor. “Which is the goal. Make him regret ever going quiet on you.” She adds, a brighter note in her voice, “Also, we’re celebrating. Midterms are officially over. We survived.”
Survived is a generous word. What I’m doing tonight feels more like hunting.
I stare at the stranger in the mirror. The black dress is a whisper of silk against my skin that feels both foreign and powerful. With the dark makeup, the intricate mask, and my hair coaxed into soft, wild curls, I don’t look like Clara Harrington, the quiet scholarship student. I look like someone who belongs in the shadows, someone who could walk into a den of wolves and make them heel.
It’s a lie, of course. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, a panicked beat that echoes the fear I live with every day, but I let it sharpen me instead of soften me. I’d gotten my grades back this afternoon. All A’s. The relief was a tidal wave that lasted five seconds before being replaced by a knot of sickening anxiety. I have no idea how he did. I haven’t heard from him all day. Tonight feels like a prophecy: either I walk out of this party clean, or I walk out marked.
The annual Titans Halloween party is in a massive, rented-out house off campus, the bass a physical force I can feel vibrating in my teeth from the street. The air inside is a chaotic sea of sweaty bodies, cheap beer, and a cloying mix of burnt sugar, spilled vodka, and sweat.
Zoë, dressed as a wickedly beautiful devil, dives into the fray immediately. Genny, a stunning and severe fallen angel, procures us drinks with terrifying efficiency. And me? I’m the girl in the mask walking a razor wire between sense and sin, looking for Adrian. Of course I am. It’s an admission my mind hates but my body already knows who it belongs to.
The disappointment when I can’t find him is a sharp, bitter pang. The team is here, a sprawling mass of pirates and vampires, but Adrian is nowhere to be seen. The space he should occupy is a gaping hole, his absence a gravity that drags the eye,the breath, the pulse. Feeling overwhelmed, I find a quiet corner, my back against a wall.
And that’s when I feel it. A stare.
It’s not a casual glance; it’s a heavy, focused weight, a predator’s gaze that cuts through the chaos and pins me to the wall. An invasive, possessive touch stripping me bare from across the crowded room. I scan the room, searching, and find him.
He’s leaning against a pillar in a perfectly tailored black suit that makes him stand out. But it’s the mask that steals my breath. Stark, severe, matte black, all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. It completely hides his eyes, turning him into a figure of pure, anonymous power. A king without a crown, only a blade.
He’s just watching me. My internal alarm bells are screaming.This is a threat. A dark figure in the shadows.My trauma whispers warnings, old fears rising like ghosts.Step back,says survival.Step closer,says everything else.
My body, the traitor, shivers with a strange, compelling pull toward the danger he represents. He pushes off the pillar and starts moving toward me. He doesn’t rush; he advances, his grace both elegant and lethal as the crowd parts for him. My heart is a frantic, trapped bird beating its wings against a cage of my own making—a cage that feels unlocked, though I’m the one holding the door closed.
