Page 49 of Shattered Ice
He stops in front of me. The air thickens. He doesn’t speak. He just holds out a black-gloved hand. A silent command, not an invitation. My pulse answers before my mouth can. My mind is screamingno, but my hand is lifting, finding his as if by a will of its own. A choice, made anyway.
His grip is firm as he leads me onto the makeshift dance floor. He pulls me flush against him, one large hand splaying possessively on the small of my back, his touch a brand throughthe thin fabric. He smells incredible—cologne, clean linen, and something uniquely, dangerously masculine. He moves with a predatory grace that makes my stomach clench with a mix of terror and excitement. We dance. My body is a mess of conflicting signals. I should be terrified of this imposing, silent stranger, but the way he holds me feels safe. It feels right. It feels wrong, dangerous—and that’s how I know it’s him. The uncertainty is a poison, but it’s a thrilling one. I choose to drink it.
Suddenly, a drunk guy in a pirate costume—Brick, from Southport—stumbles into us, his hand landing on my waist. “Well, well,” he slurs, his eyes raking over me. “You’re a long way from the library, little scholar.”
Before his fingers can tighten, the man I’m dancing with moves. His entire body goes rigid, a low growl rumbling in his chest that I feel in my bones. His hand shoots out, grabbing Brick’s wrist in a viselike grip. I hear the sickening sound of bones grinding over the music.
“Touch her again,” the masked man says, his voice a low, disguised whisper, “and you’ll pull back a stump. I’ll make sure of it.” Then, for the crowd, a deliberate, cold declaration: “She’s mine.”
Brick pales and yanks his arm back, disappearing into the crowd. My protector turns back to me, his grip on my waist tightening.
“Did he scare you, little goddess?” he murmurs, his mouth brushing my ear as he sways with me. “Don’t worry. No one touches the Queen of the Underworld when the King is here.”
My breath hitches. The title lands like a collar I asked for without speaking, consent written in the way I don’t step back. He pulls me from the dance floor, out through French doors into a dark garden where the air smells of damp leaves and risk. Hebacks me against a cold stone wall, his body caging me in, the granite scraping my spine and urging me closer.
“Who are you?” I whisper, though the asking is a ritual, not a doubt.
He lifts a gloved hand, tracing my jaw, the touch of leather on skin a promise etched in heat. “Who do you want me to be?”
“Stop playing games,” I say, my hand fisting in his lapel to prove I mean it.
“But I love our games, Clara.”
He says my name, and the last of my doubt vanishes. My name in his mouth is a lockpick; every door in me opens. He slowly reaches up and lifts the mask from his face. The air catches. It’s Adrian. His eyes are dark, blazing. He’s not a man; he’s an ignition source.
A sharp, involuntary gasp is torn from my throat. My first instinct is to step back, but my feet are rooted to the spot. My reaction is a tidal wave of conflicting emotions: shock, fury, relief, and a surge of pure, undeniable desire that swamps everything else. I feel played, but I also feel chosen—prey that bares its throat on purpose.
“Looking for me?” he asks, his voice a low, possessive growl.
My heart is a frantic bird I want to let fly into his hands. “I was,” I manage, my voice trembling. “I… I needed to know. The grades were posted.”
A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. “I know.”
I wait, my body strung tight with anticipation. “Well?”
“I passed, Clara,” he says, his voice quiet but intense. “All of it. History was a B-minus. Stats was a C-plus.”
A wave of relief so profound it makes me dizzy. They weren’t A’s, but for him, they were a monumental victory. For us. The word lands heavier than the numbers.
“You did it,” I whisper, a real, shaky smile finally breaking through.
He takes a step closer, his eyes burning into mine. “No,” he says, his voice a raw, intimate whisper. “Wedid it.”
I should run. Instead, I lift onto my toes and meet him halfway. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t ask. He claims. And I answer with my mouth and the way I don’t flinch. His mouth crashes down on mine, and the world shatters into breathless cold and animal heat. I barely register the granite biting into my shoulder blades; it just steadies me, makes the pleasure honest. All I can feel is him: the vice of his hands at my waist, the bruising, desperate demand of his lips. This isn’t a kiss; it’s a branding, his mouth searing a claim that burns deeper than ink or any scar.
His hands are everywhere, sliding into my hair, tugging my head back as he bites my lower lip. I taste copper and salt and mint, but mostly I taste him, elemental and raw. My body refuses to fight, arching into him, breathless and greedy, my hands climbing his neck to pull, not push. He is drowning me, and I don’t care that I’ll ignite or that anyone can see us. The exhibition feels like a confession, and I don’t mind the witnesses.
A sharp, involuntary sound escapes me. He responds with a growl so deep it vibrates along my bones, owning the sound. He breaks the kiss only to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead pressed to mine, the wild in him recognizing the wild in me.
“You have no fucking idea what you do to me,” he whispers, his voice thick and dark. He grips my hips, pulling me tight. He’s a livewire of control and violence barely held at bay. It thrills me. It terrifies me. It makes me want things I’ve never let myself imagine.
“You think you can just walk in dressed like this and expect me to keep it together?” he hisses. “You’re out of your mind, Harrington.”
Good. I didn’t come here sane.I want to retort, but the words burn my tongue. I swallow them and choose heat instead as hekisses me again, harder, punishing, the argument dissolving into the taste and thrum of him. I kiss him back like I’m the one doing the taking. He catches my wrists and pins them above my head. I shiver from the cool stone at my back as he tangles his tongue with mine, devouring until I’m dizzy. I hate how fast I yield, but it doesn’t feel like losing when I’m the one who decided to fall.
Adrian pulls back just enough to stare at me, his face half-shadowed. “Say it,” he demands, his breath hot against my skin. “Tell me you want this.”
The truth is a living thing in my chest, already out, panting. “I want this,” I whisper, the words a total surrender, signed in heat and witnessed by the moon.
