Page 50 of Shattered Ice
His expression flickers as he’s on me again, mouth moving down my jaw to my throat. I tilt my head, offering more. His hands release my wrists and roam with an unfiltered greed that makes me throb. I tangle my hands in his hair, desperate to mark him the way he marks me.
But then I catch a glimpse of movement—a flicker of a lighter—and the spell breaks. Reality crashes back. We are outside a party. People can see. Exposure is a blade. I press closer for a second, then jerk back, breathless. Want thunders against caution, and caution wins by an inch. “We can’t. Not here.”
Adrian laughs, not unkindly, and catches my chin. “You think I care who’s watching?” He doesn’t. That’s the problem and the pull.
I shake my head, furious at myself. I don’t want to stop. I want more. He sees it, the hunger in my eyes mirroring his own.
“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and urgent.
I follow him, unable to resist. We slip through the garden paths to a secluded alcove beneath a crumbling marble statue of a mourning angel. He presses me against the cold marble and kisses me again, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the taste of me. When his hands cup my face, I see the truth in his eyes:he is just as unmoored, just as wrecked by this as I am. Wreck recognizes wreck. We don’t pretend for a breath. It levels me. It makes me reckless.
I bite his lip, hard enough that he hisses, and then whisper, “You’re the only thing that scares me.”
He goes still. A small, real smile touches his lips. “Good.”
The approval lands like a brand I asked for. I laugh, the sound strangled by his next kiss as I take a handful of his jacket and pull him deeper. We stay out there until the cold becomes unbearable, wrapped together in a darkness that feels safe for the first time in years.
When Adrian finally pulls away, his breathing is jagged. He traces a gloved thumb along my cheekbone. “You’re not breakable, Clara.”
I want to believe him. For the first time, I almost do. But before I can respond, he pulls away, leaving me standing there as the distance drops like a trapdoor and the dark rushes up. I linger, feeling his words and the warmth of his touch fading. By sunrise, this night will have a thousand versions, and none of them will be mine. This was surrender. And I’m left to bear the weight of it alone.
Not breakable,he said. I hope he’s right. Because I’m already cracking along all the places he touched.
Chapter 30
Adrian
Thenoisedoesn’tstopanymore. What used to be a low static hum in my blood—easy to drown under the weight of blades on ice and the clean burn of lung-splitting drills—has calcified into something sharper. Louder. An unrelenting, high-pitched frequency that has a name.Her. Clara Harrington.
The way her voice snaps when she’s trying not to care. The way she pushed me at the party, her small hands flat against my chest, her body trembling. The way her body folded into mine during that kiss. Spiteful. Flushed. Wanting. The way her fingers curled in the fabric of my hoodie like she was holding herself together while I was trying to take her apart.
I walked away. Like a coward. As if I still had any semblance of control. It was a lie. The control is gone, replaced by a raw,gnawing obsession that has sunk its teeth into me and refuses to let go. It’s not just the memory of the kiss, of her yielding. It’s the fight in her. The way she looks at me like she’s the only person not afraid to see the cracks in the foundation, and the only one smart enough to figure out what they mean. She doesn’t just challenge me; sheseesme, and the feeling is a dangerous, addictive drug.
I don’t text. I don’t plan. I just find myself walking toward the campus café like my body knows the route better than my brain.What the fuck am I doing?The thought is a dull throb behind my eyes.Call it pathetic; my feet still hunt the same path.
I should be at the rink. But the need to see her, to feel that tension snap tight between us again, is a compulsion I can’t outrun. Addison hasn’t said a word since my grades were posted, so the mandatory sessions are probably done. I’m off the leash. But the thought of not seeing her in that library, of not having that guaranteed hour to dissect her, is a void I’m not willing to face. The tutoring was a cage they put me in. Now, it’s the one I refuse to leave. With her. It’s a hunger, and she’s the only thing that will satisfy it.
She's a whirlwind behind the counter, a symphony of cinnamon, dark espresso, and warm, frothed milk. The scent of burnt sugar clings to the air. Her dark hair is gathered in that messy half-bun she pretends is practical but always yields rebellious, soft edges. A few curls have escaped, tracing a path down the nape of her neck, and I find my gaze following them. Her sleeves are pushed up, as if in silent battle, revealing a faint smudge of cinnamon high on her cheekbone. I'm torn between wiping it away with my thumb and, more dangerously, licking it off.
I take the corner booth. Shadowed. Back to the wall. A clean line of sight straight to her. A predator’s advantage.
She sees me. Just for a second. Her eyes flicker toward my corner, and her movements stutter. A cup clatters against a saucer, the sound jarring in the café’s low hum. Then she resets—blinks once, like rebooting a system. Her spine, already straight, becomes rigid. Her lips press into a thin, pale line. A door slamming shut. She doesn’t come over. She doesn’t acknowledge me. But she knows I’m here. The knowledge radiates off her in tense, sharp waves. The air crackles with it.
She’s more brittle than usual. She almost drops a cup, her recovery a jerky, angry movement. She snaps at a customer who calls her “sweetheart.” She messes up a drink and blames the espresso machine. Every time she wipes down the long, marble counter, her gaze flicks to mine—fast, guilty, as if I’ve caught her doing something indecent.
A freshman in a Titans hoodie clocks me from the register line, phone half-hidden. The red record light blinks.Good. Let them wonder.
I stay still, my gaze fixed on her. Not just her body, though I see the sway of her hips when she turns, the stubborn line of her jaw, the subtle tremor in her fingers when she believes she's unobserved. I see all of it. The frantic pulse at her throat, a beat I silently match, imagining my lips pressed there. The fine hairs on her arms, bristling as if my stare is a cold draft. I watch for her entire shift.
She holds it together until she breaks. It’s not dramatic. She just steps out from behind the counter like she’s walking through fire, every nerve raw. Her hands are empty, but her eyes are full of accusation, challenge, and something wild she won’t name. She stops at the edge of my booth, one hip cocked against the table, staking a claim on the moment.
“What is this?” she asks, her voice low and razor-sharp. “You stalking me now?”
I lean back into the cracked leather.Good. She feels it. She knows this isn’t random. This is a hunt.“You noticed.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ve been staring at me like you’re trying to count my heartbeats.”
I hum, a low sound in my throat. “Already know how fast it gets when you’re pissed.”
