Page 53 of Shattered Ice
And then he’s up. Not loudly. Not violently. Just gone from the seat beside me, a sudden, cold void where his heat had been.
He’s standing. Moving. Leaving.
“Adrian—” I scramble to my feet, my chair scraping harshly against the floor.
He moves with predatory speed, his back a rigid wall of denial, heading for the deep, dusty shadows of the library where the cameras don’t reach. I follow, my feet moving as if pulled by an invisible string, drawn to the storm I just unleashed. The panic is a familiar fist under my ribs.I shouldn’t have said it. I should have said it sooner. I just broke the most dangerous person I’ve ever met. I just handed him a reason to break me back.
I find him at the far end of the aisle, one hand braced against a tall metal shelf like he’s considering tearing it from the wall.
“Adrian,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He turns, the motion so fast all the air leaves my lungs. His eyes lock onto mine, wild and dark, burning with a raw, wounded fury. He stalks forward without a word. His hand fists the hem of my coat, yanking me toward him. He can’t decide if he wants to pull me closer or rip me open.
His words drop between us like a blade. “You think I’m broken?” The growl vibrates through my chest.
I meet his burning stare. “No,” I whisper, my voice small amid the thunder of his.
He pins me against the towering shelves of old books, my knee jerking up in a failed attempt to create space. Rough spines pressinto my back, the scent of must and ink mingling with the heat of his breath.
“Say it again,” he snaps, his tone cracking like twigs.
I take a shaky breath. “I’m not trying to fix you. There’s nothing to fix, Adrian.” His body remains rigid, a living barrier. I push forward an inch. “You’re not stupid. You’re not broken. You just think differently. That’s why I changed how I teach—not because you’re a problem, but because you deserve more than a system that never made room for you.”
His entire form jolts, a raw, visceral flinch that cracks the tension wide open. I soften my voice, raising a hand to hover just above his chest, feeling the frantic thump of his heartbeat. “You’re not less. You’re not weak. You’re not—”
His hands explode onto the shelves on either side of my head, the crack of wood and groan of rattling books a thunderous echo. He cages me in, his breathing hammering.
I drop to a whisper. “You’re not stupid.”
He dips his head until our foreheads almost touch, the closeness dizzying—the sharp scent of his sweat, the undercurrent of soap, something deeper, like a storm waiting to break. My voice is a soft, defiant whisper in the hallowed silence. “I’m not scared of you.”
My fingers tremble as I reach for the deepest honesty within me. He responds with a primal urgency, his mouth crashing onto mine like a storm surging against the shore. This isn’t a kiss; it’s a tempest, a brutal coronation of punishment and promise. The taste of him is ozone and something uniquely his. His lips silence me, claiming my words, my breath. His body presses me harder into the bookshelf, the ancient wood groaning under the force. Every nerve in my body ignites. A gasp escapes me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, a fiery brand.
The world tilts. I’m falling, my fingers knotting in the thick fleece of his hoodie, clinging to him as if he is the eye of thestorm. He clamps his arms around me, hauling me flush against him, and I feel the hard, insistent press of his arousal against my stomach.
“Adrian—” My plea is a whispered incantation.
He growls, a low, feral sound against my lips. “Don’t say my name unless you want me to fuck you right here against these books.” His voice is a ragged, primal thing, a beast barely leashed.
A raw, unfiltered moan tears from my throat, shamefully liberating. He snarls, triumphant, his grip sliding down to my thigh, hauling it up around his hip. I scramble to adjust, heart hammering, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against my leg.
“You want control?” His teeth ghost along my jawline, sending sparks of heat through my veins. “Take it.” He guides my hand between us, to where the button of his jeans strains. “Do it, Clara. Touch me.”
His voice is a command, a challenge, a dare. For a heartbeat, I could pull away. But I don’t. I’m not a victim. I’m an accomplice. My palm presses through denim, and he inhales sharply, his body stiffening, hungry as a drawn bow. I feel the frantic pulse of him against my hand.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, my eyes wild.
“Only for you,” he rasps. “You cracked me wide open, Harrington. Now I get to wreck you.”
In one swift motion, he peels my shirt over my head, cold air flooding my skin. My bra follows, unclasped with a single, practiced hand. He devours me, mouth and hands everywhere—knotting in my hair, yanking my hips forward, pinning my wrists to the shelves. No one has ever held me like this, with a kind of ruinous, dangerous adoration, as if my body is a puzzle he’s studied for years and finally solved.
“You’re gorgeous,” he mutters, his voice choking off into a groan of reverence and despair. His lips drag down my collarbone, sucking a bruise just above my pulse. A dark, possessive mark. A trophy. “Fucking cruel, parading around like this.”
“I’m not—” The protest dies as his tongue finds my breast, circling my nipple until it peaks, then biting down just enough to make me gasp. I twist, but he only cages me harder, my hands fisting the back of his neck, pulling him closer even as panic floods me at the idea of someone turning the corner.
A radiator hisses from the far end of the aisle. Adrian doesn’t care. He lives for this, for the edge where control becomes chaos. The world shrinks to the exact point of contact, a pinpoint of heat that makes me forget my own name. He buries his face between my breasts, inhaling my skin like oxygen. “You smell like fucking vanilla,” he accuses.
“It’s my lotion,” I manage, breathless.
