Page 67 of Shattered Ice
I find him where I knew I would: outside the rink. Hoodie up against the driving snow, hands shoved deep in his pockets, pacing like a caged animal in the swirling vortex of white. He’s a storm of his own, and I’m walking right into the eye of it. He sees me and stops dead, his face a mask of shock, guilt, and a pain so raw it steals my breath.
I don’t hesitate. I march right up to him, my chest heaving, my heart hammering so loud it echoes in the frigid air. The wind whips my words away, but I shout them anyway. “You don’t get to do this.”
His mouth parts, snow melting on his lips, but I barrel on, the words a torrent of pain and fury. “You don’t get to wreck my life, sleep in my bed, kiss me like you can’t breathe without it, andthen disappear like I never mattered! If you’re done—fine! But you say it to my face. Be a goddamn man about it!”
He doesn’t speak. He just stares, his eyes a haunted, broken landscape. I see the war in them—the pride fighting the shame, the arrogant Hale captain fighting a man who looks completely lost. My throat burns. My pulse hammers. My voice drops, breaking on the final plea.
“Say it,” I whisper, a plume of white breath carrying the words between us. “Say it, Adrian, and let me go.”
The silence holds, thick with the hiss of falling snow. Then he steps forward, slow and deliberate, a storm cloud with teeth.
“I’m not done,” he says, his voice hoarse and raw. “I’m fucked, Clara.”
Then he’s grabbing me, his hands cold and shaking on my arms. Mine are colder. But when his mouth crashes into mine, none of it matters. His lips are ice-cold from the storm, but the kiss itself is pure fire. We kiss like it’s an act of violence, like it’s penance, the only thing keeping us alive in the middle of the blizzard. It’s a brutal, punishing kiss, full of rage and relief and a desperation so profound it feels like we’re both drowning. I fist his soaked hoodie, pulling him closer. He cups my face like he’s scared I’ll vanish, his thumbs stroking over my frozen cheeks. Snow melts in my hair. Ice slides down my spine. And I still open for him, still breathe him in like he’s the cure and the poison both.
He pulls back, forehead resting against mine, his chest heaving as he tries to anchor himself. His hands are trembling where they frame my face. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words a raw, broken sound I’ve never heard from him. “Clara, I’m so fucking sorry. For disappearing. I was a coward.”
I stare at him, stunned into silence by the raw apology.
“This… us…” he struggles, his gaze dropping for a second before finding mine again. “It scares the shit out of me. I don’tknow how to do this. I don’t know how to be the person you need.” He takes a ragged breath, the confession a cloud of steam. “But it was never that I don’t want you. Fuck, Clara, I want you so much it’s going to tear me apart. That’s the problem. That’s why I ran.”
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t safe. But it’s the most real, honest thing anyone has ever said to me. And it’s ours. I look up at him. Really look. His mouth is swollen from the kiss, his hair wet and curling at the edges of his hood, his jaw tight like it’s the only thing holding him together. And I make a choice.
“I’m not walking away,” I say, my voice steady now. Then, softer, “But I’m done waiting for you to decide if I’m worth it.”
A flicker of something fierce and determined crosses his face, chasing away the fear. He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “I choose you, Clara,” he says, his voice thick with a vow. “I’m choosingyou. Every fucking time.”
I take his hand—cold, calloused, perfect—and press it under my coat, flat against my stomach. “Come with me.”
We barely make it to my dorm, a trail of melted snow in our wake. His soaked hoodie hits the floor the second the door closes. And then I’m on him, pushing him back, kissing him like I’ve been starving. But this time, it’s mine. I push him onto the edge of my bed and straddle his lap.
“Clara…” His voice is wrecked.
“No more pulling away,” I whisper, dragging my lips down the cold, damp skin of his throat. “You don’t get to hold all the power.”
His fingers dig into my hips, a possessive, grounding touch. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Then show me,” I whisper, unbuttoning his jeans, my cold fingers clumsy against the hot skin of his stomach. “Let me drive you crazy too.”
He groans and flips us before I can blink—me on my back now, his body a heavy, welcome weight. But this isn’t about him taking control; it’s a surrender. He slows down. His mouth finds every part of me like it’s a prayer. His fingers trace my ribs, my thighs, his tongue dragging over my nipple until I arch up and gasp. This is a give-and-take, a slow, desperate rediscovery. I take him in. Every inch. Every sound. Every look.
I roll us again, climbing on top, needing to be the one in charge. My body is aching, my need so sharp I could cry. He watches me like I’m sacred and ruined and his.
“Clara,” he says again, like it’s the only word he knows.
I sink down onto him in one slow, aching slide. “I want you to feel how much I want this,” I whisper. “How much I wantyou.”
His eyes roll back, his hands gripping my hips. But I don’t let him take over. I move—a slow, torturous grinding, a rhythm that is all mine.
“Fuck,” he growls, his voice strained. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Then die knowing I chose this,” I whisper back, leaning down to kiss him, swallowing his groan.
He comes undone before I do, his hands grabbing my hips, his head falling back, his whole body trembling beneath me. And I keep moving until I fall apart too, moaning into his mouth, our orgasms cresting and crashing together. We don’t speak for a long time after. He just holds me, his hand tracing lazy circles along my thigh. Eventually, I shift to one side and pull the blanket up. My heart hasn’t calmed. Neither has his.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs into the dark.
I kiss his shoulder. “So are you.”
