Page 70 of Shattered Ice
Her climax builds, a rising tide I feel in the frantic tightening of her muscles, in the way her breath catches and holds. I chase it with her, my own control shredding with every powerful thrust. When she finally comes apart, her body arching up into mine, my name a raw scream on her lips, it’s the final push I need. I let go, a wave of pure, white-hot release crashing through me as I come deep inside her, her own name a ragged curse on my lips.
I collapse onto her, my forehead resting against hers, our bodies slick with sweat. I stay buried inside her, unwilling to break the connection, feeling the last of her shudders. She feels boneless beneath me, completely wrecked and utterly mine.
Afterward, as we lie tangled in her sheets, her head on my chest, my hand stroking her hair, the silence is peaceful.
“Adrian?” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For today.”
I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for letting me in.”
And as she falls asleep in my arms, I know that my world has irrevocably shifted. The game, the pressure, my father—it all still exists. But they are no longer the center of my universe. She is.
Chapter 41
Clara
Thedrivebacktocampus hums like a secret. Adrian’s Audi eats the highway, the cabin warm and dark, the air threaded with leather and the faint ghost of my mother’s apple pie. He looks like sin in a suit he’s already loosened—tie abandoned somewhere between the town line and mile marker forty-one, the top button open like he had to breathe or break.
He hasn’t said much since we left. He doesn’t need to. His hand is on the wheel, the other resting where the console meets my thigh, the heat of him a steady brand without a touch. He watches the road like it owes him blood. The anger that used to live under his skin has gone quiet. What’s left is sharper, colder. Focus. A blade cooling in water.
I break the silence first. “He’s wrong.”
A flick of his eyes, quick and cutting. “Who.”
“Your father.” The word tastes like metal. “What he calls strength is control. What he calls standards are punishments. It isn’t discipline, Adrian. It’s conditioning. And not even smart conditioning.”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t snap.Progress.“Go on.”
I turn toward him, knees angled. “In performance psychology, we split fuel into two buckets. Intrinsic: the part of you that wants the game, the ice, the geometry, the war. Extrinsic: names on buildings, donor smiles, the Hale brand. He keeps trying to swap your fuel. Make you skate on his reasons. It’s why you feel dead when you win.”
He drives another half mile, his expression unreadable. “You diagnose me over turkey and canned cranberry sauce.”
“I’ve been studying you for weeks,” I say quietly. “And youletme.”
A corner of his mouth curves, not with humor, but with respect. “So what’s the play, coach?”
“You stop being a storm he can surf,” I say, letting the words thread tight between us. “He lives off your heat. He baits, you burn, he proves his point. So you deny him the weather.”
His fingers flex on the wheel. “How.”
“Gray rock.” My voice is clean, surgical. “No arguments, no explanations. Short, dull answers that give him nothing to grip. Facts only. He pushes, you go static. He’ll hate it. He’ll escalate. Don’t chase. Hold your line. You’re better at holding a line than anyone I’ve ever watched.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s coiled. The Audi eats another mile. Streetlights flick over us—on, off, like a pulse.
“Try it,” he says finally, his voice flat as ice.
I shift, taking on the role of his father. “Adrian, you embarrassed me in front of Jennings. You’re reckless.”
He doesn’t look at me. His voice drops an octave. “Noted.”
“You’ll leave the girl. She’s a liability.”
A breath, then— “That won’t be happening.”
It lands in my chest like a hand closing over my heart. Because it's not a promise made in heat or anger. It's just a decision. A fact. Unmovable.
