Page 78 of Shattered Ice
“Adrian,” he warns, his voice low and cold.
I ignore him. I turn to Clara. The entire ballroom fades until it’s just her, her lips parted in shock, her pulse beating fast in her throat. I slip my hand under her chin, tilting her face up. Her skin is soft, warm, trembling under the weight of the room’s stares.
And then I kiss her.
Not soft. Not safe. Full. Public. Irrevocable.
Gasps scatter like sparks. A glass tips, wine spilling red across white linen. Cameras click—phones, press, theChronicle’svultures circling. Her lips part against mine and she kisses me back, fierce and sure, a counterstrike. My chest tightens with savage pride.
When I pull back, silence roars in my ears. Every eye is on us. I know exactly what it cost me. But staring into Clara’s fire, feeling her breath against my mouth, I know this:
I chose her. I’ll always choose her.
The corridor outside the ballroom is dim, hushed. My pulse still hammers, fury and pride colliding under my skin. I don’t geta word out before Clara shoves me back against the cold wall. Her eyes burn, her chest rising and falling sharply.
“You looked like you were about to explode in there,” she whispers, her voice a dangerous silk drawn taut over steel. “So let me fix it.”
Her hand is on me, urgent and ruthless. My brain shorts out.This isn't happening. She wouldn't. She is.The shock of her touch rips a growl from my throat, my hips jerking involuntarily into her palm.
“Clara—” The name is a plea, a warning. It dies on my lips.
“Shh.” Her mouth ghosts over my ear, a whisper of heat and command. She unbuttons my trousers with a slow, deliberate grace. Her fingers wrap around me, her thumb swiping over the tip, using my own pre-cum as a silken lubricant. Her fist works me in slow, measured strokes that feel more like punishment than mercy. “You made your choice,” she whispers. “You burned him in front of everyone. Now take this. Take what you deserve.”
My head thuds back against the wall, the impact jarring, the cold marble a cruel counterpoint to the fire in my blood. A groan, ragged and raw, is dragged from my chest. She pushes harder, faster, her grip merciless. It’s the same surgical control she used to carve up the donors, a chilling reminder of the ice that runs beneath her fire. I grab her hip, my fingers digging into silk and skin, needing to anchor myself, to remind her she’s mine even as she strips every ounce of control from me.
“You think you can do this to me in a hallway?” my voice is shredded with disbelief.
Her lips brush my jaw, a wicked curve. “I know I can.” Her hand squeezes harder, the pace becoming ruthless. “And you love it.”
She’s right. God, she’s right. I’m unraveling. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my thighs shaking, the tailored line of my tux ruined by the raw rhythm of her hand. The contrast betweenthe ballroom’s false civility and this—my woman, stroking me to the edge in the shadows, her eyes gleaming with a predatory triumph—is enough to break me.
“Fuck, Clara—” My voice cracks.
“Say it,” she whispers, twisting her wrist, dragging me higher. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I snarl, the words ripped from me, a confession and a surrender.
The tension snaps. Heat floods me in brutal, overwhelming waves, and I spill into her hand, my vision whiting out at the edges. She slows only when I’m shaking, her touch easing into something softer, a final stroke that feels like sealing a deal. Then she pulls back, wipes her hand with casual indifference on the inside of my jacket, and calmly laces her fingers through mine as if nothing just happened.
“There.” Her eyes glitter, her smile sharp enough to wound. “Now we’re steady again.”
I look at her—my Clara, my scalpel, my storm—and know the truth. Tonight wasn’t survival. It was a declaration.
Together, we’re untouchable.
Chapter 45
Adrian
Thelockerroomreeksof sweat, rubber, and blood. My skin is on fire from suicides, my lungs still burning like I swallowed ice. Practice went long—Addison always wants more—and my legs are nothing but lactic acid. I rip my jersey off and drop onto the bench, scraping a rough towel over my face with a groan.
That’s when it starts.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone won’t quit, rattling against the wood like it’s possessed. I ignore it. Calls mean noise—agents, reporters, leeches who want a piece but never bled on the ice with me.
“Jesus, Hale,” Gio mutters from across the room, one skate still half-laced. “Your phone’s blowing up. Looks like Santa came early.”
