Page 66 of Shattered Ice
Declan just looks at me, his expression flat, unimpressed. His silence is more effective than any argument, filling the cold air until it feels hard to breathe. It says,Bullshit.
I skate a slow circle, the blade cutting a clean line in the ice. “It’s not about him anymore,” I say, the admission costing me something. “It’s… different.”
Declan waits, watching me with that unnerving stillness of his.
“I told her I’d protect her,” I finally admit, the words heavy and strange. “And I don’t even know how to protect my own shit.”
Declan skates over to the scattered pucks and taps one with his stick, sending it gliding perfectly to my blade.
“Drills,” he says. Not a suggestion. A solution.
For the next hour, we don’t talk. We skate. The only sound is the rhythmic scrape of our blades, the sharp crack of pucks, and the thud as they hit the back of the net. A non-verbal conversation, a shared language of violence and precision. We run drills with a silent, intuitive chemistry, our sticks talking for us. We skate lines until our legs burn and our lungs are on fire, pushing each other, the shared physical punishment a form of silent therapy.
Finally, we’re leaning against the boards, side-by-side, gasping for air, steam fogging the glass. The storm inside me hasn’t passed, but it’s been quieted by the physical exertion and the simple, unspoken camaraderie.
She’s not just a distraction. She’s the anchor. My mother saw it.And my father, for all his power, can’t cut that rope. Only I can. And I just did.
She’s not dumb—she’ll know something is wrong. She’ll feel the silence. But this isn’t about pushing her away forever. This is a strategic retreat. A reorganization before the real battle. It’s about figuring out how to pull her closer without destroying us both. Because if I’m going to do this—if I’m going to fight for her, for us—I’m going to do it right.
And for the first time in my life, I have to admit I have no idea how.
Chapter 39
Clara
Thesilenceislouderthan any storm.
Three days. Seventy-two hours of a hollow, aching void where Adrian used to be. No texts. No calls. No sarcastic jabs in the library. No large, warm body sliding into the seat next to me in class. Just empty space that feels carved out of my own ribs.
I try to tell myself it’s fine, that it was casual, physical. A wildfire meant to burn out. But my body disagrees. My chest is a locked room I can’t find the key to. My stomach is a tight, anxious knot. I haven’t slept in two nights. Coffee doesn’t help. The words in my textbooks blur into an incoherent mess. Every time I walk across campus, my head whips around at the sight of a dark hoodie, my heart lurching with a sick mix of hope and dread.
But it’s never him.He’s the one who vanished. And I’m the one who’s wrecked.
A sharp knock on my door makes me jump. My first, stupid thought is him. But the knock is followed by Zoë’s impatient voice. I ignore it, pulling a pillow over my head. The door opens anyway—Zoë has a key, a fact I constantly regret—and my three friends file in.
Zoë takes one look at my messy room, the unread books, my huddled form on the bed, and her usual bubbly energy deflates. “Okay, intervention time,” she says, her voice soft as she sits on the edge of my bed. “You look like actual shit, Clara.”
“I’m fine,” I say, the lie thin and brittle, my voice muffled by the pillow.
Genny sits on my other side, her presence a quiet, steady warmth. “He just disappeared,” she says for me, her voice a calm statement of fact.
Talia lingers by the door, her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of sympathy and something knowing. “My dad benched him from practice today for his attitude,” she says quietly. “He’s spiraling too, Clara. This isn’tjustyou.”
The information hits me like a body check.He’s spiraling too.The thought doesn’t make me feel better, but it makes me feel less alone in the chaos. I finally sit up, pushing my tangled hair out of my face, and nod at Genny’s statement, my throat too tight to speak.
“That’s what guys like him do,” Zoë says, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, taking my hand. “They burn bright and then they burn out. They don’t know how to handle something real, so they run. It’s not your fault.”
“That’s how this story usually ends,” Genny adds quietly, her gaze intense. “The powerful boy breaks the girl who got too close, and she’s left to pick up the pieces. But it doesn’t have to be your ending, Clara. You get to decide what happens next.”
I shake my head, a hot, angry tear finally escaping. The pity, the narrative of me as the broken one—it ignites something fierce and defiant in my chest. “No. I won’t let that be the ending. If he’s done, if this was all just some game to him, he’s going to say it to my face. I’m not going to let him turn me into a ghost.”
After they leave, their worried glances lingering in the air, I call my mom. I lie, of course, telling her I’m just stressed about finals, but she hears the tremor in my voice.
“Clara, honey,” she says, her voice a warm balm. “You are the strongest person I know. Whatever it is, you can handle it. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel small or disposable. You fight for what you deserve.”
Her words are the final push I need.I am not disposable. And I deserve an answer.I’m done waiting. I’m done being the ghost.
The weather breaks around midnight. Rain first, sharp and sideways. Then sleet. Then snow, the wind howling like a razor against the windows. I pull on my boots, yanking the laces tight with angry, decisive tugs, and grab my warmest coat.
