Page 76 of Shattered Ice
“Try hitting the ice, not the glass.”
The kid’s face flames red. He fumbles again, his shoulders caving in. I’m already stepping forward, mouth open to tear into him, when Clara moves faster. She slips past me, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, calm as glass in the middle of the storm.
“Stop,” she says, her voice cutting through the noise without raising it. “Look at me.”
The rookie blinks, startled. Clara crouches in front of him, eye level. “You’re spiraling because you’re trying to think about everyone else. Forget them. It’s just you and me.”
My jaw locks. He looks at her like she’s the only person in the rink. Heat spikes through my chest, sharp and possessive. I want to rip him away from her, remind him whose name is on her back. But then I see the way she works.
“Breathe,” she says softly, demonstrating. “Match me. In. Out. Again.”
The kid obeys. His shoulders hitch, then lower. His chest steadies.
“Good,” she says, a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Now pick up the puck. Don’t think. Just feel the pass. You’ve done this a thousand times.”
The rookie swallows hard, nods, and fires a clean pass across the ice. The jeers quiet. Someone mutters, “Well, damn.”
Clara rises, giving the kid a quiet nod. “See? You already had it.”
My jealousy shifts, molten, until it becomes something else. Something heavier. I can’t take my eyes off her—her calm, her precision, the way she pulled him back from the edge like it was nothing. She doesn’t belong behind a desk. She belongs here, inthe storm, pulling broken pieces back into working order. Her gaze flicks to me across the ice. For a heartbeat, we just look at each other, my chest still burning, her eyes steady and sure. The pride hits me like a punch.
Mine.
Mine, and I’ll burn this place down before anyone takes her from it.
Chapter 44
Adrian
Ipullupoutsideher dorm in the black Audi, the engine idling low and dangerous. I’m in a tux—armor cut from silk and steel—but none of it matters until I see her.
And then she walks out.
For a second, I forget to breathe.
The hallway light spills behind her, catching on the shimmer of her dress—dark, fitted, slit high enough to be a threat. Her hair is loose, tumbling over bare shoulders, her lips painted the shade of sin. She’s not just beautiful. She’s a weapon. A force that makes the air tilt, that makes the old world I was born into look fragile. She looks at me, and for a split second, I see it: a small flicker of nerves under all that power. Then it’s gone, replaced bya certainty that makes my pulse spike. She knows she belongs on my arm. She knows she belongs in my war.
“Clara,” I rasp, pushing out of the car, every muscle drawn tight. I take her in from head to toe, slow, deliberate. “You’re going to kill them tonight.”
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile, something sharper. “That’s the idea.”
I open the door for her. When she slides into the seat, the slit of her dress flashes more skin than any man but me deserves to see. My hand tightens on the wheel as I circle to the driver’s side. By the time I’m behind it, my control has already cracked.
“You look like mine,” I murmur, low enough for only her.
“I am,” she says simply, her eyes glittering in the dashlight.
The ballroom gleams like a battlefield dressed in glass. Chandeliers drip crystal, perfume hangs thick in the air, and laughter rings sharp as cutlery. Old money everywhere—men in black suits, women in silk, the air humming with predatory glances. My tux fits like armor. I move through the crowd the way I skate: controlled violence, every stride efficient. Clara’s hand rests in the crook of my arm. She doesn’t need sequins to blind them; her calm cuts sharper.
We’re theater tonight. A unit.
The first friendly face we see is Talia Addison. She glides toward us, her gown catching the light, her smile warm and genuine. “Clara!” she says, pulling her in for a quick hug. “I’m so glad you came. You look incredible.” Talia shoots me a look over Clara’s shoulder, half amusement, half warning. Then, low enough only we can hear, “The vipers are out tonight. Keep your head up.” She squeezes Clara’s arm like a shield being passed before she’s swept away.
We make our way to our table. Half the team is already there, tuxes and bow ties doing nothing to blunt their edge. Declan gives me the barest of nods, controlled and cool. Gio tips hisglass with an appreciative whistle in Clara’s direction. I cut him off with a stare cold enough to freeze the champagne in his hand. He smirks, mutters, “Relax, captain,” but doesn’t look her way again.
We sit. Clara crosses her legs, the slit in her dress sliding high, and my jaw clenches. That’s when Beatrice leans forward, all fake lashes and venom.
“Well, if it isn’t the scholarship project,” she says, her voice pitched to carry. “Did Adrian let you borrow a dress, or did you have to rent one?”
