The morning air at the Kings’ training facility was thick with the scent of fresh ice and ozone. When Silas walked through the double doors, he didn't move like a man who had been beaten with a lead pipe forty-eight hours prior. He walked with a predatory, effortless stride, his gear bag slung over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. The bruises on his face had faded to a dull yellow, and the lethal glint in his blue eyes was back, sharper than ever.
Ivy was already there, standing by the rink's edge in a cream-colored wool coat that looked like it cost more than Silas’s truck. She was holding a steaming cup of espresso, her expression a mask of bored, aristocratic perfection. But as Silas approached, her grip tightened on the paper cup until the cardboard buckled.
"You're late, Vance
