ON ENEMY ICE

CHAPTER TWO

JACE'S POV

I don't look back after I shove off him.

If I look back at Elian in that Northwood hoodie still leaning against the wall with that smirk, I will go back to him. And I can't.

My wrist is still burning where his fingertips brushed it. Bare skin. Light. Like it was nothing. Like he didn't just say "Are you going to let me play you?" right against my mouth.

I push through the back exit door and the cold night air hits me.

The Maybach is already idling at the curb. I knew it would be.

My security detail is waiting, coiled earpieces, hands clasped behind. Close protection. They don't look at me. They don't need to.

One steps forward and holds out a phone. No words.

I know what it is before I take it.

I take it. Put it to my ear.

The voice on the other end is cold. Colder than I could ever be. Flat. Detached. Not angry, bored.

"You know what's coming next, don't you?"

My hand tightens around the phone until my knuckles go white, but my face doesn't move. I've learned how to make it not move.

"Yes, sir," I say.

"Everything's been made ready for you. I'm already waiting."

Click.

The call ends. I hand the phone back. The other man is already opening the back door for me.

Through the tinted window, I can see the doorway light of the arena behind me. Elian is still standing there in his black sweats and Northwood Eagles hoodie, duffel over his shoulder, watching me. Still smiling.

I get in the car.

The door closes.

The leather seat of the Maybach is cold under me. I lean my head back against the headrest, staring out at the passing streetlights as the car moves away from the arena.Ninety minutes. That is how long the drive from Ashford University to the Rhys estate takes.

Ninety minutes of staring at the dark highway, knowing exactly what is waiting for me at the end of it.

I keep my left hand clamped tight over my right wrist. Right where Elian’s fingertips brushed my bare skin. It still feels hot. It feels like a brand.

Will you let me play you, Jace Rhys?

He has no idea what kind of game he’s actually playing. He thinks it’s just a hockey rivalry. He thinks it’s just a battle of wits between two college captains.

He doesn't know that every time he wins, someone else pays. Someone other than me.

The car slows, turning off the main road and through the massive, black iron gates of the estate. The tires crunch over the gravel driveway. The house is a fortress of gray stone, hidden behind high walls and heavy pine trees. It looks dead from the outside. No lights on in the front windows. Just the stark, white floodlights illuminating the manicured lawn.

The car stops in the rear courtyard. The door is opened from the outside.

"He's downstairs, sir," the guard says softly.

I don't answer. I grab my duffel bag, step out into the cold night air, and walk toward the side entrance that leads straight to the basement level. Every step feels heavy. My legs are already stiff from sixty minutes on the ice, my muscles aching from the hits. But I don't slow down. Delaying it only makes Viktor lose his patience, and you never want Viktor Rhys to lose his patience.

The air changes the moment I hit the stairs. The smell of high-end cigars and expensive cologne fades, replaced by the damp, metallic scent of concrete and old stone.

The subterranean chamber is brightly lit tonight. Too bright.

Viktor is already standing there. He’s dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He looks like a businessman preparing for a board meeting. Beside him stand two of his senior enforcers, Marco and Lev. Between them is the heavy wooden frame, the iron rings bolted directly into the ceiling.

"Strip," Viktor says. His voice is flat. Unbothered.I set my duffel bag on the floor. My fingers are steady as I unzip my black leather jacket and drape it over a nearby chair. I unbutton my shirt, pulling it off my shoulders, followed by my shoes. I stand there in nothing but my sweatpants, the cold air of the basement biting into my skin.

I walk to the frame. I don't wait to be forced. I raise my arms, gripping the iron rings, and let Marco secure the leather cuffs around my wrists. The metal is freezing against my skin.

"You turned the puck over at the blue line, Jace," Viktor says, his footsteps echoing slowly behind me. "A simple mistake. An amateur mistake."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't pay for amateur mistakes. I don't tolerate them in my business, and I certainly will not tolerate them under my name on a public broadcast." He pauses, the sound of his leather shoes stopping right behind my left shoulder. "Marco."

The first strike is a sudden, explosive crack of sound before the pain even registers. The heavy leather lash hits across my shoulder blades.

My breath leaves me in a sharp, violent rush. My fingers instantly curl tighter around the iron rings, my knuckles turning white as the skin splits. It feels like a line of pure fire has been drawn across my back. I clamp my jaw shut, grinding my teeth together until my skull aches. I won't give him a sound. I’ve learned never to give him a sound.

The second strike lands just below the first, overlapping the edge of the raw skin.My whole body convulses, my feet lifting slightly off the concrete floor as my muscles lock in automatic protest. The pain is a blinding, white-hot flash that blurs my vision. One. I count them in my head to keep my mind from fracturing. Two.

The rhythm is methodical. Viktor doesn't rush Marco, and Marco doesn't hesitate. Crack. Three. My chest heaves against the wooden frame. Crack. Four. The heat radiating from my back is suffocating now, a fierce, throbbing burn that makes my heart hammer wildly against my ribs. I can feel the warmth of my own blood starting to track down my skin, cooling instantly in the drafty room.

By the tenth strike, my arms are shaking violently just holding myself up. My forehead is pressed hard against the cold wood of the frame, sweat dripping from my nose onto the floor. My back is a solid sheet of agonizing fire. Every breath feels like swallowing glass because the expansion of my lungs stretches the open lacerations.

"Unchain him," Viktor orders.The leather cuffs snap open. My arms drop, completely dead, and I stumble forward a step before catching my balance. My back is screaming, every nerve ending firing at once.

"The tank," Viktor says simply.

Marco and Lev flank me, guiding me toward the center of the room where the large glass enclosure stands. It looks like a high-tech aquarium, four walls of thick, transparent glass forming a square chamber. Inside, heavy iron chains hang from a center ring in the ceiling.

I step inside the glass box. The glass is flawless, perfectly clean. Marco steps in behind me, pulling my wrists back up and chaining them to the center ring. This time, the chains are shorter. I can't lean forward. If I try to rest my weight, my raw, shredded back will press directly against the glass wall behind me. I’m forced to stand perfectly straight, completely vulnerable.

Marco steps out and slides the heavy glass door shut. The seal clicks into place.Viktor walks over to a console on the wall and presses a button.

From the floor grates inside the tank, a low, mechanical hiss starts up. Then comes the water. It’s ice-cold, churning aggressively around my bare ankles. But it isn't normal water. The scent hits my nose instantly—heavy, concentrated sea salt and chemical brine.

The moment the water hits the lowest cuts on my calves, my jaw locks so hard a sharp pain shoots up into my ears.It’s an agonizing, chemical-like burn. The salt water doesn't just sit on the skin; it bites directly into the open flesh, eating its way into the wounds.