The Lyon Olympiques arena was completely empty, yet the air vibrated with a suffocating, lethal tension.
It was midnight. The stadium lights were dimmed to a cold, harsh glare that reflected off the pristine, freshly resurfaced ice. There were no cheering fans, no referees, and no cameras. Tonight, the arena wasn't a place for a game. It was an execution block.
Elara stood behind the reinforced plexiglass of the penalty box, her breath misting the air. Jerome stood solidly at her left, his arms crossed, his eyes glowing a faint, predatory yellow.
To her right, flanked by two massive pack members who held him by the collar of his ruined designer suit, was Marc. He was shaking violently, his face the color of spoiled milk. He had tried to run after the boardroom disaster, but Jerome ha
