Rinkside Ruin

3.BUTTERFLY'S STING

ROWAN KAINE'S POV

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She’s curled against me now, soft and warm, her breath slow and steady against my chest, that little butterfly tattoo peeking out beneath the sheet like it’s taunting me.

I glance over at the hotel room clock.

11:08 PM.

Jesus Christ.

We’ve been at it for almost four f*****g hours.

No wonder my body feels wrecked in the best goddamn way. My legs are half-dead, my throat’s raw from groaning her name, and my c**k’s got nothing left to give — at least for tonight.

And yet…

I can’t stop staring at her.

My butterfly, sprawled out like some decadent little sin, her hair all wild around her face, that smug, satisfied smirk still lingering on her lips even in sleep. She looks completely untouchable now, like the ice queen she was at the bar but now I’ve had her. I've tasted her. Branded her, f****d her until she couldn't even speak.

And somehow, it’s not enough.

I lazily trace my fingers along her spine, slowly committing every dip and curve to memory. The slope of her back. The tiny stud in her navel. That goddamn butterfly tattoo — my new favorite f*****g thing on the planet.

Her skin’s still flushed from earlier, a soft, lingering heat under my fingertips, like the embers of a fire that refuses to burn out. Every time I close my eyes, it’s her face I see — eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, begging for more. It’s seared into me now, permanent.

I don’t do this. I don’t hold women after I f**k them. I don’t admire.

But with her?

I’m hooked.

Before I can overthink it, sleep pulls me under, her scent tangled in my sheets, her body soft and heavy against mine.

* * *

I wake up grinning.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. But I can’t help it.

Stretching out, I reach for her, already half-hard and ready to go again. She kept up with me all night and I want more of that. I want her pinned down under me again, want her biting back moans while I take my time this round.

“Butterfly…” I mutter, voice rough with sleep, eyes still closed as I blindly search for her with my hand.

I feel nothing. Just emptiness.

I blink, frowning, and sit up.

Her side of the bed is ice cold.

No messy tangle of dark hair on the pillow. No soft, flushed skin in my sheets.

I scan the room.

Her dress? Gone.

Shoes? Gone.

Phone? Gone.

The only thing left behind is the faintest trace of her perfume in the air.

What the f**k?

It hits me then as sharply as it's unexpected.

She left me.

No note. No text. No coy little lipstick print on the mirror.

She slipped out without a sound while I was passed the f**k out, and didn’t even look back.

I stare at the empty spot where she’d been, stunned.

I mean… I’m not usually the clingy type. Hell, I’m usually the one pulling the ghost move before sunrise, skipping out before any awkward morning-after bullshit can set in.

But no woman has ever left me in bed before.

Especially not after a night like that.

And it stings. Just a little. Enough to piss me off in the kind of way that makes me need to know more.

Who the hell is this woman?

I lean back against the headboard, running a hand through my messy hair, my lips twisting into something between a scowl and a grin.

Mara.

The mystery ice queen with a butterfly tattoo on her p***y and a disappearing act better than Houdini.

God, she’s trouble.

And I f*****g love trouble.

My grin stretches wider, slow and feral, as an idea slides into place.

I know exactly what I’m gonna do.

I’m calling Declan.

If she thinks she can just waltz out of my bed and vanish like that, she’s got another thing coming.

Game on, sweetheart.

Game. f*****g. On.

My phone starts ringing on the nightstand, dragging me out of my spiral.

I snatch it up, heartbeat already spiking. I’m half-convinced it’s Declan, probably calling to chirp me for not showing up to our usual 4 A.M. jogs or something equally obnoxious. Hell, maybe he’s seen Mara and wants to rub it in.

“About f*****g time,” I mutter, swiping to answer without even checking the screen.

“Yo, Dec—”

But it’s not Declan’s voice that comes through.

It’s Coach Vic.

And his voice sounds very unlike the boisterous man.

“Rowan,” he says, real quiet and hollow. Like it’s been sucked dry of anything human.

And right then, before he even finishes, I know.

I know.

Something icy and jagged slams straight through my ribs.

“Coach?” My voice is strained. “What’s—?”

“There’s… there’s no easy way to say this, kid,” Coach Vic says, choking on the words.

I sit bolt upright, breath caught in my throat, every muscle going rigid.

“Declan,” Coach chokes out.

My grip on my phone tightens.

“Rowan… your brother—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat hard, like it’ll make this less unbearable. “Declan’s gone.”

My brain won’t process it. It refuses to.

“Gone?” My voice comes out as a whisper. “What the hell do you mean, gone?”

Coach’s next words are slow and brutal, like he’s prying open my chest with a crowbar.

“This morning. His usual run. Mugging gone wrong. They—”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t have to.

My whole world caves in on itself.

My phone slips from my hand, hits the floor with a crack loud enough to make my ears ring.

It bounces once, then lies there, face-up.

The screen’s shattered with thousands of tiny fractures spiderwebbing out from the point of impact.

I just sit there, staring through hot, blinding tears at my broken phone, watching the cracks multiply, spreading out like veins of lightning across the glass.

Declan.

Dead.

My brother.

My goddamn everything.

Gone.

And I wasn’t there.

I was here. In this bed. Too busy being obsessed with the woman who’d vanished without a trace.