SCORED HER HEART, NOT THE PUCK.

ICE SEVEN: A WELL-DESERVED PUNISHMENT.

MADISON'S POV:

Four Months Later...

Day in and day out, nothing in my life had changed. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

And the worst part? There was still no news about Thane after he was discharged from the hospital.

I scoured his social media, searched his name in headlines, and even subtly pried for information from people who might know something. It seemed like he vanished like smoke in winter—no footprints, no echoes.

"What happened to Thane Slade?"

But I had bigger things to deal with than unanswered questions.

Dr. Hall's ultimatum still rang in my ears like a funeral bell. The office reeked of sterile power that day. Her manicured fingers drumming against the mahogany desk as she delivered my fate.

"You will either be dismissed from the program," she'd said, each word a nail in my coffin, "or you will accept this."

The word punishment had slithered off her tongue like poison. My medical career—everything I'd sacrificed for—balanced on the edge of her desk like a house of cards in a hurricane.

"Madison, this is our most important client. Mess one thing up, and I'll destroy any chance you have of becoming a doctor." She'd leaned forward, “he’s our most important client. Do whatever it takes to keep him calm. If he complains, you’re done.”

She then smiled. Not warmly.

“Understand?”

Now, bouncing in the back of a taxi that reeked of stale cigarettes and broken dreams, I replayed those words until they carved themselves into my skull. Each pothole we hit felt like another reminder of how far I'd fallen.

The punishment fit the crime, according to Dr. Hall. My crime? Being locked in a supply closet by Ellie during my shift. My punishment? Playing nursemaid to some mysterious patient until they recovered. No pay. No complaints. No escape route.

I'd said yes without hesitation because saying no meant watching my future burn.

It was one of two things—or both. Either they were rich, or they were in excruciating pain. Both categories made for the worst patients. The rich saw their caregivers as disposable. The ones in pain lashed out because suffering made monsters of us all. If my new charge was both, I might as well have signed my own death warrant.

The taxi shuddered to a stop, and my breath caught.

It was… breathtaking.

A healthy change in sight to the cramped shoebox of a flat and the stale corridors of the ward I spent most of my days in. This place was pure elegance.

I paid the driver with bills I couldn't spare and shouldered my tote bag, the weight of my scrubs and supplies suddenly feeling heavier. The blue fabric clung to my nervous sweat as I approached the gate.

Steel reinforcements. Guards who looked like they bench-pressed small cars for fun. The intercom crackled to life with a voice that could have belonged to a bear.

"Name?"

"Madison Wallace." My voice wavered. "I'm the nurse."

Silence stretched between us like a held breath. I'd signed enough NDAs to wallpaper my apartment, but they'd given me nothing—no name, no condition, no hint about who lay behind these fortress walls. The mystery wrapped around my throat like a noose.

The gates groaned open.

Security checks followed—body scanners that made me feel like a criminal, guards who studied me like I might spontaneously combust. "What kind of patient needs this level of protection? What kind of secrets require armed men and electronic eyes?" I thought to myself.

I followed the designated path, my footsteps whispering against stones that probably cost more than my monthly rent. A marble fountain danced in the center courtyard, water catching the dying light like liquid diamonds. The house loomed closer with each step, more intimidating than beautiful.

The curved walkway led me around a reflection pool that doubled the world—reality above, fantasy below. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, I glimpsed furniture that looked more like art installations than places to sit. Golden light spilled from within, warm enough to make me ache for spaces I'd never known.

Just as I arrived towards the entrance, a flash of movement caught my eye. A woman burst from nowhere, nearly colliding with me as she fled toward the gate. She stopped abruptly, spinning to face me with wild eyes.

Tears carved rivers down her cheeks. Her hands shook as if she were trying to hold herself together and failing. When our eyes met, I saw something that made my stomach drop—pure, undiluted terror.

"If you're here to take my place, don't bother." Her voice cracked like breaking glass. "He's a monster. You won't survive him."

She ran then, leaving me standing there with her warning echoing in the evening air.

My pulse hammered against my throat. So my patient was male. And apparently capable of reducing grown women to tears and flight.

Perfect.

I squared my shoulders and approached the entrance—a slab of ebony wood that seemed to float within its steel frame. There was a single amber button glowing beside the door like a tiny sun next to the handle.

The doorbell's warmth surprised me as I pressed it. A low chime resonated throughout the house, beautiful and lonely as a church bell at midnight.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Silence.

My hand found the door handle before my brain could stop me. The door swung open at my touch, and I stumbled forward, catching myself before I kissed the marble floor.

The interior stole my breath. A chandelier hung like captured starlight in the foyer. A mirror ringed with bulbs reflected my uncertain face back at me, making me look small and lost in all that grandeur. Black marble floors stretched ahead like a frozen lake.

"Hello?" My voice bounced off the walls, swallowed by the silence.

I moved deeper into the house, past rooms that belonged to museums rather than homes. A sitting room with cream chairs that had probably never been sat in. A library where books lined the walls like sleeping soldiers, their spines uncracked and pristine.

Then I found the living room, and my world tilted sideways.

Trophies gleamed behind glass like golden prisoners. Framed jerseys hung on walls like mounted victories. Awards crowded every surface, their metallic surfaces catching the light.

But the photographs—the photographs made my blood turn to ice water.

That face. Those sharp eyes and strong jaw that had haunted sports channels and social media for months before vanishing into thin air.

Thane Slade.

The golden boy. The missing prince of hockey. The ghost I'd been searching for without knowing why.

Was this his teammate's house? Some shrine to the disappeared star?

My feet carried me to the spiral staircase before I could think. Every footfall brought me closer to a dream that might turn into a nightmare at any moment. The air grew thicker, pressing against my lungs like invisible hands.

Then I heard it—a sound that made my nurse's instincts override my fear.

Choking. Gasping. The wet, desperate sounds of someone fighting for air.

My body moved before my brain caught up, following the noise down a hallway that seemed to stretch forever. A door stood closed at the end, and behind it, someone was dying.

I didn't knock. Couldn't knock. Every second counted when someone couldn't breathe.

I shoved the door open and stepped into hell.

The sight that greeted me ripped the air from my lungs and left me drowning in the middle of dry land.