Owned by the rink reaper

004

Rowan’s POV.

The penthouse was too quiet.

It was always too quiet when I wasn't at the rink. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over LA, a city that supposedly belonged to my father, which by extension, belonged to me. But as I tossed my keys onto the marble countertop, the silence felt like a physical weight.

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the morning traffic crawl below. My shoulder ached—a dull throb that reminded me of the burdensome life I tried to escape for twenty-four years.

"You're back late."

I didn't turn. I knew the sharp, clinical click of heels on the tile. My half-sister, Katelyn, was standing by the wet bar, already nursing a green juice that looked as bitter as her expression.

"Practice ran long," I lied.

"Did it, though?" she countered, moving into my line of sight. She was the only person who could look at me without blinking. "I heard about the press assignment. The 'Deep Dive' initiative. Why didn’t you try to stop it, Rowan? You hate reporters."

"I don't hate this one." I moved to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water just to have something to do with my hands.

My mind drifted back to the locker room—the way Elio’s pulse had been thrumming against the side of his neck, erratic and frantic. Like a bird trapped in a cage. And all that while, he never lost his composure.

"Elio Valentine," Katelyn said, "The boy from high school. The one who writes those scathing columns about your 'technical laziness.' He’s going to find out, you know. He’s too smart to miss the signs for long."

"Let him find out," I muttered, the water cold in my throat.

I thought about the photo in my locker. I’d circled him in blue ink on a whim a decade ago because while everyone else was cheering for the goal I’d scored, Elio had been the only one looking at me like I’d committed a crime. He saw the ego. He saw the cracks.

And for some reason, I’d needed to keep that look.

"He hates you, Rowan," Katelyn reminded me, her voice softening.

“So he says.” A smirk tugged on my lips as I remember how flushed he looked when I pinned him to that locker. “But, can anyone ever truly hate me, Kat?”

Katelyn didn’t return the smile. She set her glass down on the marble with a sharp clink that echoed through the hollow silence of the penthouse. “Don’t let your ego blind you, Rowan. Hatred is a lot like obsession; it’s easy to confuse the two until someone ends up bleeding. And speaking of someone who doesn't mind a little blood…” She paused, checking a notification on her phone, her brow furrowing. “Dad just left the arena facility. He was seen talking to your journalist in the parking lot.”

The water bottle in my hand crinkled under the sudden, violent pressure of my grip. My smirk vanished, replaced by a deep frown settling on my face.

My father didn’t have "chats." He didn't do "meet-and-greets." If Alistair Moonstone was speaking to Elio, he was either buying him, threatening him, or preparing to bury him.

“What did he say to him?” I demanded, my voice dropping an octave.

“I don’t know. My sources only saw the exchange,” Katelyn replied, her voice tinged with genuine concern now. “But Rowan, Alistair looked... displeased. And Elio looked like he was standing his ground. That’s a dangerous combination.”

I didn't wait for the rest of her warning. I turned on my heel, grabbing my leather jacket from the stool.

“Rowan, stop!” Katelyn called after me. “If you go there now, you’re admitting he has leverage. You’re showing him that the journalist matters!”

“He already knows,” I growled over my shoulder. “He’s known for ten years.”

The drive to the Moonstone Global headquarters was a blur of aggressive lane changes and white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Elio—not the defiant journalist from this morning, but the version of him my father would try to crush.

Elio was sharp, yes, but Alistair was a landslide. He didn't fight people; he simply erased them.

I bypassed the security desk, the guards not daring to stop the heir-apparent even as I looked ready to set the building on fire. I reached the top floor, my boots thudding against the plush carpeting of the executive wing, and threw open the double mahogany doors to my father’s office without knocking.

Alistair Moonstone didn't look up from his desk.

He was signing a stack of documents, the gold nib of his pen scratching against the paper with agonizing slow-motion precision. The office smelled of cedarwood, old money, and the suffocating scent of a man who thought he was a god.

“You’re late for the midday brief, Rowan,” he said, his voice a calm rasp. “But I suppose punctuality was always a secondary trait for you, behind theatrics.”

“Why were you talking to Elio?”

I didn't lead with a greeting. I stood in front of his desk, my shadow falling over his paperwork. My shoulder throbbed—a sharp, stinging reminder of the injury he’d helped me hide just to keep the Moonstone stock from plummeting.

Alistair finally looked up.

His eyes were the color of a winter sea—the same eyes I saw in the mirror every morning. “I was protecting our interests. The boy is a liability. He has a history of... let’s call it unpleasant curiosity. I was merely ensuring he understood the boundaries of his employment.”

“His employment is with Rink Reapers, not you,” I spat. “What more do you want from me, Alistair? I stopped playing. I traded my skates for a suit I hate. I agreed to this pathetic ‘Deep Dive’ to fix the mess you made of the team’s reputation. I’m standing right here, ready to be the perfect little heir you’ve always wanted. Isn't that enough?”

My father stood up, smoothing the front of his vest. He walked around the desk, his presence filling the room. He was shorter than me now, but he still made me feel like the boy who’d failed his first power-skating drill. His mere aura was smothering.

“It is never enough,” Alistair whispered. “Because you are distracted. You’ve always been distracted by that boy. Even in high school, I saw the way you played when he was in the stands. You weren't playing for the win; you were playing for his attention. It was pathetic then, and it is dangerous now.”

He reached out, patting my cheek with a hand that felt like ice. “I won’t have a journalist—especially one with a grudge—dismantling forty years of work because you can't keep your fixations in check. If he digs too deep, I’ll handle him.”

The fury that erupted in me was unlike anything I’d felt on the ice. It wasn't a hot, chaotic anger; it was cold. It was absolute. I leaned in, my face inches from his, hoping he’d see the fury burning in my eyes.

“You touch him, and I burn it all,” I said, my voice steady and lethal.

Alistair’s eyes widened slightly.

“The company, the legacy, the secrets—I’ll leak it all myself,” I continued, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. “I’ll walk into a press conference and tell them exactly how you forced me to play through a shattered joint just to close the stadium deal. I’ll ruin the Moonstone name before the sun goes down.”

I stepped back, the silence in the office so thick it was hard to breathe. For the first time in my life, I saw a flicker of something like genuine calculation—maybe even fear—in my father’s eyes.

“If so much as a hair on Elio’s head is harmed, if he loses his job, if he even gets a parking ticket that I think came from you... I’m done. No more heir. No more soldier. You’ll be a king with no kingdom.”

I didn't wait for his rebuttal. I turned and walked out, the adrenaline making my vision swim.

I made it back to my car before I realized my hands were shaking. I wasn't just protecting Elio. I was declaring war. And Alistair Moonstone didn't lose wars.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over Elio’s contact. I couldn't call him. I couldn't apologize. Not yet. But I could ensure he was exactly where I could see him.

I sent the text before I could talk myself out of it.

Unknown: You left your pen in my locker. Come get it tonight. My place. 9 PM. Don't make me come find you.