The Billionaire Alpha's Sin Bin

Chapter Ten - Accident & First Touch

(Damian’s POV)

The small, locked rink was a vacuum of cold, unforgiving air. Eleven thirty at night, and the only sounds were the scrape of steel and the ragged, desperate panting of Logan Cross.

I stood behind the boards, my coat now discarded on the rubber matting. My sleeves were rolled up, exposing the tense line of my forearms, and my face was set in a mask of professional, icy detachment. If Logan had sought to break my control through defiance, I would meet him with brutal, calculated exhaustion.

“Again, Cross! Full speed! Push through the burn!”

He had been on the ice for nearly ninety minutes. I’d run him through complex suicide drills, forcing him to weave through pylons, take impossible angles, and execute snap shots until the ice was littered with pucks he no longer had the strength to aim. He was drenched in sweat, his jersey clinging to his back, steam curling off his shoulders in the frigid air.

He was fast. Too fast. Even operating on pure spite and diminishing energy reserves, his athleticism was monstrous. He was pushing himself to the brink, refusing to slow down, refusing to concede.

Look at him. Mine. Look at the power. He pushes because we drive him.

The wolf was a relentless cheerleader, its possessiveness fueled by the proximity and the sheer spectacle of Logan's dedication. I hated the pride I felt. I needed him humbled, not admired.

“Lagging on the turns, Logan! Your footwork is sloppy! Five more minutes, no breaks!” I commanded, deliberately pushing him past the point of sensible endurance.

Logan didn't respond with words, only a defiant, guttural sound that was half grunt, half battle cry. He dropped his shoulder and exploded back into the drill, chasing the puck I’d tossed into the deep corner.

He took the turn too wide, too hard. Exhaustion had finally degraded his precise form. His left skate caught a slight ridge in the ice near the boards.

It wasn't a spectacular crash. It was a sudden, ugly, clumsy sprawl.

He went down with a heavy thud, his body twisting slightly, and a sound—a sharp, sickening crack—reverberated in the silence as his glove hand hit the ice and jammed against the unforgiving metal of the goal post.

The sound was followed by a choked gasp, quickly suppressed. Logan didn’t move. He lay facedown, the puck sliding slowly to a stop inches from his helmet.

Every calculated thought vanished. The cold boardroom mask shattered, replaced by an instinctual terror that was purely, savagely possessive.

“Logan!”

I didn’t wait for the gate. I vaulted the boards, hitting the ice hard on the rubber matting, then sliding directly onto the slick surface. I scrambled over to him, the fear coiling in my gut like a striking viper.

“Get up. Now.” It wasn't a command; it was a desperate plea disguised as one.

He rolled over slowly, bracing his weight on his good arm. His face was pale beneath the sweat, and he was staring, wide-eyed, at his left wrist. It was already swelling, the fabric of the glove stretched tight, lying at an angle that looked profoundly wrong.

The wolf inside me let out a sound, a low, pained whimper. Not the triumphant roar of a predator, but the distressed sound of a bonded animal whose mate was injured. The sheer emotional force of it was staggering.

I dropped onto one knee beside him, ignoring the freezing cold soaking into my trousers.

“Don’t move that. Do not move,” I ordered, reaching out, but stopping short of touching him.

“I… I’m fine,” he tried to lie, but the word came out thin, punctuated by a hiss of pain. His green eyes, usually so full of defiant fire, were clouded with shock.

My hand flew to my earpiece, the one connected to the internal security line. “This is Blackwell. Code Red. Unauthorized entry into the small rink. Stand down all personnel. No medics, no staff, no questions. This is being handled internally.”

“You’re dismissing the doctors?” Logan asked, his voice rough. “It’s probably just a sprain.”

“I said no one,” I repeated, my tone final. The panic of exposure was secondary to the primal need for absolute control over this fragile situation. Julian’s watch, the challenge, the secrecy of our arrangement, it all demanded silence. I couldn't risk the scrutiny.

I carefully removed his helmet and then knelt close, sliding my arm under his shoulder and supporting his back, lifting him to a seated position against the boards. His body was heavy, hot, and instantly responsive to my touch.

“Where is the kit?” I muttered, scanning the empty perimeter.

“Locker room, end of the hall. Why, Damian, you can’t do this yourself,” he argued, his voice low with exhausted pain.

“Watch me.” I stood, my legs stiff, and moved with frantic, uncontrolled panic to the storage room. I grabbed the first-aid kit, a flexible splint, and a medical-grade compression brace.

When I returned, Logan had managed to pull off the glove with his teeth and his right hand, revealing the wrist, which was now noticeably distended and blooming with color.

I knelt again, the proximity suffocating. I opened the kit, pulling out a temporary splint.

“This is going to hurt,” I warned, my voice flat, professional, and utterly terrified.

Logan just nodded, closing his eyes, his breathing heavy.

I worked quickly, gently manipulating the wrist into the splint and securing it. The process was agonizingly intimate. The scent of his fear and pain was overwhelming, and the whimper of my wolf grew louder, pleading with me to be gentle, to fix what was broken.

Finally, I pulled out the flexible compression brace. It required both of my hands, and it required Logan's limited cooperation.

“Keep your hand flat,” I instructed, my eyes fixed on the task, refusing to look into his. I had to focus on the antiseptic smell of the medical tape, not the scent of his skin, or the faint, familiar scent of cinnamon lurking beneath the sweat.

I guided the brace over the splint, smoothing the compression material around the joint. My fingers brushed his bare skin, the soft underside of his wrist, then the hard, sweaty back of his hand. It was an electric, non-s****l touch, purely focused on the injury.

As I secured the final velcro strap, our eyes met. His were wide, still glazed with pain, but something else was there, a flicker of surprise, seeing the raw, unguarded protectiveness in my own expression.

“It’s secure,” I rasped, pulling my hands away as if the contact had scorched me. The physical relief of the secure brace was instantly replaced by the terrifying realization of how much I had just exposed.

“You… you shouldn’t have touched it like that,” Logan whispered, his voice weak. “You could have damaged it more.”

“You shouldn’t have broken it,” I shot back, the Boss persona slamming back into place, a desperate defense mechanism. I stood up, towering over him, hiding the tremor in my hands. “You are a multi-million dollar asset, Logan. You will not risk your career, or my championship, over a display of petulant defiance.”

But the words felt hollow. My wolf was still whimpering, quietly, possessively, Mine is hurt. We fix. We protect.

I stared down at the injured wrist, now encased in the brace, and made a decision driven entirely by the instinctive need for total surveillance and security.

“You’re coming with me,” I stated, reaching down and slipping my strong arm under his back and legs. I lifted him easily, cradling his full weight against my chest.

“Where are we going?” he asked, startled, his good arm wrapping instinctively around my neck.

“To the hospital. And then to my apartment,” I stated firmly. “I won’t risk Julian’s goons getting a look at this, or a medical report leaking to the press. You’re under my direct, constant supervision until you are healed. This is my command.”

I carried him out into the cold, silent hallway, the weight of his body a shocking, potent affirmation of the secret bond I was fighting so hard to deny.