Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 4 - Morning Fog

“Where is the water?”

My own voice sounds like sandpaper against my throat. I wake up with the metallic taste of panic in my mouth, my chest heaving under the thin white silk of my nightgown. For three agonizing seconds, I look at the dark concrete ceiling and have no earthly idea where I am.

The room is too big.

The air is too cold.

No, I am no longer in my tiny studio apartment. Ugh. So the whole thing wasn't a nightmare?

The memory of yesterday’s flashing cameras, the suffocating scent of vanilla, and the brutal, lawless weight of Silas Vane’s mouth against mine hits me like a physical blow.

I bolt out of bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. I just need water. For some reason, I wake up parched. I throw the bedroom door open and hurry down the long, shadowed hallway of the penthouse’s east wing (yep, that’s how big this place is), my hair falling in a disheveled, platinum tangle over my shoulder.

I round the corner into the kitchen, reaching for the refrigerator handle, and freeze.

Silas is already there.

He turns slowly, a carton of orange juice gripped in his massive, scarred hand. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Not only that: he is wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants that hang precariously off the sharp angles of his hip bones, the fabric riding so low it uncovers the smooth V-line that leads -

I must not look. No. God.

The air in the kitchen instantly vanishes.

My breath hitches. Up close, in the raw, gray morning light, he looks less like a hockey player and more like a beautifully sculpted weapon. Why am I thinking of him as a weapon? Well, he certainly looks like a weapon someone can wield against me.

Dark, intricate ink wraps around his left shoulder down his bicep and over the heavy, rigid muscles of his chest. Right across his ribs, a jagged, pale scar cuts through the tattoos. Does he use tattoos to cover the result of violence on ice?

Look away, my brain screams. Harper, look away. But my eyes refuse to obey. To my horror, I bite my lower lip as I track the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. My mind flashes back to yesterday. He pulled me close to him. I know the strength of those arms.

Silas does not say anything, either. His gaze slides down from my face, lingering on the thin, pearlescent silk of my nightgown. The fabric stops mid-thigh, hanging from two delicate straps, and under the intensity of his stare, I feel utterly exposed. Naked.

“Vane,” I whisper, the word slipping out before I can stop it, my voice raspy and trembling with a sudden, terrifying heat.

“Holloway,” he grunts.

He takes a half-step forward, his bare shoulder flexing, and the sudden movement snaps me out of the trance. Panic overcomes me. I can feel a blush spreading from my neck to my cheeks.

I turn on my heel and bolt.

Slamming my bedroom door shut behind me, I wonder what has just happened. I am not shy. I am not a coward. I remind myself who Silas is. He is a savage. A liability. My father’s and mine. And my body is traitorous enough to want him anyway.

**

Forty minutes later, I have showered, dressed, and put on makeup. Everything is as I want it. Flawless. At least, on the surface. I wear a pair of jeans and a silk blouse. What are the rules about going out, anyway? Do we need to walk hand in hand? Go in the same car?

Ugh.

When I step back into the kitchen, the space has been completely transformed.

A woman in her early sixties is already there, humming softly as she moves around the island.

Mrs. Brewster.

The white quartz is spotless. On the counter, Silas stands fully dressed in a tight black T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide his muscles. He is sipping black coffee, his dark eyes shamelessly tracking me the moment I walk into the room. I look past him. He’s not going to see me flail about again.

“Good morning, Miss Holloway,” Mrs. Brewster says warmly. “I prepared a fruit bowl with yogurt, but if you want something heavier, there are pancakes with butter and syrup.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brewster,” I say, my voice softening into a rare, genuine smile. She’s different from the cold, too-professional staff Dad has in his mansion. “It’s perfect.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll be in the service wing cleaning the linens if you two need anything else,” she says, giving me a gentle nod before sliding through the service door.

The moment she leaves, I wrap my hands tightly around the warm tea mug, keeping my head down.

“We need to set boundaries,” I say coldly. I refuse to look at him. “The kitchen island is a shared space. From now on, you will wear a shirt when you leave your wing. I have to wear a robe or dress up. It goes both ways.”

Silas lets out a short, dry laugh, setting his coffee mug down with a heavy thunk. “Whatever you say, Heiress. It does go both ways. I can’t be all bundled up while you leave your room looking like any man’s fantasy.”

I grip my cup as I snap my head up, my eyes flashing with a fierce, trembling heat. “I forgot where I was for a split second, Vane. It’s not happening again.”

“Right. You forgot,” he mocks, leaning over the counter, his face inches from mine. “Is that why you were staring at my body -”

A sharp, demanding buzz cuts through his words.

Silas snaps his jaw shut, his eyes narrowing as his phone vibrates violently against the quartz counter between us. He glances down at the screen.

In an instant, the smug, mocking arrogance completely vanishes from his face. His face is in shock. Has this man ever been known to show fear?

My internal alarms go off. “Who is it? Is it the league? Did the suspension get moved up?”

Silas doesn’t answer. He reaches out, his massive fingers swiping the screen to answer the call, lifting the phone to his ear. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“What do you want?” he barks into the receiver.

The line is completely silent for a second, but the penthouse is so quiet I can hear the faint sound of a woman’s high-pitched voice.

Silas listens, his jaw clenching hard. His eyes stay locked onto mine, dark and entirely unreadable.

“I told you to stop calling this number,” Silas growls.

The voice on the other end rises, louder this time, a sharp string of words that cuts through the receiver. I catch fragments. The news… the press conference… your apartment…bitch…

I step closer to the island, my corporate instinct taking over. “Silas, who is that? If this is a reporter, you need to hang up immediately. We have a strict protocol—”

Silas cuts me off with a sharp jerk of his hand. He stares at the phone, his face pale beneath his tan, looking utterly stunned by whatever the woman on the other end is saying.

“I don’t care,” Silas says, his voice flat, dangerously cold. “Lose this number.”

He slams his thumb against the screen, violently ending the call, and throws the phone face-down onto the marble. He is breathing hard as if he has just left the ice. Dread washes over me.

“Silas,” I command. “Look at me. Who was that?”

Silas lifts his head slowly. The shock is still written plain across his rugged features, a raw, stunned look that I have never seen on the Butcher of the league.

He swallows hard, his dark eyes meeting mine.

“My girlfriend,” he says.