Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 3 - Damage Control

"Eyes up, Butcher! Over here!"

"Silas, give us a look! Hold the snarl! Yes, that’s it."

A heavy camera lens clicks right in front of my face, entirely too close, the aggressive glare burning a persistent white spot into the back of my retinas. I hold a growl inside. I know that’s what they want from me.

"Silas. Look over here. Just a quick smile for the front page."

I don't smile. I drop my shoulders into a menacing slouch, while I fix the nearest photographer with a dead stare. Usually, it makes people step back. This one’s stubborn. It may be because my latest violent showing on the ice is a big story. People want to hear more about the monster.

Soon, the room goes into an even louder uproar as someone enters the room. By the clicking of the heels, I know who it is before even looking.

Harper.

She wears a navy blue designer dress. It’s not silky like some women want it. It’s structured with pockets, tailored to fit her body. The lines are clean and sharp. Her platinum blond hair is coiffed as usual, reaching a little past her nape.

The Ice Queen.

Why is her father shoving her here too early? People won’t believe that we suddenly are a couple after that brawl. It sounds like what it really is: a PR stunt. We’re also on one of the Holloway Towers’ floors.

But what do I know? Harper slides into the chair next to me. She sits perfectly straight and smells of expensive vanilla and lilies.

“You’ve just pummeled someone in the pre-season scrimmage, and are facing what may be a lifetime ban. Now, less than forty-eight hours later, we’re supposed to believe that you are dating the owner’s daughter? It sounds like damage control,” says one bespectacled reporter

He looks young, maybe only a little older than Harper. Yet, he seems to have the power to make my throat close up. I feel like a noose is tightening around my neck. They are going to see through my lies and the messed-up timeline. They’ll ask for details, and I’ve been running, running since I was seven.

Before I can open my mouth and growl something incomprehensible or destructive, Harper leans gracefully toward her microphone.

“Of course, you will be skeptical, Miller,” she agrees, looking completely unbothered. “After all, who am I to suddenly appear out of nowhere? It was hard to keep our relationship completely private over the last six months because I work closely with the front office and he’s my dad’s star player, but it’s possible. Nobody questions Harper Holloway being with the boys. The incident was unfortunate, but once you get to know Silas, you’ll understand that he has a very protective nature and he reacts to bullies on or off the ice. Now, if this is damage control, why do you think they’ll choose me? My reputation isn’t exactly pristine.”

Chuckles meet her statement. After all, it’s the truth. Harper Holloway made a little girl cry, and it made news. It will take a well-known humanitarian to fix my reputation. But I must say, Harper lies smoothly. Her face has no tells, and it’s terrifying.

However, as my gaze drifts downward, I see the small hands buried deep in the pockets of her dress. Her wrists are trembling, out of sight of the prying eyes of so-called reporters. But damn it, she isn’t calm at all.

Just like that, I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to wrap my hand around her small waist. It’s not part of our strategy, but I pull her flush against me. She stiffens but manages to prevent a gasp from escaping her lips. She’s good. Yet, her body still resists mine. I’m not letting go. It may be my undoing, as her vanilla perfume and the general scent of her flood my senses.

“What my girl is trying to say,” I growl into the microphone, “is that the press needs to stay out of our private business. But she - she insisted on coming here and supporting me, no matter how bad this looks. I’m not hiding what I am. I have a terrible temper, but I don’t lose it unless there’s a reason.”

The media room erupts. Camera shutters go off as if they’re trying to take photos of me when I’m surprisingly docile. Or, they’re simply getting what they want - a distraction. They’re getting pictures of the tatted-up Butcher next to the pristine Ice Queen. My arm is still holding her tight, and she has somehow relaxed in my hold, even leaning towards me, as if it’s natural for us to be this close. I’m tempted to believe it, but her heart is pounding furiously.

“That’s all for today, ladies and gentlemen,” the PR manager, the one Harper works with all the time, barks. He steps in front of us to block the view. “No more questions.”

Soon, we are ushered into the elevator, and I try to give her as much physical space as the small space allows. She also does not need to hear my ragged breaths. Her face may have frozen into that familiar high-society disdain, but her hands are still in her pockets. Trembling.

“I didn’t realize our contract required physical manhandling, Vane,” she remarks bitterly.

“It requires we make them believe it, Holloway,” I mutter. “I can’t sit there like a neutered puppy while you defend my honor; they will suspect - no, correction - they will confirm their suspicions. They need to think we’ve been tearing each other’s clothes off in private for the past few months.”

“And,” she challenges, her icy eyes upon me, “do you want to tear my clothes off?”

The elevator dings, saving me from having to answer a question that would tear my whole world apart if I let the truth slip out.

The doors slide open to my penthouse. I stride out first, deliberately cutting off the conversation. I head straight to the kitchen island. I’m thirsty, and I need something to do with my hands.

On the dark, marble counter are dozens of boxes, supplies I’ve spent hours ordering and stacking this morning. Groceries, fresh produce, the best cuts of meat, imported teas, and more. All of them are high-end, just for the woman who has everything, except the comfort of her own home. And I’m not stupid; the meat cuts are in the freezer now.

“What is all this?” Harper asks, frowning, as her Louboutins halt a few inches from the kitchen island.

“Groceries,” I reply matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Brewster will be here in about an hour to organize and cook.”

“Mrs. Brewster?” Harper echoes.

"My maid," I snap, slam-shutting the refrigerator door harder than I intended. The heavy thud echoes through the cavernous living room. "She’s elderly, she’s quiet, and she actually knows how to run a household. Treat her with respect. She doesn't deserve any shitty attitude."

I don't tell her the truth about Mrs. Brewster. I don't tell her that I had sent the elderly maid away to my summer house three weeks ago, right after the locker-room suspension. My temper had been so volatile back then, my rage so dark and uncontrollable after the league handed down the ruling, that I hadn't trusted myself to be in the same house as the sweet, fragile older woman. I couldn't bear the thought of her looking at me with fear, or worse, seeing the ghost of the monster I am terrified of becoming.

But now, with a roommate in the house- a delicate, pampered girl who has probably never had to wash a dish in her entire life- I have no choice. I brought Mrs. Brewster back.

Harper crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze narrowing into two sharp points of blue ice. "I don't need a maid, Silas. I can take care of myself. Fire her, or send her back to wherever she came from."

I let out a short, dry, mocking laugh, leaning back against the marble counter as I look down at her pristine, perfectly manicured hands.

"Right," I drawl, letting my eyes trail slowly down her designer dress. "A Holloway doing her own laundry and scrubbing toilets. You grew up in a forty-room museum with a staff larger than my hockey team. You moved into this place with two tiny suitcases because you're playing the martyr. You don't even know how to turn on the stove in this place, let alone feed yourself. Just let Mrs. Brewster do her job and stay out of her way."

A faint flush of angry pink rises to Harper’s cheeks. For a second, I think she’s about to scream at me. I anticipate her telling me where to shove my groceries. Part of me wants her to do just that. I’m waiting for the chill to thaw, and possibly burn.

Instead, she just draws in a slow, sharp breath through her nose, her posture turning even stiffer. "You don't know anything about me, Silas Vane."

"I know enough," I mutter, turning away from her to pick up my gym bag from the floor.

I strap the heavy canvas bag over my shoulder, turn on my heel, and walk down the right hallway toward my wing before she can find another way to argue with me. I stride past the empty rooms until I reach my master suite at the very end of the corridor, pushing the heavy oak door open and shutting it firmly behind me.

In the safety of my room, I lean my back against the dark wood of the door, letting my chin sink toward my chest as the absolute silence of my wing swallows me whole. My senses are still battered by the remnants of today’s activities.

Flashing of cameras. Harper’s vanilla scent. My trembling hands. Hers.

She thinks I’m a beast. She thinks I’m just a violent, mindless puppet her father bought and paid for to save his corporate empire. She has no idea that under the heavy slouch, under the tattoos, and behind the closed door of this bedroom, I'm just a man desperately trying to keep his head above water.

And if she keeps looking at me with those wide, terrified eyes hidden behind her corporate masks, I’m going to end up pulling both of us under.