Bruises and Ink

Marlo

The private VIP suite smelled like expensive leather, polished and stale champagne. It sat high above the north stands of the ice arena, separated from the stadium by a massive wall of glass.

Down below, the varsity hockey team was running a closed, full contact practice session.

Even up here, behind soundproof glass, the muffled thud of heavy bodies slamming into the wooden boards vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. Every bone crunching impact made my heart jump.

I dipped the cloth into the warm bucket of soapy water and wiped down the leather seats. My reflection in the glass looked exhausted. The dark circles under my eyes were getting darker every day. I was living on three hours of sleep, constantly waiting for Siobhan’s men to jump me in an alley, or for Jarrah to drag me into another dark room.

I was so tired of being afraid.

From this angle, I had a perfect view of the entire rink.

Down on the ice, the players were moving in fast, chaotic drills. Their dark red jerseys were blur of motion against the stark ice. But even from five stories up, my eyes instantly found number 9.

Jarrah Vance.

He didn't just play hockey; he ruled the ice like a tyrant.

He moved with a terrifying, fluid grace that didn't belong to a man his size. While the other players scrambled for the puck, Jarrah moved with calm, calculation. He didn't waste a single movement. When a sophomore defender tried to check him along the far boards, Jarrah didn't even dodge. He leaned into the hit, dropping his shoulder and driving the younger player directly into the glass with a sickening, violent crash.

The sound echoed through the empty arena. The defender hit the ice hard, his helmet skidding across the surface.

Jarrah didn't even look back. He scooped up the puck on his stick and skated away as if he hadn't just steamrolled a two hundred pound athlete like a plastic toy.

None of his teammates yelled at him. Nobody confronted him. When Jarrah had the puck, the other players actively stepped out of his path, their body language stiff with genuine fear. Even the head coach stood on the bench with his arms crossed, silently watching Jarrah run the ice with absolute, unhinged authority.

My chest felt tight as I watched him.

It was horrifying, but I couldn't look away. There was something deeply unsettling about watching a man who possessed that much raw, physical power. He was a weapon and every time I remembered that this same violent man spent his nights standing in the dark outside my dorm window, watching me sleep, my skin flushed with a strange, terrifying heat.

“I wanted a weapon who knew who held the shield.”

His voice echoed in my head, deep and heavy.

I pressed my cold forehead against the glass partition. He was a monster. He had my parents' blood on his past, and Cal’s dirty evidence was sitting right inside my bra. I should hate him. I did hate him. But as I watched him skate down the ice, his dark hair damp with sweat under his helmet, my heart pounded wild against my ribs.

Down on the ice, the whistle blew to reset the drill.

Jarrah slowed down near the center circle, resting his hands on the top of his stick. He wiped the back of his sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Then, without warning, his head snapped upward.

My breath caught in my throat. I froze, my hand holding the damp rag motionless against the glass.

The VIP glass was heavily tinted from the outside. From the rink floor, it looked like a black mirror. No one down there should have been able to see me.

But Jarrah’ eyes locked directly onto my silhouette high above the ice. He didn't blink. He stood dead still in the middle of the ice, staring straight up through the dark glass, straight into my soul.

A cold shudder ran down my spine.

Jarrah didn't wait for the coach to call the next drill. He unclipped his helmet, pulled it off his head, and tossed it carelessly onto the team bench. He skated straight off the ice, cutting through the player gate without saying a single word to Cal or the coach.

"No, no, no," I whispered to myself, panic instantly replacing the strange heat in my chest.

I dropped the rag into the bucket, grabbed my coat from the sofa, and rushed toward the suite’s exit door. I needed to get out. I couldn't be trapped in this small room with him while he was still high on adrenaline from the ice.

I reached out and grabbed the door handle.

Before I could turn it, the door was shoved open violently from the outside.

I gasped, stumbling backward into the room.

Jarrah stepped over the threshold, his broad frame completely filling the doorway. He was still wearing his thick shoulder pads under his damp practice jersey, making him look twice as large as usual. He hadn't even taken off his skate guards.

His chest heaved up and down as he caught his breath, his dark hair sticking to his temples.

He slammed the door shut behind him with his heel, the heavy lock clicking into place.

"Jarrah, stop," I said, backing away until my back hit the edge of the glass. "Practice isn't over. You can't be up here."

He didn't answer me. He walked toward me with slow, heavy steps, his eyes burning with a dangerous, unhinged focus that made my knees feel weak.

I pressed my back flat against the cold glass behind me. There was nowhere left to run. The vast, empty drop of the arena floor was behind my back, and six feet of lethal muscle was closing in on my front.

Jarrah stopped inches away from me. The heat pouring off his body washed over my cold skin, making my head spin. He reached out with one massive, calloused hand and slammed it flat against the glass right beside my head, trapping me completely.

"You were watching me," he growled, his voice low, raspy, and thick with exhaustion.

"I was cleaning," I lied, my voice trembling as I pressed my back harder into the glass. "I was just doing my job."

"Liar," he whispered.

He leaned down, his face dipping close to mine. I could feel the hot, rapid rhythm of his breath against my jaw. He looked at my lips, his eyes darkening to the color of burnt honey, before rising to lock with mine.

"You look at me like you want to kill me," Jarrah rasped, his free hand slowly rising to rest against the side of my neck. His thumb pressed gently against my pulse point, feeling the rapid, chaotic beat of my heart. "And then you look at me like I'm the only thing keeping you alive."

"You're crazy," I choked out, tears of anger and fear burning the backs of my eyes. "You're a crazy stalker, Jarrah. You bought my job. You trapped me here."

"I bought your time so nobody else could buy your life," he snapped, his fingers tightening just a fraction against my neck, tilting my head back against the glass.

His face was so close I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. The tension between us was suffocating, a slow, agonizing burn that pulled at every nerve in my body. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to pull his face down to mine and taste him. The conflict was tearing me apart from the inside out.

Jarrah’s gaze drifted down my body, resting on the collar of my oversized hoodie.

His eyes narrowed suddenly.

Before I could react, Jarrah used his thumb to hook the edge of my hoodie collar, yanking it down hard across my left collarbone.

A dark, nasty purple bruise was blooming across my pale skin the mark left behind when Siobhan’s man had grabbed me in the alley three days ago.

Jarrah’s entire body went deadly still. The heavy heat in his eyes instantly died out, replaced by a cold, terrifying void of absolute rage.

"Who gave you this?" Jarrah asked, his voice dropping into a quiet, deadly whisper that chilled me to the bone.

"It's nothing," I stammered, trying to pull my hoodie back up. "It's old"

Jarrah didn't let me finish. He reached down with his other hand, slipping his cold fingers inside the front of my shirt, right against my bare skin.

His knuckles brushed against the sharp corner of the paper hidden inside my bra the police evidence tag naming Cal O'Shea.

Jarrah pulled the yellow tag out into the light, his eyes scanning the official police print.

He looked up at me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Where did you get Cal's file, Marlo?" Jarrah asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Before I could answer, the glass behind my head suddenly shattered into a thousand spiderweb cracks with a deafening CRACK, and a high caliber sniper bullet crashed straight through the glass.