FORBIDDEN: THE ICY MEN'S PLUS-SIZED POSSESSION

“Tell me, sweetheart, tell me how you like to be fucked… are you always this shy when someone wants you?”

My glasses slipped down the bridge of my nose as I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror, my hands planted on the cool hardwood floor, my hips arched, every line of my body exposed to the silent room.

“No, daddy,” the ghost of a whisper echoed in my memory, a wicked, forbidden fragment from a late-night fantasy I had no right indulging. “I want to be fucked, ruined, choked, and marked until I’m a moaning, crying mess, leaking all over your sheets.”

I gasped, my fingers twitching against the polished floor as the memory of that imaginary voice…deep, gravelly, commanding, possessing the unmistakable cadence of Alaric Veyron, sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to my core.

I sat back on my heels, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My chest heaved, the heavy swell of my breasts straining against the soft fabric of my oversized gray cardigan. I reached up with a trembling hand, pushing my thick, black-rimmed glasses back into place, resting my palm against the flush burning on my cheeks.

Get a grip, Elowen, I scolded myself silently. You haven't even stepped foot into the arena yet, and you're already melting over a man who doesn't even know you exist beyond your resume.

I stood up slowly, stepping back to take in my full reflection in the soft morning light. Seven years. It had been seven long, painful years since I last walked through the doors of the Veyron Ice Arena. Seven years since I was the chubby, introverted college girl hiding behind statistical data and second-hand oversized sweaters, hopelessly in love with a man who treated me like a dirty little secret.

Caius Veyron.

Golden boy. Hockey captain. My first love. The man who taught me what it felt like to be touched in the dark, only to shatter my self-worth in the light.

I closed my eyes for a brief second, and the memory hit me like a phantom bruise.

Seven years ago.

The air in Caius’s off-campus apartment smelled like stale beer and laundry detergent. The room was pitch black, save for the blue ambient glow of his television set playing muted game footage. I was lying under his heavy cotton sheets, naked, my heart racing as his large, calloused hands traced the curve of my waist.

His fingers dipped into the soft fold above my hip, squeezing gently, his mouth pressed against the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. He was breathless, desperate, murmuring praise into my skin that made my blood run hot.

“You’re so soft, Winnie,” he whispered, his thumb caressing the plush swell of my stomach. “So damn soft. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I had melted under his touch, burying my fingers in his dark blond hair, believing every word. I thought the way he held me in the dark meant I mattered. I thought the way he gasped against my lips meant he saw me.

Then came the next afternoon at the campus coffee shop.

I had walked up to his table, holding two iced coffees, my heart light, wearing a bright yellow cardigan I thought made me look pretty. Caius was sitting with three of his senior teammates, their loud, booming laughs echoing through the café.

When he saw me approaching, his smile vanished. His gray-blue eyes narrowed into cold, sharp slate.

“Hey, Caius,” I murmured, reaching out to set the cup down.

He didn't take it. He didn't even look at my face. His eyes darted nervously to his teammates, who were already smirking, eyeing my waistline, making quiet, cruel comments under their breath.

“Why are you following me around, Voss?” Caius’s voice was flat, hard, detached. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, putting a wall of icy space between us. “I told you, I don't need help with the stats for this week’s game. Stop crowding me.”

The café went dead silent. The humiliation was a physical strike to my chest, stealing the air right out of my lungs. My face burned as his teammates snickered.

“She’s persistent, captain,” one of them sneered. “Guess the chubby girl thinks analyzing your power plays gets her an invite to the afterparty.”

Caius didn't defend me. He didn't look at me. He just chuckled—a empty, hollow sound…and shrugged.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said, looking away.

I opened my eyes, the memory fading as the cold reality of the present settled back over me.

I wasn't that nineteen-year-old girl anymore.

I looked at my reflection again. The soft curves were still there—the plush hips, the waist that didn't nip in like a magazine model's, the full thighs that rubbed together when I walked, and the round swell of my stomach. But the girl staring back at me wasn't cowering.

I adjusted the lapels of my thick knit sweater, smoothing the fabric over my pencil skirt. I wore my glasses like armor now. I carried my passion for numbers like a blade. Over the last seven years, I had built a reputation as one of the sharpest performance analysts in professional sports. I didn't need Caius Veyron’s validation, and I certainly didn't need his mercy.

My phone buzzed on the vanity, cutting through the heavy silence. I picked it up, glancing at the text from Mireya:

Mireya: Remember, queen: You are the smartest person in every room you walk into today. If Caius looks at you weird, I’ll slash his skate blades. Go get your empire.

A genuine smile finally broke across my face. I grabbed my leather briefcase, packed with encrypted drive back-ups and statistical predictive models for the Veyron Wolves’ upcoming season, and headed out the door.

The autumn air outside was crisp, smelling of wet asphalt and fallen leaves. The drive to the Veyron Ice Arena took twenty minutes, every mile bringing me closer to the compound that bore the name of the family that had altered the course of my life.

The arena loomed in the distance like a massive, glass-and-steel monolith. Home of the elite Veyron Wolves. Controlled by the Veyron family.

As I pulled into the reserved employee parking lot, my hands tightened around the steering wheel. I turned off the ignition and sat in the quiet cabin for a long moment, taking three deep, measured breaths.

I was here to do a job. The Wolves were on a three-game losing streak, their power-play efficiency was down by 14.2%, and their defensive line was lagging in third-period transitions. I had the data to fix it. That was all that mattered.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, smoothed my skirt, and stepped out into the chilly air.

Walking through the polished glass doors of the executive entrance, the scent of fresh ice, leather, and commercial wax instantly hit my nose. It was a familiar smell, one that triggered a strange mix of nostalgia and lingering dread.

"Elowen Voss?" a sleek receptionist asked, looking up from her terminal with a professional smile.

"Yes," I replied, my voice steady, professional. "I'm the new Lead Performance Analyst."

"Welcome to the Wolves, Ms. Voss. Mr. Veyron’s office requested that you head straight to the tactical suite on the third floor after onboarding."

"Which Mr. Veyron?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

The receptionist blinked, momentarily surprised, before giving a smooth chuckle. "Mr. Alaric Veyron, of course. The owner."

My pulse took a sudden, erratic leap. Alaric.

I nodded, taking the security badge she handed me and clipping it to the lapel of my cardigan. "Thank you."

I turned toward the glass elevators, my heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor. With every step, I forced my shoulders back and my chin up.

Seven years ago, I left this world broken, convinced I was too big, too awkward, and too unlovable to take up space. Today, I was walking back in on my own terms.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. I stepped inside, pressing the button for the third floor, watching my reflection in the mirrored walls as the doors slid shut.

The game was about to begin.