Chapter 3: The Penthouse Cage

Lukas’s POV

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was the quietest sixty seconds of my life. Every time the numbers ticked up, I felt another layer of the "Golden Boy" peel away.

When the doors slid open, I didn't see a home. I saw a vault.

It was all glass, steel, and slate-gray marble. Cold. Minimalist. It looked like the inside of a high-end refrigerator. Jaxson stepped out first, his boots clicking sharply on the polished floor. He didn't look back to see if I was following. He knew I was. Where else would I go?

"Standing in the hallway doesn't suit you, Lukas," he said, tossing his keys onto a marble console table. The metal rang out like a bell. "Get inside. Close the door."

I stepped in, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind me. "Nice place. Very... welcoming. Matches your personality perfectly."

Jaxson turned, his eyes tracking me as I walked into the living area. "I didn't bring you here to be a decorator. Your bags are already in your room. Through the kitchen, second door on the left. Smallest room in the house. You start tomorrow at five A.M."

"Five A.M.?" I scoffed, crossing my arms. "I’m an athlete, Jaxson, not a baker. What could you possibly need me for at five in the morning?"

"Breakfast. My training schedule. And my gear," he said, stepping closer until I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

"The Rangers’ equipment manager gave me your 'office' keys today. Since you're my personal assistant, you'll be handling my laundry. I want my pads cleaned, dried, and scented by the time I leave for practice at seven."

I felt the blood rush to my face. "You want me to wash your pads? The ones you sweat in for three hours a day? The ones covered in... God, Jaxson, that’s disgusting. I’m a Captain!"

"You were a Captain," he corrected, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. He reached out, his fingers catching a lock of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture. "Now, you're the man who ruined a franchise. My laundry is the most honorable thing you’ll touch for a long time. Now, go to bed. You’ve got a long day of being nobody ahead of you."

******

The next few days were a blur of domestic humiliation.

Jaxson was a ghost in the morning, a shadow that loomed over the kitchen island while I fumbled with an espresso machine that had more buttons than a cockpit. I had to learn how he liked his eggs and how he liked his steaks.

But the worst part wasn't the cooking. It was the gear.

Cleaning a hockey player’s equipment is a special kind of hell. It’s heavy, it’s damp, and it carries the scent of every hit and every drop of sweat from the season. I spent hours in the penthouse’s oversized laundry room, scrubbing the bloodstains off Jaxson’s white-and-blue jersey.

"You missed a spot on the shoulder," Jaxson said, leaning against the doorframe one evening. He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants, his chest bare and mapped with fading bruises from the championship game.

I dropped the scrub brush into the sink with a splash. "Then do it yourself, Jaxson! I’ve been on my feet since five. I’ve cooked three meals, cleaned your gym, and sorted your mail. I’m not a maid."

"You're whatever I tell you to be," he replied, walking into the small room. The space felt tiny with him in it. He picked up the damp jersey, his fingers brushing against mine. I flinched, but I didn't pull away. My heart was doing that frantic, uneven thudding again. "Why are you shaking, Lukas? Is it the work? Or is it me?"

"I hate you," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I hate every second I spend in this house."

"Good," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "Hatred keeps you sharp. Don't ever lose it. Now, finish the jersey. I have a game tomorrow, and I want to smell like you've actually been working."

*****

By Thursday, the "Domestic War" had shifted. It wasn't just about the chores anymore; it was about the silence. Jaxson was becoming increasingly irritable. He moved with a stiffness that he tried to hide, but I saw it. I saw the way his jaw tightened when he sat down. I saw the way he gripped the counter for support when he thought I wasn't looking.

He left his office door unlocked on Friday. It was a mistake. Or a test.

I was supposed to be filing his tax documents, but my eyes kept wandering. I found a locked drawer, and honestly, the "Golden Boy" in me died long ago. I used a letter opener to pop the lock.

Inside was a single, thick manila folder. No label.

I opened it, expecting more dirt on my father. Instead, I found a stack of MRI scans. I’m an athlete; I know how to read a film. My breath hitched as I held the transparency up to the light.

The L4 and L5 vertebrae were a mess. There was a spinal fusion that looked like it had been done by a butcher, and fresh fractures that made my own back ache just looking at them. The diagnosis at the bottom was written in bold red ink: IMMEDIATE SURGICAL INTERVENTION REQUIRED. RISK OF PERMANENT PARALYSIS.

"What the hell..." I whispered.

I flipped the page. Underneath the medical records were wire transfer receipts. Millions of dollars. Monthly payments of $250,000 sent to a blind trust. I followed the trail of the trust name—Titan Defense Fund.

My father’s lawyers.

Jaxson wasn't just "suppressing" evidence. He was paying for the best legal team in the country. He was playing with a spine that was literally crumbling to pieces, taking hits from 200-pound Enforcers every night, just to fund my father’s freedom.

"Lukas?"

The voice was a whip-crack. I scrambled to shove the papers back into the folder, but I was too slow. Jaxson was standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury. He was leaning heavily against the frame, his hand clutching his side.

"What are you doing in my files?" he shot at me. He took a step toward me, and I saw him flinch. A genuine, pained flinch.

"You're dying," I said, my voice rising. I held up the MRI. "Jaxson, your spine is a ticking time bomb. Why are you still on the ice? Why are you playing?"

"Give me the folder," he commanded, his voice shaking with effort.

"And this!" I shouted, waving the transfer receipts. "The Titan Defense Fund? You’ve been paying his fees? Why? You’re supposed to be the guy who destroyed us! You’re the Devil, Jaxson! Why are you acting like a martyr?"

"I said give it to me!" He lunged for the folder, but his back betrayed him. He let out a choked sound of agony and stumbled, his knees buckling.

I caught him. It was instinctive. I dropped the folder and grabbed his shoulders, steadying him as he sagged against me. He was heavy, his skin feverish. "Jaxson, sit down. God, you're burning up."

"Don't touch me," he hissed, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. He was leaning all his weight on me, his head dropping onto my shoulder. I could feel the frantic heat of his breath against my neck.

"I'm taking you to the couch," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I guided him out of the office and into the kitchen, the nearest place with a stool. I helped him sit, but he didn't let go of my arms. His grip was iron-tight, his knuckles white.

"Why, Jaxson?" I asked, my voice softening as I looked at the man who had ruined my life. "Why save him? Why play until you're paralyzed?"

He looked up at me, his dark eyes clouded with pain and something that looked dangerously like regret. "Because my father did it, Lukas. My father framed him. I watched it happen. I was sixteen, and I watched my father destroy yours over a bank account. I've spent every day since then trying to earn back the soul I lost by being his son."

I froze. The room seemed to tilt. "You... you knew?"

"I've always known," he whispered. He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched my cheek. His palm was hot, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "I didn't take you to break you, Lukas. I took you because you're the only thing left in this world worth saving. If you stayed out there, Dominic would have killed you. Just like he’s trying to kill your father."

The raw honesty in his voice was a physical blow. The "Devil" wasn't my captor. He was my shield.

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on. Jaxson’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my head, pulling me closer. I could see every lash, every fleck of gold in his eyes. I should have pulled away. I should have screamed. But my body was acting on its own, leaning into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"You're a fool," I whispered, our lips so close they were almost touching.

"I'm a dead man walking, Lukas," he replied, his voice breaking. "But as long as I'm walking, no one touches you."

He surged forward, pinning me against the marble counter. The impact was jarring, but all I could feel was the heat of him. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hair, my shoulders. It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. A desperate, starving need that had been building since that first hit on the ice.

I kissed him back with a ferocity that scared me. I tasted salt, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood where he’d bitten his lip. My hands found the bare skin of his back, and I felt the jagged ridges of his scars.

Suddenly, Jaxson let out a sharp, hissed breath of pain and jerked back. He gripped the edge of the counter, his face turning gray.

"Jaxson?" I reached for him, my chest heaving.

"Don't," he gasped, waving me off. He was trembling violently now. "Go to your room, Lukas. Now."

"I can help you—"

"I said go!" he roared, his voice filled with agony.

I backed away, my heart racing, my lips tingling from the heat of him. I looked at him, the powerful Enforcer reduced to a man clutching a counter for dear life.

I turned and ran to my room, locking the door behind me. I leaned against it, my breath coming in jagged gasps. I looked at my hands, still shaking from the touch of him.

What is happening??

Why is Jaxon…. What is….

What the fuck!!!!