Cracks

~EVERETT~

The jersey is too big.

It's heavy, the thick fabric of Knox's spare Vikings jersey scratching against my sensitized skin. It smells so strongly of him—sweat, ice, and that dark, spicy Alpha musk—that I feel like I'm being suffocated by his shadow even while he's across the rink.

I'm sitting on the bench, my hands tucked between my knees, watching the team practice.

They move like predators.

Knox is the worst of them.

Every time he cuts across the ice, sending a spray of frost against the plexiglass, his eyes find me. He doesn't smile. He just looks at me with that cold, proprietary stare, reminding me that I'm only here because he allows it.

"You okay, new kid?"

I blink, looking up. One of the other players—a Beta named Jax—is leaning against the boards, wiping sweat from his forehead. He gives me a small, genuine smile.

It's the first piece of kindness I've seen in this hellhole.

"I'm fine," I whisper, offering a tiny, hesitant smile back. "Just cold."

"Yeah, the rink's a bitch. Hang in there."

He skates away, and for a second, I feel like a human being again, not a Rudolf, not a debt, just a student.

Then, the mood in the arena turns toxic.

I feel the shift before I see it. Knox's scent turns strong, like a rough blade. I look toward center ice and my blood turns to slush. Knox is standing perfectly still, his helmet off, staring at me.

No—he's staring at the spot where Jax was just standing.

His nostrils flare. His jaw is set so tight I'm surprised it doesn't break. Practice is over a second later. Knox doesn't wait for the coach.

He skates off, his blades hissing violently against the ice. He doesn't say a word. He just grabs my arm, his fingers digging into the meat of my bicep, and hauls me toward the locker rooms.

"Knox, wait...."

"Shut up," he snaps.

He slams the door of the private shower room and clicks the lock. The sound makes my stomach drop. The steam hasn't even started yet, but the room is already suffocating with his rage.

He shoves me against the cold tiles, his body slamming into mine with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. He's still in his gear—chest protector, pads—making him look like a mountain of unstoppable violence.

"Who told you that you could smile at him?" he rasps, his hand coming up to wrap around my throat. He doesn't squeeze, but the effect of his palm is a terrifying promise.

"He was just being nice," I gasp, my hands clawing at his forearm.

"Nobody gets to be nice to you," Knox growls, his face inches from mine. "Nobody else gets to look at you, or talk to you, or see that pathetic little smile. You're mine to break, Everett. Not theirs to flirt with."

He reaches for a roll of black hockey tape sitting on the bench. In one quick move, he grabs my wrists and binds them.

Rip. Rip. Rip.

He doesn't tie me to a pipe this time; he just binds my hands together in front of me, making me a prisoner of my own body.

"Get on your knees."

"Knox, please..."

"Knees. Now."

I sink to the floor, my bound hands trembling against my thighs. He looms over me, a terrifying silhouette of Alpha power. He unzips his hockey pants, and for a second, I think this is it.

I think he's going to take me right here on the dirty floor.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he reaches down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans and ripping them down along with my briefs. He doesn't use lube. He doesn't use care.

He shoves three fingers inside me, his touch rough and punishing.

I cry out, my head hitting his thigh as he stretches me. It hurts, a sharp, pushy sting, but then my Omega biology betrays me.

The slick starts to flow, coating his fingers, making it easier for him to drive deeper.

"Look at you," he whispers, his voice a low, vicious crawl in my ear. "Slicking for the man who's hurting you. You're so fucking broken, Rudolf."

He starts to pump his fingers, his thumb finding the sensitive nub of my entrance, rubbing it with a brutal friction that makes my vision go white. I'm sobbing, my hips bucking against him, my bound hands clutching at his pads.

"I hate you," I moan, the words broken and wet. "I hate you so much."

"Good," Knox rasps, his pace increasing, turning my insides to liquid fire. "Hate me while you come for me. Hate me while you realize you will never belong to anyone else."

He's over-stimulating me. He's pushing me toward a cliff I'm not ready for. My breath is coming in ragged hitches, my seed leaking onto the floor as I reach my breaking point.

I'm moaning his name—not as a plea, but as a prayer—as I come

apart, my body shaking with the force of the orgasm he's forced out of me.

He pulls his fingers out, leaving me gasping and hollow on the floor. I wait for the weight of him. I wait for him to drop his pants and finish what he started.

My body is open, waiting, begging for the final claim.

But he stops.

He stands there, chest heaving, looking down at me with an expression that looks like pure, unadulterated agony. He looks at my bound wrists, the bruises on my neck, and the mess on the floor.

For the first time, I see a crack in the ice.

He looks like he wants to kill me, and he looks like he wants to fall to his knees and hold me.

His phone buzzes on the bench.

He stares at it for a long second, then picks it up. I watch his face turn to stone. The vulnerability I saw for a split second is gone, replaced by a cold, dead mask.

He shoves the phone into his pocket and looks at me with utter disgust.

"Get up," he snaps.

"Knox?"

"I said get up! Get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we will both regret."

He reaches down, his blade-sharp scissors from his gear bag cutting the tape off my wrists in one quick move. He doesn't help me up.

He doesn't look at me as I scramble to pull my clothes back on, my hands shaking so hard I can barely button my jeans.

I flee the room, my skin still burning from his touch.