Todos os capítulos de The Pucking Ice King : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The Tigers’ arena was still buzzing with the static electricity of victory. Logan had delivered an absolute masterclass in net. A complete, unblemished shutout against a fierce divisional rival—thirty-eight saves, a perfect 1.000 SV%, and a commanding, lethal presence that entirely silenced the opposing team’s offense. By the final buzzer, the hometown crowd had been chanting his name like a war cry. The exact same fans who had booed him weeks ago were now screaming his name until the rafters shook. His season stats were climbing back into MVP territory, and the wildcard spot felt closer than ever. I watched from the glass front of the press box as he skated off the ice, his helmet tucked under his arm, his ink-black hair slick with sweat. Those cold grey eyes scanned the upper tiers until they found me, holding my gaze for one long, deliberate second before he offered a sharp wink. Even from that distance, the sheer possessiveness in his look made my stomach twist into knots. T

The luxury hotel ballroom glittered like a frozen wasteland. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring ceiling, casting a sharp, unforgiving light over the elite crowd gathered for the Tigers’ annual Winter Charity Gala. Corporate sponsors in tailored suits mingled with franchise players in sleek designer tuxedos. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, heavy floral arrangements, and old money. I stood near the edge of the sprawling room in a modest black evening gown Logan had "suggested" I wear. The dress was high-necked, a strategic choice to hide the worst of the fading purple marks he’d left on my throat in the trainer’s room, but it was still elegant enough not to embarrass him in front of the board. My honey-brown hair was pinned up in a neat chignon, and I clutched a glass of sparkling water like a physical lifeline. Logan had been on his absolute best behavior all evening. At least, in public. His massive frame looked devastating in a custom bla

The scalding water cascaded over my skin, trying—and failing—to wash away the deep ache between my thighs and the fresh, purple bruises blooming across my hips. Logan had been especially brutal after our return from the gala. The violent car ride, the dark frenzy in the penthouse elevator... he had taken me twice more against the mattress before finally allowing me to slip away into the sanctuary of the bathroom. I stood directly under the heavy spray with my eyes closed, fighting to steady my ragged breathing. The mindfulness and breathing techniques that had once helped me manage my stutter felt entirely useless now. Every single time I closed my eyes, I simply saw his cold, slate-grey ones staring back at me in the darkness with that terrifying, unhinged mixture of absolute obsession and twisted tenderness. *He needs professional help,* a quiet, desperate voice whispered in the back of my mind. *You need to run. Now.* But the reality was a suffocating trap. The massive compen

The concrete corridors of the arena were still echoing with the distant, muffled roar of the crowd as I slipped out of the side entrance and into the quiet staff lobby. Another win. Another flawless shutout for Logan. The Chicago Tigers were riding high on a historic nine-game winning streak now, and the wildcard playoff spot was practically ours. Reporters had absolutely swarmed his locker room after the game, showering him with praise for his “remarkable psychological turnaround.” I had stood silently just outside the frame of the cameras, nodding and smiling like the perfect, devoted little PR handler I was being paid to be. But inside my own skin, I was fraying entirely at the seams. My body ached constantly from the sheer weight of his physical demands. My mind felt permanently foggy, weighed down by a exhaustion I couldn't shake. The woman who used to find genuine joy in teaching little kids how to play simple classical melodies on the piano now spent every waking hour man

The next morning, Logan didn’t let me leave the bed. I woke to the heavy, crushing weight of his arm pinned across my waist, his palm splayed flat over my lower stomach like a brand. His steady, deep breaths fanned the back of my neck. In the muted morning light, the penthouse looked deceptively serene. But as my mind cleared, the horror of the previous night flooded back—the digital archive of my trauma sitting on the tablet downstairs, the blood on his knuckles, the golden cage snapping shut. “Don’t move, mouse,” he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep as his grip tightened, dragging my spine flush against his chest. He bit the curve of my shoulder—hard enough to leave a mark, gentle enough not to break the skin. “Today, everything changes.” He rolled me onto my back with terrifying ease, settling his massive frame between my thighs. His slate-grey eyes were clear, bright, and utterly consumed by a feverish determination. “You’re moving in permanently.My people are clearing o