Todos os capítulos de The Pucking Ice King : Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

The air inside Logan’s private office didn't circulate like the rest of the penthouse. It felt heavy, stagnant, smelling of rich leather, expensive gun oil, and the fading, woodsy sting of his cedarwood cologne. It was the absolute center of his control—the place where he stripped away the charming, public-facing athlete persona and became the absolute dictator of my reality. I slipped inside, my fingers easing the heavy oak door shut until the latch caught with a soft, muted click. The protective green glow of the keypad vanished, plunging the room into near-total darkness, save for the weak, silver light of the Chicago blizzard scratching at the floor-to-ceiling windows. My chest felt tight, a suffocating weight pressing down on my lungs. For days, I had played the part of the broken, adoring fiancée, letting his hands claim my body while my mind built high, frozen walls to keep from screaming. But standing in his inner sanctum, the performance was gone. There was no audience. Th

The sound of the elevator doors sliding shut was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. It was 6:00 AM on Sunday morning. Outside, the early Chicago sun was a pale, weak sliver cutting through the remnants of the blizzard, painting the penthouse in long, skeletal shadows. Logan had resisted leaving until the very last second. His swollen left shoulder was still stiff, the deep purple bruising tracking down his bicep from the dislocation, but the stakes of game four were simply too high for a man driven by an absolute, pathological need to win. He couldn’t sit out. He couldn’t let anyone else be the hero. Before he stepped into the elevator, he had spent twenty agonizing minutes pinning me against the cold marble of the kitchen counter. His thick fingers had drilled into my hips, anchoring me to his heat while he kissed me with a slow, bruising desperation. He had buried his face in my neck, inhaling me as if I were oxygen, repeating his low, rough promises about the life we

The weight of Logan’s body was a cage designed to crush the breath right out of my lungs. He wasn’t sleeping like a normal man. Even heavily medicated, with the bitter, synthetic scent of cortisone and sour sweat rolling off his skin in waves, his hold on me was a vice. His uninjured right arm was wrapped around my waist, pinning my hips flush against his side, while his heavy jaw dug right into the crook of my neck. Every ragged, raspy breath he took blasted hot against my collarbone, a constant, bruising reminder that I was completely trapped beneath him. My left arm had gone entirely dead hours ago, pinned under the massive, solid bulk of his torso. The pins and needles had long since faded into a dull, icy numbness, but I didn't dare shift. I couldn’t risk the friction of the silk sheets alerting his subconscious. The gun oil. The phantom scent of it seemed to hang in the stagnant air of the penthouse master bedroom, mocking me. It was on my fingers. It was practically sta

I didn't hand it over right away. I let the phone rest against my robe for one more agonizing second, keeping my eyes locked on his. If I moved too fast, it would look like guilt. If I held onto it too long, his paranoia would spiral into physical violence. With Logan—every single interaction was a calculated game of chicken. You couldn't blink first, or he’d crush you under his heel. "Take it," I said, my voice dropping into an icy, steady cadence as I stepped forward and dropped the cold glass screen directly into his open palm. His fingers clamped over the device instantly, his knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white. He didn't immediately look down at the screen . He kept his slate-grey eyes burned into mine, searching for the micro-tremor in my jaw, the slight widening of my pupils, any physical tell that would prove I had been doing more than just picking it up off the floor. The security alert was sitting right there on the lock screen. A single glance down would d

“Fine. I’m yours, Logan.”The words left my throat in a shaky, breathless rush, the admission tearing through the suffocating weight of the bedroom like a blade through silk. I stayed completely still on his thigh, letting my body go soft against his uninjured side, forcing a the frantic rhythm of my heart.“But you need a doctor to get your hand fixed," I pleaded, looking at the swollen, ruined skin of his shoulder. "I really can’t stand this bloody mess... please.”Logan didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked the slight tremor in my jaw, searching my face for any trace of a lie. A dark, mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips."Are you really worried about me, mouse?" he rasped, his breath hot and smelling of heavy narcotics.I swallowed hard, the copper taste of fear dry on my tongue. "Yes," I lied, keeping my voice level, matching his intensity. "I am. You're bleeding and it’s freaking me out.""Hmm. Then prove it," he murmured, his grip on my waist tightening until