Todos os capítulos de Hate On The Ice, Mine In The Dark: Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

_Nathan’s POV_ Alan returned the way bad weather returned — not with an announcement, just a change in the air people walked through. I was coming out of afternoon lecture when I heard my name spoken in that particular lazy drawl that had already lived in too many campus stories. Not loud. Aimed. “Ashwood. You look better than the version of you people have been describing.” Alan Golden stood off the main path near the low wall by the language building, coat open, hands in his pockets, smile already half-finished like the punchline arrived before the joke. A couple of students passed between us, glanced, and kept going. He had that effect: interesting enough to notice, not solid enough for most people to stay near. Miles was still in a lab block across campus. Theo was in film. For a second I considered walking past without answering. Then I stopped, because ignoring him had never starved him before. “What do you want?” I asked. Alan tipped his head, almost approving. “Direct.

_Nathan’s POV_ Miles did not sleep like someone who had won the night. He slept like someone replaying the one step he had taken into Alan’s space, over and over, measuring how much worse it could have been if Kane’s hand had been half a second slower. I knew because I woke to the feeling of his chest moving too carefully under my palm, awake and pretending otherwise. “You’re thinking about the wall,” I said into the dark. A pause. Then, rough: “I’m thinking about the part where I wanted to put him through it.” “I know.” “He had witnesses. Not many. Enough.” “I know that too.” I shifted closer until my forehead rested against the back of his shoulder. “You still walked.” Miles let out a breath that sounded annoyed with itself. “Barely.” “Barely counted yesterday. It still counts this morning.” He didn’t answer right away. Outside the window, early campus noise was just starting — a truck reversing somewhere, a door slamming two floors down. Ordinary sounds. They made the alm

_Miles’s POV_ By noon I knew Alan had changed weapons. Not because he approached me. Because he didn’t. The absence was too clean after nights of positioning himself in doorways and lower-glass sightlines. Alan liked being seen. If he was choosing not to be seen, he was getting results somewhere else. I found the first result in the athletic complex hallway, secondhand and already softened for polite circulation. One of our third-pair guys was talking to a Griffins player I only half-knew, both of them in that false-casual tone people used when the gossip was fresh enough to thrill them and risky enough to disguise as concern. “—not saying it’s true,” our guy muttered, “just that Silvermane’s been on a hair trigger, and Ashwood’s been looking stretched thin. That kind of pairing gets messy fast.” I stopped walking. Both of them noticed too late. The Griffins player found an urgent reason to leave. Our guy tried to absorb himself into the wall. “Say that again,” I said. He gr

_Kane’s POV_ I had started measuring our relationship in interrupted hours, which was a miserable way to love somebody and an accurate one, given the season we were in. Theo came over after evening drills with damp hair, a bruise on his forearm, and the look he got when he had spent all day being competent for other people. He kissed me at the door like he meant it, then immediately checked his phone before his bag hit the floor. I watched that happen, counted to three, and took the phone out of his hand. “Hey,” he said. “Off roster time.” Theo blinked. “That’s not a real phrase.” “It is now.” I put the phone face-down on the shelf by the door. “No captains. No compliance. No scanning for the next fire while you’re still wearing your shoes in my apartment.” He stood there for a second, caught between protest and relief. Then he toed off the shoes and exhaled like someone had finally cut a weight off his neck. “You’re annoyed.” “I’m protective.” I hooked two fingers in the fro

_Miles’s POV_ The Silvermane house looked the same as the last time it had thrown me out of my father’s sight. That was part of the insult. Nothing about the stone or the glass or the careful lawn had changed. Only the terms of entry. I did not take Nathan to the gate. He had argued for it in the apartment at dawn, eyes still marked by the previous night’s win and worry, and I had held his face and told him the truth: if Damian wanted a public cut, walking in with Nathan would hand him the opening image. Nathan had not liked it. He had accepted it with his jaw locked and his hands tight on my jacket until the last possible second. Kane drove. Theo sat in the back with the quiet of a man already planning recovery routes. Neither of them asked if I was sure. The surety was irrelevant. Showing up was the cost of keeping Damian from defining the absence alone. A staff member left me in the formal sitting room. No offer of tea. No pretense this was family breakfast. Damian entered five