All Chapters of FORBIDDEN: THE ICY MEN'S PLUS-SIZED POSSESSION: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The third floor of the Veyron Ice Arena didn't look like a sports facility; it looked like a high-end corporate fortress. Polished obsidian tiles, ambient recessed lighting, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the main rink below.I stepped out of the elevator, my heels clicking softly against the floor. Before I could even take three steps toward the tactical suite, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the air conditioning."If you don't stop walking like you're heading to an execution, I'm going to throw my iced coffee at your head."I turned, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time all morning.Mireya stood leaning against a doorframe, clad in a sharp magenta power suit that contrasted wildly with the arena’s minimalist gray aesthetic. Her dark hair was styled in sleek, razor-sharp waves, and her lips were painted a fierce, unapologetic crimson. Mireya was the team's head of public relations…and my absolute rock of a best friend."Mireya," I breathed,

The glass-walled Executive Strategy Room sat like a glass fishbowl suspended over the arena floor. Long, dark mahogany tables, high-backed leather chairs, and wall-mounted 4K telemetry screens gave the room the air of a high-stakes military war room.When I pushed the double doors open, the room was already thick with male energy.Head Coach Miller sat at the head of the table, flanked by three assistant coaches and two veteran scouts. And sitting on the left side, looking larger than life in his black Veyron Wolves training quarter-zip, was Caius.The moment the door latched shut, every eye in the room turned to me."Ah, Voss," Coach Miller boomed, gesturing to the empty podium at the front of the room. "Just in time. Gentlemen, this is Elowen Voss, our new Lead Performance Analyst. She’s fresh from the league analytics summit, and she’s got the mid-season efficiency report."Caius hadn't moved. He sat back in his leather chair, his massive arms crossed tightly over his chest, his br

The glass elevator ascended smoothly toward the penthouse level, humming with quiet, expensive efficiency. As the doors slid open, the chaotic energy of the arena bowl evaporated, replaced by the hushed, imposing atmosphere of the Veyron family suite.Dark walnut paneling, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city skyline, and low leather furniture defined the space. It didn't feel like a sports office; it felt like the nerve center of a billion-dollar empire.I stepped out onto the plush carpet, my heels sinking slightly into the pile. At the far end of the room, behind a massive, slate-gray desk, sat Alaric Veyron.He was reviewing a file on a leather-bound tablet, a glass of amber scotch resting near his hand despite the early hour. Even seated, his presence dominated the entire floor. He was forty-seven, but time had treated him like fine steel…hardening him rather than wearing him down. His thick hair was a dark, commanding mix of silver and black, brushed back neatly from his

By nine o'clock at night, the bullpen was dead quiet.The rows of dual-monitor workstations sat dark, save for the blue glow emanating from my desk in the far corner. I had shed my heels hours ago, resting my bare feet on the carpet, but I kept my emerald silk blouse neatly tucked. The oversized cardigan Mireya had discarded on her office couch was draped over the back of my chair like a relic from a past life.I looked at the gray knit wool, then at my reflection in the dark glass of the window overlooking the city skyline. I didn't reach for it.Instead, I took a sip of cold green tea and kept typing, running multi-variable regression models to prepare the morning briefing for Coach Miller."So, is it true?" a cheerful, boyish voice broke the stillness of the room.I looked up, startled.Leaning against the glass doorframe of the bullpen was Kellan Voss. He was twenty-one, the Wolves' rising rookie star, and a complete golden retriever of a human being. He was dressed in grey sweatp

The smell of ozone, damp ice gear, and expensive leather hung heavy in the quiet bowels of the arena. It was seven-thirty in the morning, a full hour before the team was scheduled to assemble for morning skate, and the player locker room was dead silent.I held a small digital scanner in one hand, unhooking the wireless telemetry sensors from the charging cradles lined up along the stalls. My tablet rested on the wooden bench, logging the battery levels and diagnostic checks. Down here, surrounded by stalls bearing famous surnames, the atmosphere felt stripped of corporate polish. It was raw, athletic, and intensely masculine.I reached for the last sensor docked in stall number 87.The nameplate sat high on the dark oak framing: Caius Veyron — C.I paused for half a second, my thumb resting on the cold plastic casing. His stall was immaculately organized…skates pristine, gloves hung neatly, a black leather washbag tucked into the corner. But what drew my eye was a tiny, faded silver