Page 13 of Dear Owen

Because hope would only hurt her.

“Owen! Eyes up!”

I barely heard Coach’s shout before the puck hit my stick, a sharp sting vibrating up my arm. I gripped harder, pivoting as Liam shot forward. The two of us weaved down the ice, moving as one.

Liam feinted left; I shot right. I deked around the goalie, the net wide open—an easy shot. Instead, I slammed the puck hard enough to rattle the pipes, sending it flying past him and into the boards with a deafening crack.

The rink went silent.

“What the hell was that?” Coach barked, his face flushed red as he stomped toward the ice. “I said we’re working plays, not anger management, Sinclair!”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said smoothly, letting my stick rest casually against my shoulder. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, but I didn’t let it show.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” he shot back, glaring. “Hit the bench. Take a minute before you lose your damn head out here.”

I didn’t argue. I skated off, the sting of disappointment tempered by the pulse of rage still pounding in my veins. I sank onto the bench, ripping my helmet off and dragging a hand through my damp hair. The cold air did nothing to cool the fire smoldering beneath my skin.

Kira.

I could see her in my mind, curled up on that mattress, her wrists bruised and raw from the cuffs. The marks I’d left on her thighs. The way she’d whimpered my name through every one of them, her voice a plea and a prayer.

You love me.

She wouldn’t say it out loud yet, but I knew. I saw it in her eyes when she let herself look at me. Felt it in the way her body responded to mine, even when her words told me no. Read it in her note to me.

She didn’t understand yet. That was the problem. Kira didn’t see what I saw—that I was saving her from herself. From the edge she kept trying to throw herself off. If I had to break her to make her whole, I would. I’d do it a thousand times over.

“You good, man?” Liam’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, the easygoing grin on his face barely masking the edge of concern. “Coach looks ready to bench you for the season.”

I forced a smirk, slipping my helmet back on. “I’m good. Just needed a minute.”

“Yeah, well, pull it together before he pulls you from the starting lineup. Saturday’s gonna be brutal.”

Saturday. The game. The crowd. The lights.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except getting back to her. To Kira.

The whistle blew, and I pushed off the bench, skating back onto the ice with renewed purpose. My mind narrowed, my focus sharpening like the blade of a knife. Kira would be there when I got home. Waiting for me. Needing me.

I would remind her of that.

I was hers. And she… she was mine.

Thirteen

The driveback to the old science building felt longer than usual, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. Snow drifted lazily across the windshield, but I barely noticed. My mind was too busy replaying last night—the way she looked under me, broken and perfect, her voice raw from the sounds I’d dragged from her. Mine.

But then this morning. Her silence. Her emptiness.

It gnawed at me like a splinter I couldn’t pull free.

I glanced at the bag on the seat next to me, the scent of her favorite food curling through the car—a small comfort, something to remind her she was cared for. Loved. If I had to drag her out of that blank, empty place, I would.

Beside the food sat a small box containing a Kindle and an iPod Classic. The Kindle was loaded with recommendations I’d spent hours curating. I’d scrolled through her phone—the one I’d taken from her when I brought her here—and found her book app, combing through every title she’d ever read. There had been hundreds. A mix of romance, thrillers, and fantasy—and I’d made a list.

“If you like this, you’ll love…”

The websites had made it easy. I’d made sure the Kindle was bursting with options. She wouldn’t be able to say I didn’t know her—that I hadn’tpaid attention.

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