Page 39 of Cold Carnage

I glanced at his hand gripping me tightly. "You're still here," I pointed out, ignoring the discomfort building in my wrist. His grip was firm enough to bruise.

He looked away again, his jaw clenched. "That's different."

"Ryker," I said softly, rolling my eyes despite the pain shooting up my arm. "You're hurting me."

He looked down like he’d forgotten he was holding me and quickly released his grip. His mouth opened slightly, as if he was going to apologize, but then he closed it again, leaving the words unspoken.

I rubbed my wrist, the skin already reddening from where his fingers had pressed into it. The room felt even quieter now, the hum of the fluorescent lights above us suddenly louder than ever before.

“Come on,” Ryker said, his tone edged with impatience.

I blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What are you?—”

“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” he cut in sharply. “It’s eleven.”

“Okay,” I replied, standing up from my chair.

He grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and thrust it at me with an almost violent urgency.

“I’m walking you to your car, you stupid girl,” he snapped.

I stared at him, caught between feeling insulted and a strange sense of gratitude that he cared enough to insist. It was hard to tell with Ryker whether his actions stemmed from genuine concern or just his need for control.

“And if I tell you I don’t need you to walk me to my car?” I asked, tilting my head slightly in defiance.

“I’d tell you you’re stupider than you look,” he growled, eyes darkening.

I slid the jacket on, feeling the warmth of the fabric envelop me. “I do not look stupid,” I muttered under my breath.

He ignored my comment and gestured toward the door with a curt nod. I gathered my things and followed him out of the office. The hallway was dimly lit, our footsteps echoing in the stillness as we made our way toward the exit. The weight of our earlier conversation hung heavily between us, unspoken words swirling like ghosts in the air.

As we stepped outside into the cool night, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Ryker’s presence beside me was both comforting and unnerving, a paradox I couldn’t quite reconcile. The parking lot stretched out before us, mostly empty except for a few scattered cars glinting under the streetlights.

We walked in silence, the tension between us palpable. Despite everything, I found myself glancing at him from time to time, wondering what thoughts lay hidden behind his stoic facade. He seemed so unreachable, so determined to keep everyone at arm’s length.

Finally reaching my car, I fumbled with my keys for a moment before unlocking it. I turned to face him one last time before getting in.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, not entirely sure what I was thanking him for—his insistence on walking me or something deeper that I couldn’t quite name.

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Just get home safe,” he murmured before turning on his heel and walking away into the night.

I watched him go, a mixture of emotions swirling within me as I climbed into my car and drove off into the darkness.

I just hoped he would listen to me about Brendan. The mere idea of facing Brendan again sent a shiver down myspine, knotting my stomach with anxiety. Memories of our time together, the good and the painful, flitted through my mind like ghosts. If he were to show up now, I wasn’t sure how I’d react or what I’d even say to him. The wounds were still fresh, barely scabbed over, and seeing him might tear them open again in the worst way.

I shuddered at the thought and got into the car.

The past had a way of lingering just beneath the surface, ready to resurface at the slightest provocation. All I wanted was to move forward without dragging those old pains along with me.

Chapter 12

Ryker

Iwoke up with a pounding headache, remnants of last night's confrontation with Paige echoing in my mind. My body ached for release, so I headed to the rink. Ice was the only place where things made sense.

Stepping onto the cold, smooth surface, I felt a semblance of peace. The chill in the air bit at my skin, but I welcomed it. I skated to the center, letting my muscles stretch and my mind clear. The weight of my father's expectations hung heavy, a shadow I could never quite shake.

The familiar sound of pucks hitting the boards caught my attention. Rowan Blackwell and Weston Cole were already there, taking shots at Kellan Bishop. Rowan, built like a tank with scruff that gave him a wild look, was one of our vets. His intensity matched his appearance. Every slapshot he took reverberated through the rink.

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