Quiet Pages

🔞Attention! Ne pas lire en public ! 👉

I signed a 14-page contract without reading the fine print. I should have read the fine print. The listing promised great pay for "working with exotic creatures." What it didn't say was that I wasn't hired to care for the monsters behind those seven doors I was hired to breed with one. On day four they strapped me to a table and the man who hired me pressed a needle to my stomach. "You agreed to all of it when you signed," he smiled. "And I need your womb." They've spent years collecting from every species in this building, preparing for the one part they couldn't manufacture. Me. Every girl before me died, broke, or vanished. The only one trying to keep me alive is the very monster I'm meant to survive. ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— What did she really sign? Read Monstrously Yours Now!

🔞Attention! Do not read in public ! 👉

Her POV: I was just Lyla Monroe—quiet, overlooked, the secretary nobody took seriously. But in reality, I was actually Nova Kingsley 👑, heir to the Kingsley empire and I’m about to be married to the CEO I worked for: Luca Steele 💍 but he doesn’t know I was the secretary who worked for him. Neither of us wanted this marriage, arranged before we were even born, but fate doesn't ask for permission. Now I'm caught between duty, secrets, and the man whose cold stare once pierced through me—but whose touch now sets me on fire 🔥🥵. Chapter 1: Lyla Monroe “What the heck!?” His voice sliced through the room like a whip. I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks as every eye in the conference room swung to me. My hands trembled slightly around the coffee tray, but I held onto it like my life depended on it. Luca Steele stood at the head of the long glass table, tall, lethal, and entirely too composed for a man who’d just been drenched in a splash of boiling cappuccino. Steam still rose from his tailored black suit, but his steel-gray eyes were colder than ice. “You’ve worked for me for two years,” he said, each word slow, deliberate, laced with venom. “And you still manage to be a walking disaster. Fix it. Or quit.” No one dared to breathe. The coffee stain spread across the crisp white papers in front of him, slowly bleeding into confidential numbers and contract drafts worth millions. I scrambled forward, grabbing tissues from the tray, muttering apologies that sounded too small, too broken, too pathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steele—” “Sorry doesn’t clean Armani.” He stepped back, brushing off his sleeve with visible disgust. “And what the hell are you wearing?” I froze. His eyes dragged over me. Every inch. My oversized brown cardigan hung off my shoulders like a borrowed curtain. The faded blouse underneath clung to me awkwardly, a button missing near the collar. The olive-green skirt was too long, too wrinkled, and paired horribly with the scuffed, worn-out flats I’d owned since college. My foundation was two shades too pale. My lipstick was crooked. The jet-black wig I wore hung limply around my face, uncombed and clearly fake. And the massive round sunglasses I wore indoors? That was the final punchline. I was a caricature. And everyone knew it. Chuckles rippled softly across the room. “I’m not running a charity,” Luca said, cutting through the silence. “If you can’t show up looking like a professional, then don’t show up at all.” He didn’t wait for a response. He turned his back and walked toward the screen, launching into a presentation like I hadn’t just been stripped of every ounce of dignity in front of ten high-ranking executives. I stood there, cheeks burning, throat tight. And then I turned and walked out. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, I collapsed into the farthest stall. My hands gripped the toilet seat as sobs wracked my chest. Quiet, sharp, hopeless sobs. I didn’t even care about the coffee anymore. Or the cardigan. Or the snickers in the room. I was just so… tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of working ten times harder just to be invisible. I reached into my purse for tissues and caught my reflection in the mirror through the gap in the stall door. God. I did look awful. The glasses had fogged up from my breath. My mascara was smudged beneath the frames. And the wig—it sat like a lifeless animal on my head, tangled, greasy, and suffocating. I buried my face into my hands, trying to breathe. Then—my phone buzzed. LUCA STEELE. I swallowed hard. I wiped my face with toilet paper, fixed my lipstick with shaking fingers, tucked a strand of wig behind my ear, and inhaled once. Twice. By the time I stepped out of the stall, the tears were gone. The mask was back. I walked through the hallway, the same hallway I walked every day, except now it felt like a spotlight was burning holes in me. Two interns passed by, whispering a little too loudly. “She looks like a blind clown.” “I heard she lives in her car.” “She probably has blackmail on him. No way Steele keeps that thing around otherwise.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t break stride. I never did. Luca’s office loomed ahead, the frosted glass doors tall and foreboding. I stepped in without knocking. He didn’t look up. His office was cold, like everything else about him—monochrome, sharp lines, minimal furniture. But he was the only part of the room that radiated heat. Not warmth—heat. Intensity. Luca Steele, age twenty-nine, CEO of one of the most ruthless corporate empires in the world. Jet-black tousled hair. Perfectly sculpted jawline. That expensive three-day stubble that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. And those eyes—ice-colored and emotionless.They’d never softened. Not once. I handed him the corrected reports in silence. He barely acknowledged me. “Get me Victoria Ames on the line. And fix the deck from slide 8 onward. It’s sloppy.” “Yes, Mr. Steele.” I turned, heading for the door. My phone rang. I paused, glanced at the screen. Unknown Number. “Hello?” I whispered. A soft voice crackled on the line. “Hi, this is Carla from the reception desk. There’s… um… there’s a man here to see you.” My stomach tightened. “A man?” I said, confused. “Who?” She hesitated. “He gave his name. Said you’d recognize it.” I waited. “Jonathan Kingsley.” Why did she say she was tired of pretending? And who was Jonathan Kingsley? 🤔 Read Behind the Lies—I Was Always His to find out now! ❤️‍🔥

„Du warst so ein braves Mädchen. Jetzt komm.“ Er hat nie nach Bildern gefragt. Hat mir nie seinen Namen gesagt. Er hat mir einfach nur gesagt, was ich tun soll—wie ich mich berühren soll, wann ich aufhören soll, wie ich atmen soll. Und ich habe zugehört. Jedes einzelne Mal 😮‍💨. Ich sollte doch klug sein. Kontrolliert. Perfekt. Aber unter seinem Befehl war ich nichts als Verlangen und Hitze und Bedürfnis. Er ließ mich mich sicher fühlen im Loslassen. Bis zu dem Tag, an dem ich meinen bewerteten Ordner öffnete und mein Höschen zwischen den Seiten fand… und aufsah, nur um meinen Professor dabei zu erwischen, wie er mir zusah, während ich zerbrach 🔥. Kapitel 1 [Sichtweise Sophie] „Ahh…“ Das Geräusch entweicht meinen Lippen, bevor ich es zurückhalten kann. Ein Stöhnen. Sanft. Getimt. Abgemessen. Fast wie ein Reflex. Nicht, weil ich etwas fühle. Nicht, weil ich es will. Sondern, weil ich es soll. Ethans Gewicht drückt auf mich, seine Brust feucht an meiner, seine Stöße mechanisch wie ein Körper im Autopilot. Er beginnt immer langsam, als glaube er, es würde sich zu etwas aufbauen – tut es nie. Der Raum ist dunkel, aber ich halte die Augen offen, fixiere den Deckenventilator über uns, während er knarrend langsame Kreise dreht. Ich versuche, die Umdrehungen zu zählen. Alles, um mich zu erden. Ich denke nicht an Ethan. Ich denke an meinen Vibrator – den rosafarbenen, den ich in meiner Sockenschublade verstecke. Ich denke daran, wie es sich anfühlt, wenn ich es selbst mache. Wenn ich die Kontrolle habe. Wenn niemand über mir keucht, als würde er eine Stechuhr bedienen. Ethan stöhnt, tief und müde, und verlagert sein Gewicht. Missionarstellung. Immer Missionarstellung. Er versucht nie etwas anderes. Ich kenne diesen Rhythmus wie meine Westentasche. Quarterback-Rhythmus. Vorhersehbar. Alles Kraft, keine Finesse. Früher war er der Goldjunge unserer Highschool – Letterman-Jacke, Grübchenkinn, stolze Eltern auf den Tribünen. Und ich war wohl das kluge Mädchen, das an seinem Arm gut aussah. Wir sind seit der elften Klasse zusammen. Damals schien das genug. Gewollt werden. Ausgewählt werden. Aber jetzt? Jetzt liege ich reglos da, starre ausdruckslos, während er sein Ding macht, in dem Wissen, dass ich nicht kommen werde. Wieder einmal. Es ist seit Jahren so. Ich will schon seit einer Weile mit ihm Schluss machen, aber er ist so… vertraut. Seine Stimme, seine Hände, sogar der Geruch seines Parfums – irgendwas von Axe, immer ein bisschen zu stark. Ich hasse Veränderungen. Schon immer. Aber heute Nacht versuche ich es. Ich umfasse sein Kinn und spüre, wie sich dort Schweiß sammelt. „Schatz, kannst du... ein bisschen härter?“ flüstere ich. Er antwortet nicht. Bewegt sich einfach weiter, wie ein verdammtes Metronom. „Was, wenn wir...“ Ich winde mich unter ihm, winkle meine Hüften an, versuche, ihn zu lenken. „... es mal von hinten versuchen?“ Er hält inne. Nur für einen Moment. Dann, mit einem kurzen Schnauben: „Nein. Warum an etwas rütteln, das funktioniert?“ Mein Magen zieht sich zusammen. Funktioniert für wen? Ich beiße mir auf die Lippe, bemühe mich, nicht zu seufzen. „Klar. Ja.“ Ich versuche, die Stimme in meinem Kopf zum Schweigen zu bringen. Die, die ihn immer mit den Männern in den Büchern vergleicht, die ich heimlich unter der Bettdecke lese. Bücher, in denen das Mädchen gegen die Wand gedrückt wird, immer wieder heftig kommt und dabei seinen Namen keucht. Wo Kontrolle eine Waffe ist und Hingabe verdient werden muss. Ich sage mir, ich soll aufhören, diesen Mist zu lesen. Diese düsteren Liebesromane sind Fantasie. Fiktion. Sogar gefährlich. Aber Gott, wenigstens lassen sie mich etwas fühlen. Ich presse meine Hand gegen seine Brust, um ihn zu stabilisieren. Er grunzt, genervt. „Was jetzt?“ Ich zögere, bevor ich schließlich sage: „Was, wenn du... mich würgen würdest?“ Er hält inne. Eiskalt. „Also, nicht fest“, füge ich schnell hinzu, meine Stimme ganz klein. „Nur ein bisschen. Das ist so ein Ding. Manche machen das manchmal...“ Schweigen. Dann verzieht sich sein Gesicht vor Ekel. „Was zum Teufel stimmt nicht mit dir?“, sagt er scharf, zieht sich mit einem schmatzenden Geräusch aus mir zurück und rollt sich von meinem Körper, als wäre ich ansteckend. Ich blinzele ihn an, wie vor den Kopf geschlagen. Meine Hände tasten hektisch nach dem Laken, bedecken meine Brust, obwohl wir das schon hundertmal gemacht haben. „Ethan—“ „Du hast gerade echt die Stimmung gekillt“, sagt er und greift nach seinem Handy auf dem Nachttisch. „Willst du jetzt beim Sex misshandelt werden? Jesus, Soph.“ „Ich habe nicht ‚misshandelt‘ gesagt“, murmele ich. „Es ist... es ist nur so ein Kink, weißt du. Es ist nicht so—“ „Oh, also stehst du jetzt auf so abgefuckten Scheiß?“, unterbricht er mich und steht auf. „Was, willst du jetzt, dass ich dir ins Gesicht schlage? Dir in den Mund spucke? Soll ich dich gleich noch eine verdammte Schlampe nennen?“ Die Vorstellung, dass Ethan das wirklich mit mir macht, hat mich gerade feucht werden lassen. Scheiße. „Das habe ich nicht gemeint“, flüstere ich und schrumpfe in mich zusammen. Meine Wangen brennen. „Gott, deshalb schaue ich keinen Porno mit dir“, schneidet er mich ab und beginnt auf und ab zu gehen. „Du bekommst diese Ideen in deinen Kopf von TikTok oder irgendeinem billigen Schmuddelbuch, von dem du denkst, ich weiß nicht, dass du es liest, und plötzlich soll ich was—dich dominieren?“ „Ich...“ Ich klammere mich fester an das Laken. „Ich komme in letzter Zeit selten, Ethan. Ich dachte vielleicht—“ „Wow.“ Er wirbelt herum. „Also ist das jetzt meine Schuld?“ „Nein! Ich habe nicht—“ „Du hast Probleme“, fährt er mich an. „Vielleicht solltest du mal darüber nachdenken, warum du überhaupt auf so einen Scheiß stehst.“ Die Worte treffen wie Eiswasser. Ich sitze da, nackt und bloßgestellt, und sehe zu, wie er seine Boxershorts vom Boden aufhebt. Sein Rücken ist mir jetzt zugewandt, die Schultern angespannt, voller verletztem Stolz. „Ich stehe auf gar nichts“, sage ich, kaum hörbar. „Ich versuche nur herauszufinden, warum ich nichts fühle.“ Er erstarrt mitten im Schritt und seine Stimme wird gefährlich leise. „Nichts?“ Ich sollte zurückrudern. Mich entschuldigen. Es wieder gut machen wie immer. Aber irgendwas reißt in mir. „Nichts“, wiederhole ich, diesmal lauter. „Drei Jahre, Ethan. Die letzten verdammten drei Jahre habe ich es nur vorgetäuscht, weil du mich nie gefragt hast, ob es mir überhaupt Spaß macht.“ Langsam dreht er sich um. Sein Gesicht ist ein Sturm. „Also hast du mich die ganze Zeit belogen?“ „Hast du dich selbst belogen?“, schieße ich zurück und überrasche uns beide. „Hast du wirklich geglaubt, diese kleinen theatralischen Stöhner wären echt? Dass ich jedes Mal exakt nach zwei Minuten wie ein Uhrwerk komme?“ Sein Kiefer arbeitet. „Du benimmst dich wie eine Zicke.“ „Nein, ich bin ehrlich. Endlich.“ Ich stehe auf, halte immer noch das Laken fest. „Weißt du, woran ich denke, wenn wir Sex haben?“ Er antwortet nicht. „An meine Einkaufsliste. An meine Soziologie-Hausarbeit, die ich bis Montag abgeben muss. Ob ich das Glätteisen ausgemacht habe.“ Meine Stimme wird stärker. „An buchstäblich alles, außer an dich!“ „Fick dich, Sophie.“ „Hast du schon. Wie immer schlecht.“ Die Stille dehnt sich zwischen uns wie ein Abgrund. Er starrt mich an, als hätte ich einen zweiten Kopf bekommen. Als ob das Mädchen, das jahrelang nachgiebig und lieb war, plötzlich Fangzähne hätte. „Weißt du was?“, sagt er und zieht sich seine Jeans an. „Du hast recht. Das ist total beschissen. Wir sind total beschissen.“ „Endlich etwas, worin wir uns einig sind.“ Er schnappt sich mit scharfen, wütenden Bewegungen seine Schlüssel von meiner Kommode. „Ruf mich nicht an.“ „War auch nicht vor.“ Die Tür knallt so heftig zu, dass meine Bilderrahmen klirren. Wird sie jemals jemanden finden, der wirklich weiß, was sie will? 🤔 Lies Bitte härter, Professor, jetzt! 🔥

I was supposed to be the straight one. The angry one. The broken one. The son of a closeted gay man rotting in a prison cell. I spent twenty-one years making sure I'd never become my father. Then my mother married Cade Ellory's father. Five girlfriends couldn't fix me. Two ED pills couldn't fix me. The girl on Tinder I'd been sexting for two weeks couldn't fix me. The only thing that's ever made my body work is the stepbrother who's hated me since high school — and who got hard the first time I beat him bloody on a bathroom floor. The bathroom we now share doesn't fully lock. Read Hurt Me Like You Need Me now 🔥

"We're both drunk. And your first time… Fuck, Adison… Your first time shouldn't be because I'm jealous and possessive and completely out of control." "What if that's exactly what I want?" "Adison," His voice cracked. "What are you—" "Showing you what I want." Third button. Fourth. "Since apparently words aren't working." The shirt fell open. Burgundy lace underneath—that bra I'd packed thinking I'd never have reason to wear it. Guess I'd been wrong about that. His eyes went dark. Pupils blown wide. Breath coming faster. I trailed my fingers down my stomach. Slid them under the hem of my skirt, and watched his control fracture in real-time. I let my nails scrape lightly over my skin, teasing, like I was just stretching—but we both knew better. My skirt was already bunched up around my thighs, and I caught the exact moment Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His veins popping like he was trying to strangle the damn thing instead of driving it. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel scraped raw. His jaw clenched, eyes darting to me for a split second before focusing back on the road. “You’re killing me…” “Good,” I purred, sliding my hand lower, between my legs. “Maybe you deserve it.” My thighs parted just enough to give him a glimpse, the barest flash of my lace panties, damp and clinging to me. He groaned, a sound so fucking primal it sent a shiver down my spine. I let my thighs fall open completely and my fingers dipped beneath the lace, brushing against my slick folds. I gasped softly, just loud enough for him to hear, and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Princess…” he hissed, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“Does it bother you,” he asked, “when I touch someone else?” I had a girlfriend. He knew that 😔. And yet Blaze watched me like I already belonged to him. When I kissed her, it wasn’t desire—it was defiance. And he saw right through it 😡🔥. The jealousy in his eyes scared me… because part of me wanted it. Wanted him to care. Wanted him to fight for me the way no one ever has 🖤. I was supposed to be straight. Supposed to be normal. But nothing feels right when he’s near ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 Asher’s POV The transfer students file into the arena one by one, and I couldn't care less about any of them. My skates are already laced, my stick taped fresh this morning, and my mind locked on one thing only—the captain title I've been chasing for three goddamn years. Coach Wellington hinted that today's scrimmage would seal the deal. Three years of six AM practices, bloody knuckles, and muscles screaming for mercy. Three years of being the first one on the ice and the last one off. This is my moment, and nothing is going to take it from me. I stretch my shoulders, rolling the tension from my neck, when a laugh cuts through the noise. Not just any laugh. A laugh I'd recognize anywhere, even after all this time. My heart slams to a stop. I turn, and there he is. Blaze Wilson. Messy hair falling into warm brown eyes, that same easy confidence radiating off him in waves. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, but unmistakably him. The boy who learned to skate because I dragged him onto frozen ponds when we were ten. The boy who cried when his family announced they were moving across the country. "Promise me we'll meet on the same ice again someday." His hand was gripping mine so tight it hurted. "Promise me, Ash." I promised. I meant every word. For years, that promise fueled me through brutal mornings and aching muscles. Every time I wanted to quit, I remembered his face. I never imagined it would come true like this. Blaze walking into my arena, wearing my school's colors, grinning at me across the rink. "Ash! It’s you!" He closes the distance between us in long strides, and his face breaks into that smile I remember. The one that used to make everything feel okay. "Told you we'd end up here!" My chest floods with something warm and unfamiliar. My best friend is back. We're finally on the same team, same ice, same dream. "Blaze." His name feels strange on my tongue after so long. "I can't believe you're actually here. When did you… How—" "Transferred last week. Wanted to surprise you." He throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing briefly. His grip is stronger than I remember. "Missed you, man. We've got a lot of catching up to do. You have no idea how long I've waited for this." I want to grab him, ask about everything I've missed, tell him how much those childhood memories carried me through lonely nights when hockey felt pointless. The words pile up in my throat, but before I can say anything, Coach Wellington's whistle pierces the air. "Alright, listen up!" His voice echoes through the arena, cutting through conversations. "Today's scrimmage determines your positions going forward. I need to see what you're made of. Everyone on the ice in five!" The transfer students scramble to gear up. Blaze squeezes my shoulder one more time before stepping back, that grin still plastered on his face. "See you out there, Ash. Try to keep up." I watch him go, something uneasy stirring in my gut. Try to keep up. What does that mean? He's competing for captain too? The scrimmage starts, and I throw myself into every play with everything I have. This is what I've trained for. Every drill, every sacrifice, every moment of pain—it all comes down to this. I push harder, faster, determined to prove I deserve that C on my jersey. Then I noticed Blaze. He moves across the ice with a fluidity that makes my stomach drop. Every pivot, every shot, every defensive read comes to him effortlessly. Naturally. The techniques I spent years mastering through blood and repetition, he executes without even trying. I steal the puck from a defender and drive toward the goal, legs pumping, vision tunneled on the net. But Blaze appears out of nowhere, checking me clean off my line with a hit that rattles my bones. The puck lands on his stick, and three seconds later, it's buried in the back of the net. "Nice try." He skates past me, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne beneath the ice and sweat. He winks. "Almost had me there." My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. Almost. The story of my goddamn life. The scrimmage continues, and every minute makes it clearer. Blaze isn't just good—he's extraordinary. He reads the game three moves ahead, anticipates passes before they happen, commands the ice without raising his voice. The other players gravitate toward him instinctively, following his calls, trusting his decisions. I trained for years to be this good. Sacrificed parties, relationships, sleep. And he just... is. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my lungs burn and my legs shake. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking through my jersey. But the physical exhaustion is nothing compared to the cold dread pooling in my chest. "Gather around!" Coach Wellington waits until we form a loose circle. His eyes scan the group, landing briefly on me before moving to Blaze. "Solid performance today. Exactly what I needed to see." I straighten my spine, ignoring the tremor in my muscles. This is it. Everything I've worked for. "We need a new captain who can take us to championships," Coach continues, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "Someone who can lead on and off the ice. Someone the team will follow into battle." My heart pounds against my ribs. Three years. Three years of being overlooked, of waiting my turn, of proving myself over and over. "Based on today's performance..." Coach pauses, and the silence stretches. "Blaze Wilson will lead this team." The words hit me square in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at the ice beneath my skates while the arena spins around me. All teammates clap and cheer. Someone slaps Blaze on the back. He accepts it all with that easy grace, nodding to the team, smiling that perfect golden-boy smile. Then his eyes find mine across the circle. He winks. Actually winks, as if this is just another game we're playing. Maybe for him it is. I search his face for something—an apology, hesitation, acknowledgment that he just took everything from me. But there's nothing. Just confidence. Just that charm that everyone falls for without question. The warmth I felt earlier twists into something bitter. Something sharp and ugly that digs between my ribs and refuses to let go. "Ash!" Blaze skates toward me, still grinning. "We should celebrate later, yeah? Captain's gotta buy the first round, right? Let me take you out, catch up properly. It's been way too long, man." I stare at him. At this boy who learned to love hockey because I loved it. Who promised we'd share the same ice someday. Who just waltzed back into my life and stole the only dream I had left without breaking a sweat. My hands curl into fists at my sides. The childhood friend I missed for years suddenly feels like a stranger wearing a familiar face. Like an enemy. "Congratulations, Captain." The words come out flat. Dead. Nothing like how I imagined this reunion would go. Blaze's smile falters, confusion flickering in his brown eyes. "Wait, wh– Ash, come on. Don't be like that. We're on the same team now. Isn't this what we always wanted?" What we wanted. As if anything about this is what I wanted. "I have to go." I turn before he can see what's cracking behind my eyes. "Early class tomorrow." "Ash, wait—!" But I'm already walking away, the sound of his voice chasing me across the arena. I don't look back. If I do, he might see it—the devastation, the betrayal. The bitter realization that promises made at ten years old mean nothing when natural talent trumps years of sacrifice. Chapter 2 Asher’s POV Sleep doesn't come that night. By morning, I give up trying. The arena is empty at five AM. Just me, the ice, and the echo of my skates cutting through silence. I've been here for an hour already, running drills until my muscles scream and my lungs burn with cold air. If I can't be captain, I'll be undeniable. I'll be so damn good they'll have no choice but to finally notice me. My stick connects with puck after puck, sending them into the net with satisfying thuds. Sweat drips down my spine despite the chill. This is what separates me from everyone else—while they sleep, or party, or fuck, I work. Yesterday replays in my head on a loop. Coach's voice announcing Blaze as captain. The way my stomach dropped. The way Blaze winked at me across the circle, oblivious to the devastation written across my face. The doors bang open around six-thirty, and voices flood the space. I don't look up. Don't acknowledge the teammates filing in, the shuffle of gear bags, the lazy morning chatter. I focus on my form, my speed, my precision. Everything I can control. Then I hear him. Blaze's laugh carries across the rink, warm and easy, and my jaw tightens on instinct. I glance over despite myself. He's surrounded by teammates already, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, radiating that effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him. One day as captain and he owns the room. I turn back to my drills, grip tightening on my stick. Skates whisper across the ice behind me. Close. Too close. "Nice moves," he says. The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes something twist in my gut. I ignore it. "Don't you have a team to lead, Captain?" "I'm leading right now." He tilts his head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. "Showing up early to check on my hardest-working player." "I don't need checking on." "Sure you don't." His grin widens. "That's why you've been out here since before dawn, running the same drills over and over. Totally normal behavior." "It's called dedication. You should try it sometime." "Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "That one actually stung, Ash." Coach Wellington's whistle saves me. We gather at center ice, and I position myself as far from Blaze as possible. It doesn't matter. I feel his gaze on me the entire time Coach explains today's formations. The drills are brutal. Exactly what I need. I throw myself into every play, pushing harder than anyone else. But Blaze matches me at every turn. Faster. Smoother. Reading the ice three moves ahead while I'm still processing the first. "Partner drills!" Coach bellows. "Carpenter, Wilson—you're together." My stomach drops. Blaze skates over, looking far too pleased. "Lucky me." "Shut up and run the drill." We move through the formations, bodies forced into close proximity. Pass, receive, pivot, repeat. His stick brushes mine. Our shoulders collide on a turn. Every point of contact sends unwanted awareness sparking through my nerves. During a brief pause, Blaze leans in. His breath ghosts against my ear, warm in the frozen air. "Why do you tense up? Every time I get close." I jerk back, pulse spiking. "I'm not—" "Relax, Ash." His voice drops lower, teasing, almost intimate. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely." Heat crawls up my neck. "Touch me again and I'll break your stick over your head." Something sparks in his eyes—not anger, but delight. "You can try. But we both know you'd fail." That's it. I slam my shoulder into his as I skate past, hard enough to make him stumble backward. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely. His laugh chases me across the ice. "There he is. Missed that fire!" I don't respond. Can't respond. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something that reveals how much he gets under my skin. The rest of practice passes in a blur. By the time Coach calls it, my body aches and my mind is in chaos. In the locker room, I peel off my gear in silence. Around me, teammates cluster around Blaze. Everyone hangs on his every word, captivated. One day. That's all it took for him to become everyone's favorite person. Three years of me building respect on this team, and he waltzed in and surpassed it without trying. I grab my bag and escape. The cold air outside hits my face, and I exhale slowly. “Rough day, baby?” I turn. Amelia stands by the entrance, bundled in her oversized jacket, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Something like that." I close the distance, and she rises to press a kiss to my cheek. "Want to talk about it?" "Not really." She doesn't push. That's one of the things I appreciate about my girlfriend—she knows when to let things go. Her fingers thread through mine, and for a moment the chaos in my head quiets. I have this. I have her. I don't need Blaze's friendship or approval. We start walking toward the parking lot. She's talking about something—her classes, maybe—but my mind drifts. "Ash." She tugs my hand, pulling me to a stop beside her car. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" "Sorry. Just tired." She sighs, stepping closer, arms looping around my neck. "You're always tired lately." Her fingers play with the hair at my nape. "You know how long it's been since we've actually spent time together? Real time?" "I know. I'm sorry." "Three weeks, Ash." She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. "Three weeks since you've touched me properly. I miss you." Her voice drops. "I miss your hands on me. Miss feeling you against me." She kisses me—soft at first, then deeper. I kiss her back because that's what I'm supposed to do. Because she's my girlfriend and she's beautiful and any normal guy would be dragging her into the backseat right now. But my mind won't quiet. Won't stop replaying brown eyes tracking me across the ice. I pull back gently. "I'm really tired today, Ames. Practice was brutal." Disappointment flickers across her face. "It's always practice." "I know." I press a kiss to her forehead. "After the season settles down, I promise. I'll make it up to you." "You mean after you figure out whatever's going on with the new transfer?" She says it lightly, but there's an edge underneath. I freeze. "What?" "Blaze." She tilts her head. "You've mentioned his name like six times since he got here. More than you've talked about anyone on the team in three years." "Because he's annoying. He stole my captain position. Of course I'm going to talk about him." "Mm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Just don't let him get in your head, okay?" "He's not in my head." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you say so." She drives off. I stand alone in the parking lot, her words echoing. You've mentioned his name like six times. Have I? Maybe I've been so focused on how much he irritates me that I haven't noticed how much space he's taking up in my thoughts. Then I feel it. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder. Blaze stands at the arena doors, arms crossed, still in his practice gear. He's not smiling anymore. That easy charm is stripped away, replaced by something I can't read. Something that makes my chest tight and my throat dry. Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two. I force myself to turn away. Walk to my car. Don't look back. But I feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way. I tell myself I don't care what Blaze thinks. Tell myself that look meant nothing. I'm still telling myself that hours later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by brown eyes that see too much. What starts as a stolen title turns into a rivalry that refuses to stay professional. 😈 Read Score Me, Captain now! 🧊