Ice Alpha's Sick Obsession

[POV: REMI]

"Move, Remi. Or I’ll make sure you never walk on two feet again."

Jaxson’s voice didn’t just reach my ears; it vibrated through my very marrow. It was a low, jagged rasp that cut through the thunderous roar of twenty thousand fans screaming his name.

The air in the tunnel was thick, a suffocating cocktail of stale popcorn, expensive cologne, and the sharp, metallic tang of his sweat. I felt my lungs seize, the oxygen refusing to enter my chest. My heart didn’t just beat; it slammed against my ribs like a frantic bird trying to break its own wings against a cage.

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling so violently that the silk of my dress hissed against my skin. The fabric was a deep, mocking gold—the color of his victory, the color of my cage. My palms were slick, a cold moisture pooling in the center that made the world feel slippery and unstable.

"I can't," I whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the crowd's chant.

Jaxson! Jaxson! Jaxson!

He didn’t answer with words. He reached out, his massive hand, still encased in his heavy, salt-stained hockey glove, wrapping around my waist. The leather was abrasive, biting into the soft curve of my hip. It wasn't a caress. It was a brand.

He hauled me forward, dragging my small frame into the blinding glare of the arena lights. The transition from the shadows of the tunnel to the brilliance of the ice was a physical blow. The light felt like needles against my retinas.

The temperature dropped instantly. The rink ice breathed a crystalline frost into the air that hit my face like a slap. My skin erupted in a thousand tiny shivers, the fine hairs on my arms standing on end. Beneath my feet, the red carpet they’d laid out felt thin and treacherous.

"Smile," Jaxson hissed, his mouth barely moving as he waved his free hand toward the rafters. "You’re the lucky charm, remember? Give them what they paid for."

I felt the bile rise in the back of my throat, a bitter, acidic heat that burned. My ears began to ring, a high-pitched drone that tuned out the world until all I could hear was the ragged rhythm of my own breathing.

I looked at him—the MVP, the god of the ice, my step-brother. He looked magnificent in his jersey, his face streaked with the grime of the game, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, predatory hunger.

"You're hurting me," I managed to choke out.

His grip tightened. I felt the bruise forming in real-time, a dull, throbbing heat radiating from where his fingers dug into my side. He didn't care. He turned me toward the cameras, the flashes of a hundred lenses exploding like miniature stars in my vision.

The world was a blur of blue and white, the smell of the cold ice mixing with the sudden, overwhelming scent of him—dark chocolate, bitter and rich, and the