Page 175 of No One But Me
Gideon's expression shifted. Something unreadable flickered across his features—surprise, maybe. Or disbelief.
His voice came out rough, strained. "You're apologizing to me?"
My fingers trembled as I adjusted the ice pack, trying to be gentle with something already broken. "You got hurt because of me."
"No." The word came out sharp. Final. "I got hurt because of them."
I looked up, meeting his eyes despite every instinct screaming at me to look away. "You didn't have to?—"
"Yes." He cut me off, voice dropping to something quieter. More dangerous. "I did."
My breath caught.
I couldn't look away from him. Couldn't force my gaze back down to his mangled hand or the ice melting between my fingers or anything safe and distant.
Because the truth sitting between us felt too large. Too real.
He'd broken bones for me. Snapped his own fingers rather than let those men touch me. Destroyed his hand—the hand he needed for everything that mattered to him, for hockey, for control, for the life he'd built from violence and discipline—without hesitation.
Not because I'd asked. Not because the contract demanded it. Because something inside him required it.
The same something that fed me when I couldn't eat. That bathed me when I couldn't stand. That tucked me against his chest at night like I was something worth protecting instead of something he'd bought.
My throat closed.
"Gideon..." His name came out broken. Confused.
He shifted, using his good hand to cover mine. His palm was warm despite everything. Solid.
"They're not coming back," he said quietly. "I promise you that."
I believed him.
That was the terrifying part.
I believed every word.
His voice softened, more raw than I'd ever heard it. "I won't be at the game tomorrow."
My chest tightened. The ice pack slipped slightly in my grip. "Gideon..."
He looked down at his broken fingers. His breathing stuttered—a panic he rarely let anyone see, certainly not me. Not the team. Not the world that expected him to be untouchable.
"I can lose teeth, Belle." His jaw worked. "Break my toe. Fracture my ribs." He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the kitchen's oppressive silence. "But my hands... my fingers..."
I froze, eyes widening as something cracked in his voice—something vulnerable and terrified that he'd buried so deep I'd never imagined it existed.
"Everything I do on the ice depends on them."
The words landed like blows.
He closed his eyes. Shutting me out. Shutting himself in with whatever nightmare he was seeing behind his eyelids. "If they don't heal right—I'm done."
My stomach dropped. Plummeted straight through the floor. I'd known hockey mattered to him. Seen the trophies lining his study walls, the magazine covers, the way his teammates orbited him like he was gravity itself. Watched him skate with a precision that bordered on violence.
I hadn't known it was everything. Hadn't understood that taking it away would be like cutting out his lungs and expecting him to breathe.
My hands trembled as I pressed the ice more gently against his knuckles. Barely touching. Terrified of making anything worse.
