Chapter 94 CHAPTER 94

Chapter 94 CHAPTER 94
Jax’s Pov

I held my right hand up into the pale, cool moonlight streaming through the bay window, watching the dark band of steel catch the shadow.

It felt heavy on my finger. Not heavy like a chain or a weight dragging me down, but heavy like an anchor dropping into two hundred feet of dark, still water.

I turned my hand slowly, feeling the cool, unpolished texture of the river iron against my skin.

For as long as I could remember, my entire life had been measured out in temporary spaces.

I remembered the cramped, drafty bedrooms of five different foster homes across Michigan, spaces that never belonged to me, where every cardboard box packed in the closet was a reminder that my stay was conditional. I remembered the cheap, yellow-lit motels during my junior hockey days, where the carpet smelled of old smoke and the locks were flimsy, teaching me to sleep with one eye open and my gear packed by the door.

Even in Detroit, even at Northwood, I had lived like a mercenary. I had trained myself to expect the blow, to anticipate the betrayal, to keep my bags packed, my fists cocked, and my heart guarded behind an iron vault. Survival meant never getting comfortable. It meant treating every room like a temporary shelter before the storm swept it away.

I turned my head on the pillow.

Julian was sleeping soundly beside me, his dark hair messy against the white pillowcase, his quiet, rhythmic breathing warming the space between us. One of his long, pale arms was resting over my ribs, his fingers relaxed against my side.

I looked back at the steel ring on my finger.

The temporary rooms were gone. The foster homes, the motel hallways, the shadows of Flint, and the cold, transactional halls of Northwood, all of it had burned away.

This ring wasn't a corporate promise or a high-society display. It was forged out of the same iron that held our river docks together. It was a permanent seal.

I wasn't a mercenary anymore, fighting for a temporary contract on someone else’s ice. I had found my home, my anchor, and my sovereign shield, and it was lying right beside me in the dark.

Julian stirred in his sleep, his blue eyes fluttering open.

In the dim, indigo light of the room, his gaze found mine instantly. There was no hesitation in his face, no instant of guarded panic or polite restraint. Just a quiet, profound recognition that reached straight into my chest and pulled the last remnants of my defense apart.

"Jax," he whispered, his voice low and soft, like silk slipping over oak.

He didn't ask what I was looking at. He saw the steel ring on my hand, saw the quiet fire in my eyes, and simply reached up, his long, cool fingers resting flat against the side of my jaw.

I shifted my weight, turning toward him under the heavy dark blue quilt.

There were no words left to say. We had argued through media storms, screamed through locker room corridors, and whispered promises in shadowed cars. Everything that needed to be spoken had already been written into the ice.

I leaned down, pressing my mouth against his in a slow, deep, and unhurried kiss.

Julian let out a long, quiet sigh into my throat, his arms coming up to wrap around my neck, pulling me down until there was not a single millimeter of air left between us.

When I touched him, it wasn't frantic or driven by the raw, desperate fear of loss that had marked our nights in Detroit. It was profound, deliberate, and absolute. My calloused hands, bearing the pale scars of my knuckles, slid over the warm, smooth skin of his back, tracing the long, elegant line of his spine, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against my chest.

Every movement was a shared language. When I shifted over him, Julian opened up to me completely, his blue eyes fixed on mine through the dark, trusting me with every breath, every touch, and every inch of his body.

He arched into my touch with a soft, breathy sound, his hands sliding up my shoulders, his fingers digging into my back, anchoring me to him as we moved together.

It was an uninhibited, seamless fusion of two people who had bled in the same trenches. The physical pain of the bruised ribs, the split knuckles, and the silver scar on his cheekbone faded into nothingness, replaced by a deep, consuming heat that filled the quiet bedroom.

My mouth moved from his lips down to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse fluttering fast and strong against my tongue. Julian’s dark hair was damp against my fingers, his chest rising to meet mine, his hips lifting in perfect, intuitive synchronization with my own.

"Jaxom..." he gasped softly into the cold air, his voice rich with an emotion so raw and pure it made my chest ache.

"I've got you, Jules," I growled softly, my thumb stroking the smooth curve of his hip as I pulled him closer, sinking into him until the boundaries of where he ended and I began completely dissolved. "I've got you forever."

We came together in a slow, powerful crest of heat and sound, holding each other tight as the quiet tide swept over us, leaving us tangled together beneath the heavy quilt, breathing hot, shared air into the cool Midwest night.

I woke up to the soft, pale golden light of a clear winter morning.

The snow had stopped, leaving a crisp, brilliant sheet of white outside the tall river windows. The sun was rising over Lake Michigan, casting long, warm amber rays across the dark oak floorboards of our living room.

The apartment was warm, filled with the rich, inviting aroma of fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen.

I sat up on the floor mattress, wrapping the dark blue quilt around my waist, and looked toward the bay window.

Julian was sitting flat on the bare floorboards in a patch of morning sunlight, leaning his back against the wall beneath the glass. He was wearing an oversized cream-colored woolen sweater and a pair of dark sweatpants, a steaming ceramic mug resting on the wood beside his knee.

He had an old leather-bound sketchbook propped on his lap, a graphite pencil in his long fingers, moving softly across the thick paper as he sketched the outline of the river barges passing through the ice below.

His dark hair was messy from sleep, catching the bright golden light, and his face was completely relaxed. There was no tension in his shoulders, no cautious slant to his posture, and zero weight behind his clear blue eyes.

He looked up from his pad, catching me watching him.

A quiet, radiant smile touched his lips, a smile that belonged entirely to this sunlit room, to this life, to us.

"Good morning, Jaxom," Julian murmured softly, setting his pencil down on the wood.

"Morning, Jules," I said, my voice rough with sleep as I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "How long have you been up?"

"Half an hour," he replied, picking up his coffee mug and taking a quiet sip. "The light was too good to miss."

I watched him for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the gentle clink of his mug against the floorboards.

This was the reward. Not the trophies, not the headlines, and not the high-society validation. It was this quiet, unshakeable peace in the morning light.

By two o'clock that afternoon, the living room was organized for the road.

Our first official regular-season road trip with the Midwest Wolverines started in three hours, a four-game swing through Minnesota and Wisconsin.

Two heavy, black canvas equipment bags sat near the front door, smelling of leather, wax, and fresh skate steel. Next to them were two dark blue travel suits hanging from the coat rack, along with our leather garment bags.

I stood in the center of the hallway, pulling on a dark woolen coat over my thermal shirt. I walked over to my gear bag, grabbed the heavy canvas straps in my right hand, and hoisted the eighty-pound load onto my broad shoulder with an easy, practiced motion.

The dark iron ring on my finger pressed solid against the canvas strap.

I turned toward the door.

Julian was standing by the open doorway, wearing his dark charcoal suit coat over a crisp white shirt, looking impossibly sharp, clean, and dangerous. He was holding his two Sherwood sticks in one hand, his custom black hockey bag slung comfortably over his opposite shoulder.

He looked up at me, his blue eyes sharp, clear, and steady.

"Ready, Mercenary?" Julian asked, a soft, familiar spark dancing in his eyes.

I walked up to him, stopping right in front of the doorway, looking down at his face, at the silver scar on his cheek, and at the absolute, unshakeable certainty in his posture.

"Born ready, Captain," I growled softly.

I reached out my free left hand, grabbing the door handle, and pushed the heavy oak door open to the wide, open world outside.

We stepped out into the winter air together, shoulder to shoulder, ready for every shift on the sheet ahead.

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