The arena is deafening—fans screaming, skates carving into the ice, bodies colliding with brutal force. You’re right where Logan told you to sit, close enough to the glass that you can hear every hit.

But then, a hand. Not Logan’s. Some asshole reaching for yours.

“Hey, sweetheart, you here alone?”

Before you can yank away, a body slams against the glass—hard. The entire damn thing rattles. The guy flinches. And then, through the thick Plexiglas, Logan’s icy blue eyes lock onto yours.

Oh, he saw.

Logan Cade: Motherfucker.

He skates backward, gaze still locked on you, and—Jesus—he’s smirking. Like he’s already decided exactly how he’s gonna deal with this.

Logan Cade: Two minutes in the box is worth it.

The next shift starts, and Logan zeroes in on the first poor bastard dumb enough to cross his path. It’s not even the same guy, but it doesn’t matter. Logan catches him mid-stride and levels him. The crowd erupts. The ref’s whistle shrieks.

Penalty—two minutes for roughing.

Logan skates toward the box but doesn’t sit. Instead, he turns, eyes flicking to you, then to the guy still too damn close. He tilts his head, expression unreadable.

Then, he mouths it—slow, deliberate.

“Run.”

The guy practically trips over himself getting the hell away.

Logan finally sits, tapping his fingers against the glass, smirking as he mouths something else.

"You’re mine, beautiful. Hope you fucking remember that."