His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 231: Olive's Pov

Not gently or carefully but wildly, desperately, like he was trying to prove something or claim something or make absolutely sure I understood that whatever was happening between us, whatever complications my mother was worried about, or my worries about Elena, none of it mattered compared to this.

His other hand found my waist and pulled me flush against him and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except kiss him back while my mother watched and my face burned and something in my chest cracked open.

When he finally pulled back his forehead rested against mine for just a second and he said quietly, "Take care of yourself," then pressed a softer kiss to my cheek before turning and leaving.

The door closed behind him with a soft click and I stood there in my living room with my face red and eyes wide and heart racing, completely unable to process what had just happened.

My mother stared at me and started, "How DARE he—"

"He saved Grayson's company," I interrupted, and my voice came out flat and exhausted because I was done with having this argument. "He exposed his own father's corruption. Stopped Williams from buying Hopkins out from under you. Grayson still has his company because of what Zane did. So maybe you could cut him some slack."

Diane's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and finally she just scoffed and said, "Okay, fine, but that doesn't mean I have to like him kissing my daughter in front of me like some kind of—"

"I'm going to bed," I said.

"Olive—" she started, then her tone shifted back to concerned mother. "Are you okay? Really okay? Because if you need to talk about what happened—"

"I just need sleep," I said. "We can talk in the morning."

She nodded slowly and said, "Okay, baby, get some rest, I'll be out here if you need anything."

I went to my bedroom and closed the door and locked it even though there was no reason to lock it except that I needed the illusion of security, of privacy, of a space where nobody could reach me, and then I collapsed onto my bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.

My phone was in my purse, still off from earlier, and I should leave it off, should try to sleep like I'd told my mother, should let myself rest and process and deal with everything in the morning when my brain wasn't running on adrenaline and fear.

But I couldn't.

Because there were too many questions screaming in my head, too many things that didn't make sense, too many connections I didn't understand and needed answers to before I could even think about sleeping.

I turned my phone back on and saw seventeen missed calls from Zane, twelve text messages, three voicemails, all from before the accident when I'd been ignoring him because I was hurt and confused and didn't know how to deal with seeing him with Elena.

I set the phone aside and opened my laptop instead and typed into Google: Alonso Rivera.

The results loaded and there he was in multiple articles about hockey with photos of him on the ice and statistics and game highlights that told me he was apparently "Edinburgh Raptors' Rising Star: Alonso Rivera Making Waves" and "Number 47 to Watch: Rivera's Impressive Season."

I clicked through several articles and read about how he was a talented player who'd come up through the ranks quickly, how he had an aggressive playing style that made him exciting to watch, how little anyone knew about his background before he started playing professionally, but that was it, just hockey stuff that didn't explain why he'd been standing on that corner watching someone try to kill me.

Nothing that connected him to Zane beyond their obvious rivalry on the ice, nothing useful at all.

I tried different searches—Alonso Rivera Seattle, Alonso Rivera + Zane Mercer, Alonso Rivera background—but everything just led back to the same information about him being a hockey player who was good at his job and apparently very private about his personal life.

I closed those tabs feeling frustrated and stupid for thinking Google would just hand me answers to whatever the hell was going on, and I stared at my laptop screen with the search bar blinking at me like it was waiting for my next question, my next futile attempt to find answers in a place that clearly didn't have them.

And suddenly the frustration shifted into something else, into clarity maybe, or just exhaustion mixing with anger mixing with the realization that I was doing this all wrong.

I was sitting here in the dark trying to piece together secrets from Google searches and cryptic comments Judy had made before he died, when I could just ask Zane directly, face to face, no more hiding what Judy had told me, no more keeping secrets while expecting him to be honest.

If Zane knew Klaus, if they'd been friends or connected somehow the way Judy had hinted at before he died, then I needed to hear it from him, not from Google, not from threatening messages or mysterious coincidences or my own spiraling paranoia, but from him.

Tomorrow I'd ask him, would tell him what Judy said about Klaus knowing him, would demand the truth about everything—about Alonso, about why someone tried to kill me, about whatever he'd been keeping from me—and if he lied or tried to deflect or give me half-truths or protect me by keeping me ignorant, then I'd know that whatever this was between us couldn't survive on secrets and omissions and careful versions of honesty.

I closed my laptop and set it aside and lay down on my bed fully clothed, and for the first time all night I felt something other than fear or confusion, I felt determined.

Tomorrow I'd get answers, tomorrow I'd stop playing this game where everyone knew more than me and I was constantly three steps behind, tomorrow I'd demand the truth, but tonight I just needed to sleep, to let my exhausted brain rest, to prepare myself for whatever Zane was going to tell me when I finally asked the questions I'd been avoiding.

Because I had a feeling that once he started talking, once the truth came out, nothing was ever going to be the same again.