His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 45: Olive's Pov

Fifteen years ago, I was nine.

Walter had gotten Klaus his first car—a sleek silver thing that Klaus treated like it was made of gold. Klaus was always the favorite. I'd known it from the beginning, even when I was too young to understand what favoritism really meant.

Walter supported him in every game, every race, every stupid decision. Got him that car at fourteen because "Klaus loved driving." And in a way, the car was mine too. I'd sit in the passenger seat while Klaus practiced in empty parking lots, pretending we were going on adventures.

Until the day Klaus decided to race his best friend Jayden down Highway 9.

They crashed. Totaled the car. Broke Klaus's arm in two places.

And I took the blame.

Told Walter I'd convinced Klaus to do it, that I'd been the one pushing him all week because he'd been talking about racing nonstop and I thought it would make him happy. Thought maybe if Klaus was happy, the family would be happy. And maybe—just maybe—they'd finally see me.

The memory slammed into me now, standing outside my father's perfect house, and suddenly everything made horrible, perfect sense.

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of me was sharp, unhinged. "You're managing an illegal street racing operation?"

"It's not illegal," Zane said, voice calm as ever. "Technically."

"Technically?" I whirled on him. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means we operate in a gray area." There was something almost amused in his expression now. "Very gray."

"How gray?" My voice was climbing higher. "Like tax evasion gray or people actually die gray?"

"No one's died," Walter said quickly. "Well. Not recently."

"NOT RECENTLY?" I was screaming now and I didn't care who heard. "What the actual fuck, Walter?"

"It's safe," Zane cut in, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Your father is very good at what he does. He manages logistics, handles drivers, makes sure everything runs smoothly. It's just... unconventional work."

"Unconventional." I stared at him. "You own an underground racing club and my father works for you."

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to mention this before?"

"You didn't ask."

I wanted to hit him. Or shoot him. Or both. Maybe at the same time.

"How long?" I turned back to Walter, my chest tight. "How long have you been doing this?"

Walter looked at the ground. His hands were shaking.

"Eleven years."

My eyes went wide. "What?"

I stood there, frozen, trying to do the math in my head. Eleven years meant—

"Peach, trust me, it's safe—"

"Safe?" I laughed again, bitter. "Is that what you call it? So safe you've been lying to Annie this whole time? Should I go tell her right now? Scream it loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear about your fake perfect life?"

"No, Peach, please." His voice cracked. "It's nothing serious, I swear—"

"Does Mom even know about this?"

I needed to know. Needed to know if I was the only one who'd been kept in the dark, the only one who didn't matter enough to be told the truth.

The look on his face was answer enough.

"Right." My voice came out cold. "Now I know why she left."

I turned and walked straight to my car, vision blurring at the edges.

Behind me, I heard Zane say something to Walter—low, and clipped—before his footsteps started following me.

Each step he took made my heart skip. Made my hands shake harder on the roses I was still clutching like an idiot.

"Muffin, please. Let's talk."

His hand reached for my arm.

I jerked away. "Don't fucking touch me or I swear I'll smash these flowers in your face."

"Oh, Olive." His voice dropped, went dark. "That would be incredible. Actually, seeing you this angry? This wild? It turns me on. Look at me. Look at my pants. I'm already hard. So please, keep going."

He stepped closer, crowding me against my car door like none of this mattered. Like I hadn't just found out he owned an underground racing empire.

"You own a fucking racing club," I said, hating how my voice shook. "And you didn't tell me. Now I want to know everything. Every single secret you're hiding, Zane Mercer."

I knew I sounded like a brat. Like some girl who thought she could demand answers and actually get them.

But this was Zane Mercer. He'd give me what he wanted me to know, when he wanted me to know it.

"Do you want to discuss this here?" His eyes were dark, predatory. "I prefer fighting in private. Somewhere secluded. Where people can't see how messy things get between us."

My face went hot. Crimson.

"I'm driving my own car," I said, reaching for the door handle.

In the next second, I was in the air.

The roses were ripped from my hands as Zane lifted me like I weighed nothing—one arm around my waist, the other steadying me against his chest. I was over a hundred and fifty pounds but he held me like I was paper.

"Put me down!" I screamed, hitting his back. My fists bounced off against his solid muscle and it hurt me more than it hurt him. "Put me the fuck down!"

"You're being ridiculous." His voice was calm, controlled. "And I already told you—I don't want to fight with you in public."

He dropped me into the passenger seat of his car, shut the door before I could scramble out, and walked around to the driver's side.

I was furious. Enraged. I wanted to set the car on fire, make him crash into a tree, anything to make him feel something other than that infuriating calm.

I hated being the only one falling apart while he looked perfectly composed. Still hot, still in control, still everything I shouldn't be thinking about right now.

The door slammed. He didn't say a word, just turned the key and the engine roared to life.

I watched him maneuver through the neighborhood streets—smooth, controlled, effortless.

"So this is how you handle things?" I said finally. "Stay calm while everyone else loses their mind? How long were you going to hide the fact that you run an illegal racing operation? Did you know about my father before we met? You knew he was my dad. You knew everything about me while I knew nothing about you."

He stayed silent, hands steady on the wheel, jaw tight.

Then he turned to look at me—just for a second—and his face was unreadable.

"I missed you so much, Muffin." His voice was soft, sincere in a way that made my chest ache. "So badly."

My heart stopped.

Not because of the words, but because of how he said them. Like he meant it. Like it physically hurt him.

"Great." I forced myself to sound angry. "That still doesn't change anything. I'm still mad at you for lying."

Fuck. What was I doing? I'd almost said it. Almost told him I missed him too.

If I said that, he'd never take me seriously again. Never listen.

He stayed quiet, and I groaned, turning to stare out the window.

We were leaving the downtown area—the high-rises and glass buildings giving way to industrial warehouses and sprawling lots. This part of Seattle I didn't recognize.

"Where are we going?" I turned to stare at him, something uneasy settling in my stomach.

"What, are you scared now?" His mouth curved slightly. "Think I'm a serial killer?"

"Fuck no. What the hell, Zane."

He actually chuckled—low and dark.

"I'm taking you to my home."

I turned sharply, eyes wide. "As in where you actually live?"

He glanced at me. "I told you. I don't like when people see us argue." His eyes found mine, held them. "I prefer you screaming at me in private. Just me and you. As loud as you want."