Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 110

**Blake**

By the time I pull back into the driveway, the house is already glowing against the dark, and the yard behind it is lit with flickers of orange from the fire Dad must have started while I was dropping Charlotte off. The second I kill the engine and step out, I can hear the pack. Word runs faster than I would like, apparently. I slam the car door and head for the backyard.

The cold is harsh tonight, sharp enough to bite inside my nose, but the fire throws off enough heat to keep the centre of the yard from icing over completely. Snow has been shovelled back into rough banks around a wide training circle. A line of guys from the pack stand around the edges, hands shoved into pockets, shoulders hunched in jackets, trying and failing to look like they just happened to wander over. Theo is right in the middle of them, one arm casually hooked over the fence post. Charlie spots me first and grins. “There he is.”

Theo turns, taking one look at me and spreading his arms. “Finally. I’m already cold. Let’s get this over with.”

I keep walking until I hit the edge of the circle, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it toward the porch rail. Dad is standing on the far side of the fire with John beside him, both of them watching me. “You ready?” Dad asks. 

I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the last of the stiffness from the rink. “As I’m going to be.”

“Good. We’ll start you off simple.” He says, turning to Theo.

Theo points at himself. “And by simple, you mean me being used as the sacrificial idiot?”

“You talk too much, son,” John says.

Theo sighs. “I’m beloved for it.”

I step into the cleared circle, and the cold ground crunches under my boots. The whole pack seems to shift with me, attention tightening, bodies angling inward. I can feel it, all those little currents of anticipation moving around the firelight, some amused, some curious, some genuinely interested in whether I’m about to wipe the yard with Theo. Lex rises under my skin at once. The bond hums too, low and warm, even with Charlotte across town. She feels far away and right beside me all at once, a steady thread running under everything else. I hold onto it without thinking. Dad points to Theo. “Hand-to-hand.”

Theo steps into the circle opposite me and starts bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like he’s trying to shake off the cold and the very real memory of what happened at the rink. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, lifting his hands, “if you launch me into the neighbour’s yard, I’m haunting you.”

“You’ll have to die first.” I laugh.

Dad folds his arms. “Enough.” Theo’s grin fades, mine does too.

Then Theo comes in fast with his left hand, testing a feint to see where I’ll move. But I already know where he’s going before he throws it. I feel it in the same ugly little surge I felt at the front door, the intent of it flashing sharp under my skin just before his shoulder turns. I block it without thinking, and Theo’s brows jump. He tries going lower to catch me at the ribs. Again, I’m already moving before his fist gets there. My forearm comes down, and I deflect him. He steps back, circles.

“Okay,” he mutters. “That’s new.”

He comes in harder, and I feel the strike building sooner. Not the movement. The moment before it. The choice. The split second where his body commits. My own reaction comes before my head fully catches up, and suddenly I’ve caught his wrist, turned, and shoved him off balance hard enough that his boots skid on the packed ground. Theo catches himself and stares at me. “Mate.”

I let go immediately. “Sorry.” 

Dad’s voice cuts in. “Again.”

Theo tries three more times. The first is fast. The second is trickier, a fake high then a real hit low that should’ve caught me if I hadn’t felt the flare of frustration right before he threw it. The third is where he gets really irritated. I feel it spike under my skin, and before I think about how hard I’m moving, I catch him by the chest and shove. Theo stumbles back hard, boots digging trenches in the dirt, before John is suddenly there, one hand on his shoulder, stopping the momentum before he can hit the snow bank.

Dad steps forward and motions Theo out. “John.” John rolls his shoulders as he steps into the circle with me. This is different immediately. Theo throws himself at things, whereas his dad doesn’t. He watches. Waits. Measures. There’s less noise in him, less easy emotion to catch onto, and for the first few seconds, that throws me off more than I expect. He moves in, too fast for me to muscle through.

His first hit clips my shoulder because I’m half a second late. The second I block badly and feel the impact run down my arm. The third one never lands, because right before it does, something flashes under my skin again—this time, I catch his forearm and pivot away from it. John’s mouth twitches. “There you are.” He comes at me again, and now I know what I’m feeling for. The fracture occurs before it breaks. The split-second choice. The violent shape of something before it fully becomes motion. He doesn’t have to be angry. He has to mean it. That changes everything.

I started reading him better after that. John steps in again, his fist cutting toward my jaw. I get my forearm up in time to block it, the impact jolting down into my shoulder. He pivots straight off it, driving a punch toward my ribs, and I twist just enough that it glances instead of landing properly, but it still catches me hard enough to make me grunt. He doesn’t give me time to reset. His boot scuffs through the dirt as he comes in again, shoulders squared, weight low, and this time I feel it before I fully see it, that split-second shift where his body commits. I move on instinct, catching his wrist before the strike can land and shoving it wide. He turns with it, trying to pull me off balance, but I hold and drive my elbow toward his chest. He knocks it aside and clips me across the shoulder on the way through.

All I can hear now is John’s boots in the dirt, my own breathing, the tiny changes in him before he moves. He rolls his shoulder again, breath steaming in front of him, as he looks me up and down. “Strength’s real.”

Theo calls from the fence, “You don’t say.”

Dad keeps his eyes on me. “How controlled does it feel?”

“Better,” I say, flexing my hands. My gaze shifts toward the road without meaning to. “Still sharper when she’s near.”

“For now, that’s not a weakness.”

I’m about to respond when Charlotte’s voice sounds in my head, stopping me cold. *“Blake, rogues are surrounding the diner.”*