The tile is freezing under my feet. The water overhead hisses to life with a rusty groan, spraying hot against my skin. Steam curls up around me, blanketing the room in a haze. I lean my head against the wall, breath heaving.

I should feel better.

I don’t because nothing takes away the ache of being without her.

Beating the shit out of that ref was only the beginning. The blood on the ice barely took the edge off. All I can think about is her.

My fucking girl.

She’s the only thing that calms me. The only person who ever has. The only fucking reason I’ve made it this far without burning that whole town to the ground.

My hand drags down my wet chest, across the hard lines of my abdomen. Every muscle in me aches, tight with rage and need. My cock is already hard for her. It has been since the second I let myself think about her. The fact that she’s wearing another man’s ring and being told who she belongs to like she’s some fucking prize to be handed off makes me want to claim her.

She’s not theirs.

She never was.

She’s mine.

Always has been.

My palm slides lower, fingers curling around the base of my cock. I pump once, slow and tight. My head falls back against the tile.

Fuck.

I think about her hands. The delicate way her fingers would curl around my cock if she was here. I think about the soft little gasp that would escape her full lips when I push inside her for the first time. And it will be the first time. I haven’t touched anyone else. I never fucking wanted to.

I don’t want anyone but her.

And I never fucking will.

I stroke harder, my grip twisting slightly at the tip. Water runs down my back in hot streams. My jaw clenches. My thighs twitch. Her name is already on my tongue, and I haven’t even gotten close to coming yet.

God, I miss her.

The sound of her voice. The way she’d say my name when she was half-asleep, reaching for me like she knew I was already watching her. The smell of her vanilla shampoo. The way she’d curl into my side like she thought she didn’t belong anywhere else.

Because she didn’t.

She still doesn’t.

My strokes get faster, more desperate. I imagine her in the wedding dress, standing in front of a mirror with tears in her eyes. I picture tearing it off her with my teeth. Laying her out on the floor and claiming her in a way no one ever has.

The thought of her fiancé touching her makes my vision blur.

If he’s so much as looked at her the wrong way…

I grunt, the sound guttural.