A man walked through the door, pausing just inside, presumably looking at the tumbled-up sheets and blankets on the empty bed.

A spike of hot adrenaline stabbed the icy panic right through the heart. Too bad, asshole, I’m not waiting for you to attack.

Shelby let out a banshee shriek—okay, squeak. The man whirled around, hands curled into fists. She flipped on the flashlight on the inhale as he reared back, and then she shoved the arcing end into his stomach. Technically, she was supposed to hold it there for three seconds. She got maybe half of one before her grip slipped and she lost contact. He stumbled back, letting out a low rumbly yowl of pain.

That’s when she was supposed to run, sprinting away from death and danger. But she didn’t, not once her flashlight’s beam landed on the man’s face and her stomach dropped down to the cabin’s wine cellar. She recognized him immediately.

Ian Petrov. Hockey player. Curly-haired, bearded sex god, according to the tabloids. Also…the one person who hated her more than anyone else in the world.

“What the hell,” Ian yelled, holding a protective arm over his gut as he advanced toward her. “You better get the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”

“Did you follow me?” Brilliant question? No, but her brain was a little shell-shocked at the moment.

“Why in the hell would I do th—” The word died on his lips as recognition and something that looked a lot like disgust crossed his way-too-ruggedly-handsome face. He stopped walking and groaned, letting his head drop back as he mumbled curses at the ceiling. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You? Here? What, are you stalking me? Haven’t you fucked up my life enough?”

Shelby winced. It had been an accident, but the result was the same. She was the reason why everyone in Harbor City now knew that Ian’s best friend and fellow Ice Knights hockey player, Alex Christensen, was actually Ian’s secret half brother.

When it came out that Alex had known the truth for years without telling Ian, the two men had stopped speaking to each other. Now the Ice Knights had been torn in two just as the playoffs were starting. It was an unmitigated mess. And all her fault.

Ian may not be a friendly neighborhood murderer, but he might just kill her—metaphorically. All the same, it still looked like he wouldn’t mind tossing her out into the snow and leaving her to freeze in the night—and part of her couldn’t even blame him.

…

Ian had been in some weird situations with women before.

There was the date who showed up in head-to-toe Ice Knights gear and asked if he wanted to see the tattoo of his face on her ass. He’d declined.