Quadruplet Alphas and Their Lost Ice Princess

The scoreboard bleeds red.

Crimson Fang, 1. Azure Wolves, 3. Eighteen minutes left in the third period and every single person in this arena knows we're getting our asses handed to us by our most hated rivals.

I press my back against the boards in the players' tunnel, clipboard balanced on my knee, eyes tracking number seven as he tears down the ice. Kian Thorne. Captain. Future Alpha of the Thorne pack. The kind of guy who skates like he owns the rink , because, let's be honest, his family probably does.

"Monroe." Coach Elliot drops a hand on my shoulder without looking away from the ice. My uncle. The only reason I have this internship at all. "You're on standby. Caldwell's knee is still giving him grief."

"I know." I keep my eyes on the game, on the way Kian drives into the Azure Wolves' zone with zero regard for his own body. Something tightens in my chest. 'He's going to get himself killed out there.'

The crowd roars. Kian sets up a shot, gets it off , and a massive Azure Wolves defenseman, all two-hundred-and-forty pounds of him, slams into Kian's left side before he can brace. The impact sends Kian sideways into the boards with a crack loud enough to cut through the noise. His head snaps down and connects with the ice.

The whistle screams.

Everything stops.

"Thorne!" Coach Elliot's voice cuts through the sudden quiet.

Kian is already getting up. Of course he is. Blood runs in a dark line from his hairline, tracking down the side of his face, dripping onto the white ice in little red blooms. He waves off the linesmen. He's fine. He's always fine.

He is very clearly not fine.

The medical room is the size of a large closet , two padded tables, a supply cabinet, fluorescent light that buzzes faintly overhead. I've already laid out the suture kit by the time they bring him in.

He drops onto the table without being asked, rips off his helmet, and presses his wrist to the gash above his right temple. Then he looks at me.

The look lasts exactly two seconds.

"Where's Dr. Harmon?"

"Dealing with Caldwell's knee." I snap on my gloves. "Sit still."

"I asked where Harmon is." His voice is flat. Controlled. The kind of control that's one bad moment away from snapping entirely.

I reach for the gauze. "And I answered. Sit still, please."

He catches my wrist. Not rough , just immovable. Like a wall that decided to have fingers.

"You're an intern."

"Congratulations on your reading comprehension." I nod at the badge clipped to my scrubs. Ava Monroe , Medical Intern. "Now let go of my arm."

"I'm not letting an intern stitch my face."

Coach Elliot fills the doorway. "Kian,"

"Get me a real doctor, Coach. Not a trainee."

Something hot and ugly climbs up the back of my throat. My jaw tightens. 'Don't. Don't you dare let him see it get to you.'

I pull my wrist free. Set down the gauze. Look him dead in the eye.

"You've got a laceration approximately two centimeters long, millimeters from your temporal artery." My voice stays level. Barely. "You need four stitches. I can do it in under three minutes and you can be back on the ice before the next face-off, or you can wait for Dr. Harmon to finish taping a knee and miss the rest of the period entirely. Your call, Captain."

The muscle in his jaw jumps. His eyes , dark, sharp, and absolutely furious , don't leave mine.

Kian Thorne is not a man who gets talked to like this. I can see it in the way his whole body goes still, coiled, like something feral that just got called by its wrong name.

Then he releases a breath through his nose and turns his face to the side.

"Fine." It lands like a verdict. "Make it fast."

I pick up the gauze.

Cleaning the wound, I keep my hands steady through sheer willpower. He doesn't wince. Doesn't make a sound. Most people flinch at the antiseptic. He just stares at the wall across from him with that expression carved from something that doesn't have a name for pain.

My hands get close to his face. Close enough that the warmth of him hits me. And then , something else. A scent, faint and warm and disorienting, slipping past the antiseptic and the sharp smell of blood, and I lose my place for exactly one heartbeat.

'Focus.'

I reach for the suture needle.

"My healing rate is,"

"Fast. I know." I don't look up. "You'll still scar without stitches."

A pause. "How do you know my healing rate?"

"Because I've read every player's medical file. It's literally my job." I start the first stitch. "Also, everyone knows. Future Alpha of Crimson Fang. You could probably walk off a car crash."

He goes very, very still.

Not the controlled stillness from before. Something different. Like the air pressure in the room just changed.

"You should watch what you know about people," he says, quiet.

"You should watch the left flank." I tie off the second stitch. "That's where they keep getting through."

His head twitches , just slightly, just enough , like he wants to turn and look at me but won't let himself.

Three minutes, twenty seconds. I secure the last stitch, place a small bandage over it, and strip off my gloves.

"Done." I step back. "Don't take a hit to that side. The stitches will hold but you'll split them open if,"

"I heard you the first time." He's already standing, reaching for his helmet, back to me.

"Mr. Thorne." The words come out before I can stop them. He pauses, doesn't turn. "I genuinely don't care whether you live or die out there. But it would make my internship paperwork very complicated. So try not to bleed on the ice."

He's quiet for one breath. Two.

Then he walks out.

Crimson Fang scores twice in the final twelve minutes. The winning goal comes off Kian's stick with two seconds on the clock , a clean, vicious shot that the Azure Wolves' goalie never had a chance at. The crowd loses its mind.

I watch from the tunnel, arms crossed, medical bag at my feet.

The team pours onto the ice. Helmets coming off, gloves flying, the specific chaos of a comeback win. Kian gets buried under a wave of his teammates and comes up laughing, head thrown back, blood and victory all over his face.

And then he turns.

Looks straight at me through the glass. Through the noise. Through the forty feet of ice and chaos between us.

The laughter doesn't quite leave his face. But something else moves into it. Something I can't name and don't want to think about too hard.

I look away first.