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The Hockey King's Secret Twins

Cinnamon Girl

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Modern

127 Chapters

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They sold me for ten million dollars. One night with a stranger. My father signed the check. My stepmother poured the drug into my cocoa. My stepsister laughed while two men dragged me upstairs. The man who came to me in the dark was burning with fever, black veins crawling up his arm. He asked me only one thing: "Are you sure?" By dawn, he was gone. He never even saw my face. My family rolled me off a cliff into the river below, and went back inside to finish their wine. Five years later. Ryker Thorne, the billionaire captain of the Boston Ironclads, carries an unconscious woman through a hotel lobby. Then he stops cold. A four-year-old boy in an oversized number 19 jersey is hacking the hotel's computer, right under the front desk girl's nose. The boy looks up. Storm-gray eyes meet storm-gray eyes. The same cold stare Ryker sees in his own mirror before every game. "Dex," Ryker says quietly. "Find out everything about that woman." He doesn't know the boy has already hacked the hotel's security cameras and seen his mother being pulled into Suite 808. He doesn't know the boy has just torn his poster off the bedroom wall. "Ryker Thorne," the boy whispers into the dark. "You messed with the wrong family."

Sports Romance (Hockey/Football/Soccer/MMA/Swimming)

The Hockey King's Secret Twins Chapter 1

Sienna POV:

Ten million dollars.

One night with a stranger.

And my father signed the check.

"The doctor's done, Mom. Bloodwork's back. She's a perfect match. Exactly what they asked for."

My stepsister's voice floated somewhere above me, bright and bored, the way she talked about handbags.

"Thank God." My stepmother laughed. "Twenty-two years of feeding that girl, and she finally pays her way. Ten million dollars from Thorne Group. Hart Hockey is saved."

Ten million?

Saved?

I forced my eyes open. The room swam. Exposed beams. A stone fireplace. A bearskin rug under my cheek.

Black Ridge Lodge. The Hart family cabin in the White Mountains. We had driven up this afternoon for "a family weekend." Monica had handed me a cup of cocoa.

That was the last thing I remembered.

Monica Hart sat on the leather sofa with her legs crossed, a glass of red wine dangling from her manicured fingers. Brielle lounged next to her, scrolling on her phone.

"What... did you do to me?" My tongue felt like wet sand.

"Oh, sweetheart." Monica leaned forward and smiled. "Don't look at me like that. A very, very rich man is paying ten million dollars for one night with you. He asked for a girl with your blood type. Golden blood, the doctors call it. Rh-null. Fewer than fifty people on earth have it." She shrugged. "Don't ask me why. Rich men have strange tastes."

"Dad..." I tried to push myself up. My arms gave out. "Dad would never..."

Brielle snorted.

"Dad planned it, genius. He's the one who found the buyer. You really thought he loved you? He kept you around because-"

"Brielle." Monica's voice snapped like a whip. "Enough."

She waved a hand. Two men in black stepped out of the shadows and hauled me up by my arms.

"Clean her up and put her in the master bedroom," Monica said. "And give her the rest of the bottle. The client is important. If she makes a scene, it's your heads."

Something cold and bitter poured down my throat. I choked. I gagged. It didn't matter.

Within two minutes, my legs were gone.

Within five, I couldn't even scream. But my mind was still mine. I could think. I could see. I just couldn't make my body do anything about it.

They threw me onto a bed in the dark and locked the door.

I lay there and listened to Monica and Brielle laughing downstairs, and I understood, finally, what I was to my family.

Not a daughter.

A product.

Headlights swept across the ceiling.

Engines growled into the gravel drive. Car doors slammed. Heavy footsteps. Men's voices, low and urgent.

"Welcome, sir!" Monica's voice turned sugary. "Everything's ready. She's upstairs, second door on the-oh my God!"

A scream.

"What is that? What's wrong with his arm? It's crawling up his neck, it's-"

A thud. A grunt of pain. Something heavy hitting the floor.

"Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut," a man said, very calmly. "Or I'll take both."

Silence.

Then footsteps on the stairs.

Slow. Uneven. Like whoever was climbing them was in terrible pain.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open, and a tall shape filled the frame, black against the hallway light. A baseball cap pulled low. Broad shoulders. He gripped the doorframe so hard I heard the wood creak.

He was breathing like a wounded animal.

"Help..." I whispered. "Please... help me."

He went still.

"I can't even help myself," he said. His voice was rough, wrecked, and somehow the most human thing I had heard all night.

He shut the door. The dark swallowed us both.

I felt the mattress dip. Felt heat pouring off him like a fever. When my fingers brushed his forearm, the skin was raised and ridged, burning under my touch.

He hissed.

"Don't," he said. "You don't know what I am."

"You're hurting," I breathed.

Monica had slapped me hard when I fought the cocoa. My lip was split. I tasted copper.

He must have tasted it too, when his mouth found mine.

And then he stopped shaking.

He made a sound against my lips. Shock. Disbelief. Relief so raw it sounded like grief.

"What are you?" he whispered.

I never got to answer.

"I'm not in my right mind," he said hoarsely. "Get away from me. While you still can."

But they had locked the door. And I couldn't even lift my hand.

Outside, the sky broke open. Rain hammered the windows like it wanted to drown the whole mountain.

I remember the thunder. I remember his hands shaking. I remember counting the lightning on the ceiling, one, two, three, because it was the only thing in that room I could still control.

After that, I don't remember anything at all.

Maybe that was the only mercy anyone showed me that night.