Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 21: The Ice Queen

Morning clawed through the Haven's busted frame, gray light spilling over cracked tiles and glinting off glass shards like a thief's loot. Kael stirred first, sheets tangled around his legs, Rhea's naked warmth pressed against his side—her crimson hair fanning wild over his chest, breath soft and steady.

His bruises throbbed lightly—ribs aching, nose a dull pulse—but the purple had faded overnight, leaving faint bluish stains on his jaw. He shifted, wincing as the cot creaked, and slid free—her arm flopping limp, a soft grunt escaping her lips. Hazel eyes lingered on her—scarred curves bare, red dress crumpled on the floor—then he grabbed the white t-shirt and pajama pants from the debris, tossing them beside her on the bed. She didn't stir.

He pulled on his sweats and gray tee—fabric sticking to damp skin—and padded out, boots scuffing into the kitchen. Dreck's blood was gone, tiles scrubbed by Harris's crew, but the mess mocked him—splinters jutting, counter dented, glass crunching underfoot. Kael snagged a broom from the corner, bristles worn thin, and started sweeping—glass clinking, dust puffing in lazy swirls.

His nose twinged with each swing, ribs groaning, but he grit his teeth—cleanup now, collapse later. The Haven's pulse hummed low, a battered beast licking its wounds, and he worked fast, piling wreckage by the wall, mind drifting to Rhea's fire, her shift, the heat of last night.

A roar shattered the quiet—loud, guttural, ripping from the entrance like a beast unleashed. Wind howled in, fierce and sudden—dust blasting Kael's face, grit stinging his eyes—and he dropped the broom, wood clattering as he spun. Boots thudded toward the door, heart kicking up—ribs protesting, ignored—and he squinted through the haze.

Liss stood framed in the busted entrance, all sharp edges and wild grin—black leather clinging tight, boots scuffed, her short-cropped hair a mess of violet spikes. Behind her, a leash dangled from her fist—collar and shackles glinting dull—tied to a woman sprawled on the stoop, short platinum-cyan hair splayed as she hauled herself up from a rough landing.

Liss didn't flinch—didn't care—her laugh exploding loud, a cackle that doubled her over, hands clutching her stomach. "Holy shit, Drayce!" she wheezed, eyes raking his battered face—faint bruises blooming, nose still swollen—then darting to the wrecked Haven: door splintered, kitchen a warzone.

"You look like a damn punching bag! What'd Flame-Warden do—torch your pride first?" Her voice dripped glee, mocking, as she straightened—wiping tears, grin splitting wide. Two weeks back, Kael had bragged—chest puffed, voice steady—about rehabbing Rhea, the Flame-Warden, turning her fire to his cause. Now? Liss saw a clown in a circus of his own making, and she reveled in it.

Kael dropped his arms, folding them tight—hazel eyes slitting, half-closed, waiting her out. The broom lay forgotten, dust settling slow, and Liss's laughter rolled again—stopping, starting, a broken record of scorn.

Behind her, the shackled woman—tall, lean, ice in her stare—shifted, platinum-cyan strands falling sharp over her brow. Her lip curled, annoyance flashing, and she lashed out—boot slamming Liss's ass with a crack. Liss pitched forward, stumbling hard—surprise flashing across her face, mirrored in Kael's widened eyes—and hit the tiles, palms slapping loud.

The woman didn't run—didn't flinch—just loomed, gaze locked down on Liss like a queen sizing up a worm. Her collar gleamed, shackles clinking soft, but her posture screamed defiance—chin high, shoulders squared, platinum hair glinting cold in the morning light. Liss scrambled up, fury twisting her grin—violet eyes blazing—and swung a fist, knuckles cracking the woman's cheek.

Blood welled fast, a thin red trickle from her lip, but her gaze didn't waver—icy, unyielding, staring Liss down. Another punch landed—hard, sharp—splitting her lip wider, and still she stood, eyes boring holes, no blink, no break. Something in that stare—cold, piercing—crawled under Liss's skin, and she cursed low, "Fucking freak," turning sharp to Kael, shaking off the unease.

"Rehab's going great, huh?" Liss sneered, sarcasm thick as tar, arms crossing tight. "One Flame-Warden, and your place looks like a slaughterhouse. Sure you want this one too?" She jerked the leash—shackles rattling, the woman's icy gaze flicking to Kael—or take 'em both to lockup?" Her grin taunted, daring him to crack, to admit the Haven was a pipe dream sinking fast.

Kael's laugh broke—low, rough, scraping his throat as he shrugged off the jab. "Flame-Warden's coming along," he said, voice steady, hazel eyes glinting with a cocky edge. "Ice Queen's welcomed—expanding the clientele." He didn't spill last night's chaos—Dreck's break-in, Rhea's kill, their tangled sheets. No point. Liss wouldn't care.

She cocked a brow, violet eyes narrowing. "You serious, Drayce?" Her tone teetered—doubt, amusement, a flicker of respect buried deep.

Kael nodded, sharp and sure. He took out a wad of cash from the counter, for the remaining he dug cash from his sweats—crumpled bills, parlor earnings—and slapped them into her palm. "Dead sure," he said, grin tugging his busted lip—pain a quick sting, ignored.

Liss counted fast, fingers flicking through the stack, then barked a laugh—short, harsh, pocketing the haul. "Long as I get paid, I don't give a shit," she said, stepping back, leash slack in her grip. "You crash and burn, call me—I'll clean your mess, but it'll cost ya." She winked, vicious and bright, then leapt—boots kicking off the stoop, vanishing onto a rooftop with a gust that rattled the Haven's bones.

Dust settled slow, silence creeping back, and Kael stood alone with the Ice Queen. Her shackles clinked faint as she shifted—platinum-cyan hair catching light, blood drying on her lip, icy blue eyes locking his. No flinch, no fear—just a stare, cold and deep, slicing through him like frost on glass. His grin faded, unease prickling his neck—bruises throbbing faint, Haven's wreckage a grim stage—and he met her gaze, steady but rattled.

He could sense it, this wasn't Rhea's fire—this was something sharper, colder, a blade waiting to cut.

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