Centuria Books · Both of Them, Only Her
Both of Them, Only Her — Read the First Chapter
Two husbands, one woman, and a love built entirely on the door staying open—while a stalker tries to slam it shut.
Foreword
Darling reader, pull the blanket up a little higher and lock the door. The book you’re holding is the kind I write at midnight, with my phone face-down and my pulse a little too loud in my ears — a story about one small girl, two enormous men, and the locker room that will never be the same.
I wrote Declan first. I always do, with the dangerous ones. He came to me fully formed: six and a half feet of scarred, scowling muscle, the kind of man the league pays to be a weapon and then pretends not to know on Sunday mornings. Declan is the enforcer who has spent twenty-eight years being handled like a loaded gun, and he does not know — not yet — that his hands were built for something softer than breaking jaws. I wrote him because some of us want to be the thing a violent man learns gentleness for.
Then came Rowan. Golden, grinning, captain-of-everything Rowan, who has been bought and sold by people who love him since he was old enough to hold a stick. He smiles like a magazine cover and calculates like a chess grandmaster, and he has never, in his entire glittering life, been wanted for nothing in return. I wrote him for every woman who has ever been the prize and never the person. You’ll know what I mean. You’ll know.
And then there’s Kate. My Kate. Eighteen, five foot two, drowning in a sweater two sizes too big because she’s been taught from the cradle that taking up space is the same as taking too much. She slips through her own life like a footnote. If you grew up being the quiet one — the easy one, the one nobody had to worry about because nobody was looking — you will recognize her in the first three pages, and you will want to put your arms around her. Good. So do they.
Now. The honest part. This book is explicit, and it earns its heat. There are two men in one bed, and they share her without sharing each other — this is a bi-for-her, MMF devotion story, not a polyamorous triad in the queer sense; Declan and Rowan love each other like brothers in arms and worship Kate like a religion. There is on-page intimacy, possessive language, age-gap dynamics (she is eighteen and a freshman; they are in their late twenties and very much not), and a villain named Marcus Thorne who does ugly, frightening things. Chapter Seventeen is the one to brace for. There is stalking, isolation, and threatened violence on the page. There is no sexual assault depicted. The ending is safe. The middle is not. Decide now if you want to come with me.
Underneath all the slap shots and silk sheets, this is a book about being seen. That’s the whole thing. Kate has spent eighteen years convinced she is invisible and disposable. Declan has spent twenty-eight years convinced he is only a fist. Rowan has spent twenty-seven years convinced he is only a transaction. And what happens — what I wanted to happen, what I needed to write — is three people looking at each other and finally, finally being looked back at. Not used. Not managed. Not overlooked. Chosen. Twice over, in her case. By both of them. Only her.
I am not going to apologize for the fantasy in these pages. I write big men with soft hands for the women they love. I write girls who have been small their whole lives and are suddenly, ferociously, the center of someone’s universe. I write devotion that borders on the unhinged because the world outside this book asks women to be reasonable about love, and I refuse. If you wanted reasonable, you’d be reading something else. You’re not. You’re here.
So come on, sweetheart. The arena lights are on. The ice is cut. Two of the most dangerous men in the league are about to notice the girl in the oversized sweater, and nothing in any of their lives will survive it intact.
Lace up.
Yours in beautiful trouble,
Lady Heartswell
P.S. Marcus Thorne has a story coming. I know. I didn’t expect it either — but the worst men sometimes whisper the loudest, and there’s a woman walking toward him in the next book who is going to ruin him in all the right ways. Soon, darling. Soon.
The Wrong Door
The underground concourse of St. Jude Arena reeked of ozone, flat draught beer, and the cold mineral bite of fresh-cut ice. Above her, eighteen thousand departing fans stomped through the rafters, rattling the exposed pipes until dust shook loose from the iron and drifted down through the stuttering fluorescents. Kate hitched the drooping shoulder of her gray knit sweater back over her collarbone and pressed the cracked leather spine of a first-edition Virginia Woolf flat against her sternum, like a shield, like a bone.
Professor Sylvia Roth did not tolerate failure. Her postgraduate seminar demanded immaculate work from every freshman who’d clawed a seat at the table, and retrieving this priceless text from the benefactor camped out in VIP Suite 4A was Kate’s audition. Pass cleanly. No noise. No fuss. The scholarship tethered to Roth’s recommendation letter was the only wall standing between Kate and the screaming house she’d left behind — the tiptoeing, the broken glass, the ghosting through her own life. The textbook was the proof. The textbook was the door.
The upper concourse had been a non-starter. Drunk hockey fans the size of refrigerators would have shattered the spine inside three steps, so she’d traced the service corridors from memory, trusting the blueprints she’d studied the night before like scripture.
The concrete betrayed her. The hallway looped inward instead of out, hauling her down into a sterile maze of heavy steel doors and dead silence.
Late meant noticed. Noticed meant a problem. A problem meant taking up air someone hadn’t agreed to give her. Survival, growing up, had meant disappearing into the wallpaper. Be useful. Be silent. Take up no oxygen anyone else might want.
People who took up space got thrown away.
Her Converse squeaked across the sloping floor, sharp as a struck match in the heavy hush. The buzzing fluorescents cut out overhead. Cinderblock turned to polished black epoxy underfoot, recessed amber spots warming the walls, silver and black diagonal stripes painted clean and aggressive across the surfaces.
Restricted access. The air shifted — climate-controlled, expensive, scrubbed of beer and crowd. She stopped. The temperature dropped ten degrees, carrying the chill of the rink with it.
Acid climbed her throat. She tightened her grip on the archival box, knuckles bone-white inside the gray yarn of her sleeves. Locker rooms. She’d missed the western exit entirely and walked herself straight into the players’ wing.
She pivoted, recalculating the floor’s pitch. Two rights, one left. Head down. Move fast. Vanish.
A shadow flooded the intersection ahead of her.
No time to brake. She walked straight into a wall of heat and packed muscle — the blunt force of hitting a load-bearing column. Her teeth clacked. The breath punched out of her chest. The archival box slipped from her numb fingers and tipped toward the unforgiving floor.
“No —”
She lunged for it, dropping her own weight, choosing the book over her balance. Massive hands — broad, scarred white across the knuckles, radiating a furnace heat that scorched through her sleeves — caught the box an inch above the epoxy.
She scrambled backward anyway, soles skidding, sweater swallowing her hands to the second knuckle as she caught herself against the opposite wall. A loose strand of dark hair slipped from her knot and swung across her left eye.
The man holding the box didn’t move.
He stood like masonry. Six and a half feet of dense, unbroken mass packed into a charcoal suit jacket that strained at the shoulders. Black hair, a face cut from something harder than stone, a pale jagged scar slashing through his left eyebrow like a fault line.
Glacial pale-blue irises pinned her to the silver paint. Staring into a lake that had killed people.
Declan Voss. The Enforcer. The man who broke other men professionally.
Legendary on the ice for unembellished brutality. Off it, a vacuum — no interviews, no cameras, no soft edges anyone had ever found.
The corridor seemed to compress, all the oxygen pulled toward him. He didn’t blink. The scarred fingers around the archival box twitched, knuckles whitening under strain that had nothing to do with the weight of the cardboard. The cords in his neck stood up.
The sheer pull of his attention sat on her chest like a hand. She flattened her spine against the silver paint, pulled her knees together, tried to call up the invisibility that had carried her through eighteen years of slammed doors.
It didn’t come. His pale eyes tracked deliberately over her messy bun, down the sagging collar of her sweater, and lodged on the pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
“I apologize.” She steadied her voice into something Roth would have approved of — clipped, academic, rigid. “I misread the basement schematics. I was attempting to locate the western service doors.”
He didn’t answer. He stepped forward.
The movement was soundless. Predatory. Wrong for a body that size. His chest expanded on a ragged inhale that dragged the air right out of the space around her face, and the muscle in his jaw jumped hard.
“If I could just take that —” She extended a yarn-wrapped hand, refusing to fold. The book mattered more than the hockey giant in the dark suit. Roth’s wrath had teeth this man’s silence didn’t. “Please.”
“Where are you going.”
The voice came out a low scrape, no inflection, nothing polite about the shape of the words. It wasn’t a question. It was a steel gate dropping behind her.
“Upstairs,” she said quickly, tucking her hands back into her sleeves. “Out.”
“No.”
The syllable hit the floor like a dropped weight. Declan tilted his head, his pale eyes narrowing with a focus that crawled hot under her skin. He held the box at his side, casually, well out of reach.
“Careful, Dec. You’re terrifying the local wildlife.”
The second voice arrived from behind her left shoulder — smooth, moneyed, immaculate, dripping the kind of charm that came with a trust fund and a publicist.
She spun. Her shoulder blades hit the wall with a hollow thud.
Rowan Ashby leaned against the steel doorframe of the team locker room, blocking the only path back to the surface. Golden-blond hair fell over a brow that belonged on a coin. Vivid green eyes coasted over her under the amber light. Matching charcoal suit, jacket open, green silk tie loose at the throat — a posture engineered to read as relaxed and meaning the opposite.
For half a second, his practiced smile fell off.
Underneath it: something raw, hungry, calculating. The green sharpened to a point, dropping to the uneven rise and fall of her sweater. The golden boy of the NHL — famously insulated, famously closed off, famously uninterested in anything the tabloids could throw at him — stopped performing for the camera that wasn’t there.
He pushed off the doorframe with the lazy grace of something that hunted for sport.
She was boxed. Two immovable bodies converging on her five-foot-two frame, and the hallway shrinking to coffin width around her.
Everyone on campus knew who they were. The untouchable kings of the league — reportedly insular, reportedly together, reportedly indifferent to supermodels and heiresses both. What use could two men shaped like demolition equipment have for a freshman drowning inside her own laundry?
“I’m not wildlife.” Kate fisted the wool at her wrists and channeled Roth — the woman who silenced lecture halls with a syllable. She refused to cower. She measured the gap between Rowan’s hip and the wall and calculated the speed she’d need to slip past. “I’m a courier. The item in that box is a 1920s first edition. It requires archival handling.”
Rowan stopped two feet off. Bergamot, clean sweat, adrenaline. He looked past her dark head and into Voss’s stare. Something passed between them — silent, fast, lethal. A live wire in rain.
“A courier.” Rowan rolled the word like he’d never tasted it before, every syllable considered. The machinery behind his face worked in plain sight, cataloging her, slicing her into pieces small enough to file. “For a book.”
“For Professor Roth. FemLit.” Kate dragged her attention back to Declan, refusing to be caught by the green. “The book, Mr. Voss. Please.”
Declan looked down at the cardboard disappearing into his scarred fist. Then back up at her, slow, deliberate. He took another step.
The heat off his chest broke across her cold cheeks.
Rowan stepped in from the other side, the timing too clean to be accident.
The breathable space between them closed. Fractions of an inch. Kate pressed her spine so hard into the wall the silver paint bruised her vertebrae through the yarn.
“You know my name.” Declan’s voice dropped lower, rougher, a vibration that landed under her ribs instead of in her ears. His shadow ate the amber light.
“Everyone knows your names.” She locked her knees to stop them shaking. If she gave up the book — no. She couldn’t give up the book. Coming back empty-handed meant the wrath of the entire department. It meant taking up space as a failure. It meant being dismissed. Cut loose. Thrown away. “Can I leave.”
“No.” Rowan dropped the word into the gap like an anvil.
Her chin jerked toward him. The smile was still gone. He stepped into her airspace until the smooth Italian wool of his jacket brushed the cheap gray yarn at her chest, then bent at the waist, slow, until his face was level with hers.
“No,” he said again, quieter, lower, intimate in a way that scraped. “You walked into our basement smelling like vanilla and terror, asking for scheduled orders.” He drew a sharp breath in over her temple, jaw clenching like he’d cut himself on it. “You don’t get to turn around and run.”
“I’m not running.” Her pulse beat hard against her throat. “I’m finishing an errand.”
A massive, hot palm slammed flat against the wall beside her left ear.
Declan.
He leaned in from the side, caging her shoulder, the bulk of his torso closing the trap. Her bun grazed the fabric stretched over his bicep. Copper, ozone, scraped ice — the air went thin.
“You’re intimidating a university student.” Kate flattened her shoulders against the wall and pulled out the voice she’d used on her drunk uncle the night he tried to rip the kitchen sink out of the counter. Cold. Factual. Unafraid. “It reflects poorly on both your emotional regulation.”
Declan’s terrifying blue eyes widened an
A Shift in Gravity
The accusation cracked against Rowan’s ribs. Emotional regulation. His pulse went sharp and frantic — a rhythm he hadn’t carried in exactly ten years.
He waited for the backpedal. The stammered apology. The instant she clocked who she’d just insulted.
It didn’t come.
She held her ground. Chin tipped. Five pounds of stolen university property pressed to her chest like a riot shield. The wool pullover swallowed her waist, sagged off one shoulder, blurred whatever geometry lived underneath the gray knit. Deliberate burial. She wanted to stay unseen.
Declan shifted. The bulk of him filled the corridor end to end, dropping a long shadow over her sneakers. “Displaced aggression.” The words grated out of him — rusted chain dragged across concrete.
“Yes.” She didn’t blink. “I’m a courier. If you have an issue with the archival request, take it up with Professor Roth. Blocking a service exit is a fire code violation.”
Something fissured straight down the center of Rowan’s rigidly built world.
Ten years. His attraction had operated as a sealed vault. Men. Large, formidable men. Declan. That was the entire taxonomy. That was the law.
The hunger that surged for this small, unremarkable eighteen-year-old broke every clause of it. Not a passing aesthetic note. Not a flicker. A total collapse of the identity he’d negotiated for himself in the dark. An eviction notice served to his past self in the middle of a basement hallway.
He had built his adult life as a fortress. The professional athletic machine ground softness into paste; he had excised softness preemptively. Being with Declan — exclusively, brutally bound to him — fit that violent paradigm. Equal weight. Equal armor. Two titans in a closed loop, watching each other’s backs against an industry that priced their bodies by the pound. No room for a third. Certainly no room for an unarmored civilian.
To want this fragile, exhausted girl meant tearing the fortress down brick by brick. The cost landed in his sternum like a slug. If he stepped closer — if he let himself catalogue the precise wool-and-cheap-laundry-soap smell coming off that sweater — he risked the only foundation he’d ever trusted. He risked alienating the only man he’d ever loved. He risked exposing a soft underbelly he hadn’t permitted daylight since he was a boy. The gravity of it was obscene. He was a man defined by absolute borders, and every border he owned was already dissolving into ash on the floor between her boots and his.
She didn’t want his money. Didn’t recognize him. Didn’t care to. She’d assessed him as an unregulated obstacle and nothing more.
Nobody dismissed him. Every relationship outside his marriage ran on a meter — access, cash, a shaved sliver of unearned fame. Everyone was mining.
She wanted the exit. That was all.
“Move. Please.” She didn’t wait. She dropped her shoulder and ducked beneath the iron cage of Declan’s arm, slipping past on a quick, calculated angle.
Rowan’s hand twitched. The urge to catch the back of her collar ached through his knuckles. He flattened both palms against the chill of the painted concrete behind him and held himself there.
Her boots thudded down the corridor in a fast cadence. She rounded the far corner.
Gone.
He exhaled. The pressure in the hallway shattered into ringing quiet.
Beside him, Declan rolled his neck. A vicious string of pops.
Rowan pushed off the wall and punched his code into the keypad. The reinforced door clicked open on the empty private room — benches cleared, the roster long gone after scrimmage, the air sharp with cold rubber and fresh tape and bleach.
“You let her walk away.” He dropped his canvas duffel on the center island.
“So did you.” Declan tracked him across the matting, boots silent.
“Are you out of your mind right now?” Rowan tore the zipper open and gripped the canvas edges. His knuckles went white. He couldn’t reach inside. His hands were shaking. “I haven’t looked twice at a woman since college.”
A flare into the dark. The real question burned underneath it: Am I losing my mind? Are we breaking? Tell me I haven’t just gutted the only sanctuary we have.
He braced for Declan’s disgust. For the confusion. For the jagged recognition that their exclusive, sealed partnership had just been contaminated by a stray impulse. He braced for the fracture of the most important bond of his life.
The silence that filled the locker room wasn’t jagged. It was thick. Heavy. Pulling like a lunar tide.
Declan didn’t answer right away. The industrial HVAC droned overhead, marking out the seconds. Declan absorbed it — the confession, the raw panic bleeding off Rowan’s posture. The silence took up all the oxygen and demanded the truth settle before another word landed. An unspoken negotiation conducted entirely in the air between them. Does she replace me? hovered. No, Rowan’s stillness answered. She adds.
“You didn’t look twice, Ro.” Declan finally spoke. He braced his enormous, scarred hands flat on the lockers. The tissue above his brow stretched tight. There was no alienation in his face. Only a mirror — Rowan’s own devastation, reflected back. “You looked once. And stopped breathing.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Barely.”
Relief came in a violent surge. Declan wasn’t pulling away. Declan was standing inside the wreckage with him.
Rowan stopped staring blindly into the bag and turned. He looked at the man he had built his entire adult life around to protect. The brutal childhood they shared had hammered Declan into a weapon everywhere except inside their home. Except inside this room. And now that unbreakable, insular thing was splintering. Splitting open to make space for a new permanent shape.
“Did you feel it?” Rowan crossed the matting in three strides and crowded directly into Declan’s space.
“Felt it.” No hesitation. No defensive posturing. Just the terrifying focus of a predator clocking the same hunger in the animal across from him.
Rowan reached up and clamped a hand around the column of Declan’s neck.
Not a touch. An anchor. His palm smashed against damp, overheated skin. The sandpaper drag of jaw stubble caught the heel of his hand. He pressed his fingers deep into the iron of Declan’s trapezius until the muscle yielded under his authority. Heat seared through Rowan’s palm — visceral, undeniable, dragging his spiraling panic back into his body. Under his thumb, the roped scar from a decade-old skate blade. Beneath that, hammering with a frantic velocity that matched his own — thump, thump, thump. Life. Proof. Declan’s exhale washed over his wrist. The smell of ozone and stale sweat and absolute trust locked him back into himself. He squeezed harder. He needed the weight of the man under his hand to keep from floating clean out of his skin.
“Tell me you want her.” His voice was a rasp, the demand vibrating straight out of his grip.
“I want her dragged into my lap.” Declan leaned into the punishing pressure until Rowan’s knuckles dug into his collarbone. The touch-starved hunger in him surrendered instantly. “I want to lock the front gate of the estate and never let her set foot on pavement without us.”
The unison erased every rational hesitation. Doubt swept off the table like ash. Rowan didn’t care about the logistics of a sexuality he’d thought permanent. He didn’t care about the rigid public borders of their life. He didn’t care that twenty years of strictly defined identity had just been kicked apart. Declan felt it. They were being restructured by the same violence at the same instant.
The girl was, definitively, necessary.
“She said we lacked regulation.” Rowan laughed — a raw scrape in the empty room. “She’s right.”