Chapter 26 Blake
Blake
Iprobably should’ve sat out of the game.
After everything that went down in the woods, I had the perfect excuse—bruises, cuts, and possible emotional trauma. A neat little trifecta.
Coach Carmichael even said I’d get a free pass. Recovery time, which is code for please don’t make me explain to the athletic director why one of my forwards keeled over mid-match.
But I played anyway. Because apparently I’m allergic to good decisions.
I ran myself ragged, threw myself into every tackle, and by the end, all I could think was that if recklessness was on our drug tests, I’d fail that shit for sure. A full twenty-four hours have crawled by since then.
When I woke up yesterday, Mads was already propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on his knees. The drive sat plugged in, the files finally rebuilt while I slept.
Between that, the footage from the drive-in, and the masked chaos in Colin’s backyard, we finally had enough to build a case. More than enough.
So we did what had to be done. Compiled everything onto a clean drive—no fingerprints, no trail leading back to us—and dropped it with the police anonymously. We also left info about the horror set, Jonah’s presence there, and the way the basement set looked eerily familiar.
I hope Kai doesn’t get pissed; we didn’t name him, but for all we know, anyone connected to the set could be tied in. If someone was accidentally killed in his building, I’m not convinced he could be completely in the dark about that, but who knows?
Now it’s out of our hands.
Which should make me feel lighter. Safer. Instead, it’s like standing on the edge of the field before kickoff—every nerve taut, lungs full of air I can’t quite release, waiting for the whistle.
Mads keeps telling me we’ve done everything we can. That the cops have what they need. That it’s over.
There’s not much left for me to do except to believe him and wait.
The field’s empty when we get there, the air washed clean by last night’s rain. It carries the faint scent of damp earth, the kind of day that feels like my favorite kind of quiet.
Technically, Mads shouldn’t even be here. He has a list of injuries that would have any sane person parked on the couch. But sanity’s never been his strong suit.
He jogs out onto the grass like nothing’s wrong, a mask of cocky ease firmly in place. “Come on, Blue. Bet you can’t score on me.”
“One year seniority doesn’t make you ancient, but…” I shoot back, setting my water bottle down. “You’re also injured, so if I score on you, it’ll be considered elder abuse.”
“Trash talk from someone who missed an open net last week?” He grins, already planting himself between the posts, arms spread wide.
I shake my head, but go for it anyway.
It feels good, jogging toward the ball, letting muscle memory take over. The thump of my cleats, the swing of my leg, the sting of cold air in my lungs—simple things, grounding things. I send the ball flying, and Mads dives the wrong way on purpose, flopping dramatically into the grass.
“Goal!” he groans, rolling onto his back. “Fine, fine, you win.”
“You didn’t even try.”
“I was distracted.” He props himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on me with that grin that still manages to knock the air from my lungs. “You running around in that practice kit? Yeah, no chance I was saving anything.”
I kick the ball lightly at him, careful not to hit his ribs, and he laughs, catching it against his chest.
For a few minutes, it’s just us on the field, goofing around, stealing moments where the world doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down.
And even though he shouldn’t be doing any of this, I let him. Because he’s right—we need it. I need it.
The ball rolls to a stop between us, and I rest my foot on it, lost in my own thoughts.
“You’re stalling,” he says, his accent curling around the words.
“I’m strategizing,” I shoot back, chin tilted, though my pulse skips when he closes the distance. Step by step, he herds me across the grass until the goalpost presses against my back, cold and unyielding.
Mads lifts my wrists, his fingers wrapping easily around both, testing. “Strategizing,” he repeats. “Me too.”
He starts at my jacket, peeling it away from my shoulders with a painful kind of slowness.
The night air is cool against my skin, but his palms are warmer, sliding over me as if he owns every inch.
When he sinks to his knees, tugging at socks and cleats, I can’t help the laugh that slips out, breathless and unsteady.
He smirks up at me, eyes glinting with triumph, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my shorts.
Piece by piece, he strips me down, leaving only my jersey behind.
He pulls a roll of athletic tape from his pocket—how long has he been planning this?—and ties my hands loosely to the post.
I laugh, the sound shaky at the edges, because even turned on as hell, I can’t quite get on board with how absurd this is. “You can’t just tie me up on the field like—”
“Like this?” His grin sharpens, infuriatingly sure of himself, though his eyes never leave mine. He’s searching, waiting for even the smallest flicker of hesitation. My pulse stutters, but I don’t give him one.
When he finds nothing, he says, “Say the word and I’ll stop.”
I don’t. I won’t. The laugh still lingers in my chest, tangled with want, with the thrill of letting him push me exactly where I’ve already decided I want to go.
Like always.
Instead, I whisper, “What if someone sees?”
His mouth curves as he leans down, and the sheer difference in our height makes my knees weak. “They won’t. But if they do, then they’ll know you’re mine.”
Trust Mads to be both utterly serious and completely over-the-top in the same breath. “You sound like a bad romance novel,” I tease.
He presses closer, one hand braced against the post above my head, the other skimming down my side in a touch that’s all promise and possession. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then I’m doing it right.”
All I register is the rhythm of our breaths, the rough bite of the post at my back, and the way his lips finally capture mine—hungry, playful, and absolutely certain.
The kiss deepens, and my wrists strain against the tape—not because I want to get away, but because I want more and I’d claw my way out of hell if it meant being closer to him.
Mads seems to like that, a low sound vibrating in his chest as he shifts his weight, pressing me harder against the post. The metal is unforgiving, but the warmth of him eclipses everything else.
“You always fight,” he murmurs against my mouth, nipping lightly at my lower lip. “Even when you don’t want to win.”
“Maybe I just like giving you the illusion of control,” I manage, though it comes out breathless.
His laugh is dark and delighted. “Illusion, hm?” His hand slides lower, teasing along my lower stomach, drawing a shiver from me. “Tell me again how much control you think you have.”
I don’t answer, mostly because words are useless when his mouth trails down the curve of my jaw, then lower still, each touch pulling me under just a little more.
The night air is cool, but every place he touches burns, and the tape at my wrists only makes me more aware of how easily I’ve given myself over to him in such a short amount of time.
I tug once more at the binding, a small rebellion, and he looks up at me, eyes dark with triumph and something softer. “Stay still,” he says, a little tender, a little commanding. “Let me have this.”
And I do. Because despite the way we always banter, despite my own bravado, there’s nowhere else I want to be but tied up at his mercy.
He drops to his knees in front of me, eyes locked on mine, daring me to look away. His hands glide up my thighs—steady, possessive.
“Spread for me, Blue,” he says. “Show me how bad you want this.”
Anticipation coils tight in me. I can’t think past the feel of him there, so close. I wiggle restlessly.
“Stay,” he growls, hands hard on my hips.
My head tips back, a helpless sound leaves my throat, and his grip tightens, keeping me in place as he loops one of my legs over his shoulder and sucks at my clit.
All I can think is that he’s everywhere—his voice in my ears, his hands pinning me in place, his mouth claiming me until there’s no space left for thought.
He eases his fingers gently inside me, stroking in and out as he continues assaulting my pussy with his teeth and tongue.
My body goes lax and immediately tense again. “Fu–” my words cut off with a feral moan.
By the time he finally pulls back, my whole body’s trembling. He rises, towering over me and apparently ready for more, as if he hasn’t already torn me completely apart.
“You’re mine, Blue. Every inch of you. No one else gets to touch you, no one else gets to hear you sound like this. Only me.”
He notches his cock and my entrance and forces the breath from my lungs when he shoves into me.
“Look at me,” he demands, eyes burning into mine. “Say it. Say you’re mine while I take you apart.”
I can barely speak, but I force the words out. “Yours. I love you, Mads.”
He falters when I say it, but only for a second. The way he looks at me makes me feel like I just made his whole damn life. “Good girl. I love you, Blue. Now hold on.”
The rest is a blur of sweat and thrusting, him shoving my shirt up to knead my bare tits, and the way he owns me without question.
Later, when we’re finally dressed again, he pulls me close and I melt into him. The chaos of the last few months, the fear—it’s all behind us now, fading with every steady breath we share.
What’s left is this: his arms around me, the warmth of his body against mine, and the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together. Weeks of noise fall away; I finally believe it’s over. Even more startling, I believe we can simply be in love.