Chapter 2
RAFE
Iknow the golden boy stepped onto my compound last night.
I know because I’ve been watching him ever since.
Surveillance footage, infrared, heat mapping, audio taps—the works.
I saw him try to fight the door even though he couldn’t stand.
Saw him slump against the wall when the crash started to hit.
Saw him tear at the ropes until his wrists bled and he couldn’t lift his arms anymore.
I saw him curl up on that bare mattress like something already broken, already halfway dead.
I watched him sleep. I counted every shallow fucking breath.
The others don’t know I’ve been watching him. They wouldn’t ask even if they did.
I’m on the ice now, last few minutes of practice bleeding out into nothing. The others are winding down—skates scraping over stained ice, voices sharp and laughing and mean. I’m not wearing full gear. Just the helmet and chest pads, low-hanging sweats, gloves wrapped in black tape to the wrists.
Finn and Luca are bickering at the blue line again.
Loud, fast, teeth bared like they might kiss or kill each other.
Finn’s laughing while dodging every slap Luca aims at his shoulder with the blade of his stick, still skating lazy circles around him like he’s a dog waiting to be chased.
Luca’s jaw is clenched tight, that glittering venom in his eyes, the kind that means he hasn’t gotten his hit yet today and is thinking about bleeding someone to feel better.
The idiot probably thinks he’s in control. Kai doesn’t.
Kai’s standing at center ice with his arms crossed, watching the two of them like he’s calculating the dosage it would take to knock Luca out cold.
His expression is unreadable, but I know what’s going on in that ice-cold brain.
He's timing it, waiting for Luca to cross the line.
Because when he does, Kai will decide if it's worth fixing him after.
I’m getting off the ice, because I’ve got a ghost in a container.
A fallen angel with needle tracks on his arms and a fuck-you smile that won't survive the next twenty-four hours.
I saw him on the cameras before I stepped out here—shirtless, pacing the small space like a caged animal.
Still twitching. Still detoxing. Still mouthing off to no one.
Beautiful, dangerous, addicted and so fucked.
I skate to the edge of the rink, black tape stretching over my fists, and strip my gloves off finger by finger, one deliberate pull at a time.
I don’t look back as I step off the bloodstained ice.
I already know Finn will follow, eventually.
Luca will push too far. Kai will silence him. The rest of them will fall into place.
But the only thing I want right now is waiting for me in a locked box with no way out and no idea what’s coming. Let’s see how much of him is left.
I go straight to the container Finn tossed him in, still half-dressed from practice, sweat drying cold on my skin, black tape tight around my knuckles.
I unlock the door with a flick of my wrist and open it without ceremony, without giving him even a moment to prepare.
The light spills in and I see him immediately—Julian Reaver, the NHL’s golden boy, knees drawn up, bare chest damp with cold sweat, twitching like the floor is vibrating under him.
Twelve hours without anything in his veins has left him trembling, his pupils blown, his breaths shallow.
He startles when he sees me, a full-body flinch like he’s been shot, and for a second I just stand there, filling the doorway, letting him get a good look at what’s waiting for him on this side of the cage.
“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I say, stepping inside and closing the door behind me with a slow, final sound that echoes in the cramped steel box.
His eyes narrow immediately, even through the haze, even through the tremors racking his body.
He pushes himself upright, frowning like he wants to pretend he’s not swaying, not barely holding himself up on the mattress.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growls at me, voice shredded from withdrawal, anger, pride—whatever scraps he’s still clinging to.
I take two steps forward and let him feel the size difference. I drop the helmet on the floor, lean my shoulder against the wall, and give him a slow, humorless smirk. “The circus keeper.”
He blinks, confused, breath hitching as another tremor goes through him. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means,” I say, lowering my voice, “I decide which animals get trained… and which ones get put down.”
His jaw tightens. His hands, still trembling, curl into fists against his knees. He looks at me like he wants to fight and like he wants to die, both at the same time. And he looks at me like he knows—some part of him knows—that whatever happens next, I’m the one holding the leash.
Good.
I like him already.
I stay where I am for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable—not scared, no, he’s too high and too stupid for that yet—but aware. Aware that this room is mine, that the air is mine, that he’s mine whether he understands it yet or not.
He glares at me like I’ve kicked his dog. “Circus keeper,” he mutters, snorting. “Cute. Real poetic. Lemme guess—you’re the head clown?”
I laugh under my breath. “You wish I was a clown,” I tell him, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward him. “Clowns try to entertain you. I’m here to make sure you don’t embarrass us before you even get on the ice.”
Julian scoffs, rolling his eyes so hard his whole head moves with it. “Embarrass you? Honey, I’m already doing better than this dump. You all kidnap your players or am I just special?”
“You’re not special,” I say, because someone needs to be honest with him. “You’re a debt.”
That gets him. His jaw tightens, something dark flickers behind his eyes, but he masks it fast—too fast. Defense mechanism. He’s been carrying lies like oxygen.
“Oh yeah?” he snaps back. “Well your little welcoming committee didn’t even give me water, so tell your boss he’s a cheap date.”
I bite back another smirk. God, he really doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. “Keep talking,” I tell him, stepping closer, until I’m right in front of him. “Let’s see how far that mouth gets you.”
He lifts his chin, shaky but defiant. “Oh, don’t worry, big guy, my mouth usually gets me everything.”
His voice trembles at the end, not because he’s scared—because the withdrawal is clawing him open from the inside.
But he keeps going anyway. “And you?” Julian continues, eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to size me up through a fog.
“What are you? The muscle? The big silent type who beats the shit out of people for fun?”
I tilt my head. “Sometimes for fun,” I admit. “Sometimes for necessity. Sometimes because someone pisses me off.”
“Wow,” he mutters, leaning back against the wall, rubbing his arms like he’s freezing. “What a résumé. Bet your mom’s real proud.”
That one earns him a step forward. His breath stutters when he realizes I’m close enough to feel his shiver through the air. “Careful,” I murmur, lowering my head just enough to level our eyes. “You’re in no position to mouth off.”
He smirks again, weak but sharp. “And you’re in no position to act tough. I’ve been in this cage twelve hours and you’re already paying me a visit. Who’s the one obsessed here?”
I don’t laugh this time, but I lean in just a fraction, my voice dropping until it’s barely a sound, more breath than words. “You keep pushing me, Reaver,” I say, “and I’m going to show you exactly what happens to people who don’t learn their place.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, finally giving me a reaction.
I step back—only a little, only enough to watch the way his pupils drag toward me without him meaning to. “Say one more smart thing,” I warn quietly, “and you’ll find out how fast I can make you beg.”
His breath shudders. His fingers twitch.
But his eyes? Still defiant. He groans like his world is ending, dragging his hands down his face, shaking and twitchy, breath rattling through clenched teeth.
“Why the fuck am I here anyway?” he snaps, like maybe if he says it loud enough, the steel walls will echo back a different answer.
I watch him for a beat, unblinking, then shrug like it’s obvious. “Told you. Debt.”
He freezes, then squints up at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues. “What the fuck does that mean?” he huffs, breath catching halfway through, chest hitching like even his lungs are arguing with him now. “What, you guys think I owe you? I don’t even fucking know you.”
I sigh, slow, bored and step in close again.
I crouch, grab his wrists, and pull out my knife.
He tenses immediately like he thinks I’m about to gut him, but I just slip the blade under the ropes and slice clean through.
They drop from his skin in a soft hiss of friction.
He flinches anyway. His hands fall uselessly into his lap, wrists raw, red, twitching from the damage and the withdrawal.
“Means your fuck-up cost someone a lot of money, pretty boy,” I say calmly, folding the knife and slipping it back into the strap on my chest pad. “And now you’re going to earn it back.”
Julian stares at me. His lips part, then press together, like he’s trying to hold in the five different things he wants to say.
He doesn’t. He just stares like he’s doing the math and hating every answer.
“What the fuck did I do?” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“Jesus, was it the drugs? The press? The game? What—what the fuck was it?”
But I don’t give him anything else. He’s not ready to know.
He hesitates just long enough to convince me he’s not stupid, but the second I turn toward the door, he moves—lunges for it with all the twitchy desperation of a dying man chasing air.
His feet skid across the concrete, shoulder dropped low like he thinks he’s fast enough, strong enough, anything enough to make it past me.
He’s not.
I catch him mid-stride, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt, and slam him back into the steel wall so hard the whole container shakes.
His breath punches out in a gasp, but he’s already thrashing again, wild and reckless, all teeth and defiance and muscle memory that doesn’t mean shit in this place.
I crowd in close, and then I press my hand to his throat to hold him there. Just enough to remind him.
His pulse hammers under my thumb but he glares up at me, spitting venom like it’s all he has left, shaking with rage or withdrawal or both.
His eyes are glassy and blown wide, pupils devoured by the aftermath of a high he didn’t earn, a crash he doesn’t know how to survive.
The coke’s still in there, lingering, making his jaw clench and his shoulders twitch and his tongue sharp when it should be silent.
I let my thumb drag slow over the heat of his pulse. “You want to die on your first day?” I murmur, close enough that he can taste the ice on my breath. “Be my guest. But I suggest you stay put—unless you want someone to turn you into confetti.”
He starts to speak again, mouth twitching open—but I press two fingers to his lips. “Ah ah,” I murmur. “You don’t talk until I tell you to.”
He freezes, lips parting just slightly under my touch, breath sharp against my knuckles.
“Now…” I whisper, dragging my thumb along the corner of his mouth. “Open.”
He glares up at me, but obeys, eventually. I press two fingers past his lips, slow and deliberate, just to feel the heat of his mouth. Just to feel him shake. “Say thank you.”
He gags a little, chokes around my fingers, but the sound he makes? It's almost a moan.
“Say it,” I repeat, curling my fingers against his tongue.
He breathes hard through his nose, then manages it—hoarse, broken, filthy. “Th–thank you.”
I pull my fingers out and tap his lips lightly. Then I reach into my chest pad and pull out the black tape.
“You talk too fucking much.” I tear a strip off with my teeth and slap it over his mouth, pressing down hard, slow, until it seals tight.
He flinches, glares, tries to twist away, but I grab his jaw, make him look at me.
He slams his fists into my chest, but I’ve already stepped back.
His blows are pathetic—weak, uncoordinated.
I don’t even flinch, just turn, walk to the door, open it, and step out without another word. I lock it behind me.
A second later, the banging starts. First his fists, then his voice. Screaming something that’s mostly curses and hoarse demands. I ignore every sound and pull out my comm. “Bring the junkie some food, will you, puppy,” I say.
Finn’s voice crackles through, chipper and close to laughter. “Yes, sir.” And I can hear the grin in it.