Chapter 3 #2
He starts to turn—cool, casual, like this whole performance was just a minor inconvenience in his busy murdery schedule—and something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s the tape still glued to my mouth, or the ache in my arms, or the fact that I’ve been handled, dragged, threatened, and sat on like an obedient dog for over a day now.
So I do the only thing I can. I rear back and kick the fucking table. It screeches across the floor, metal legs shrieking against concrete, slamming into his thigh with a jolt that should get a reaction. Should earn me something. A curse. A hit. A look.
But no. Rafe just stops. One step from the door. Then, in that same flat, heavy voice that feels like concrete being poured straight into my lungs, he says, “Let’s meet the rest of the family, golden boy.”
Like I didn’t just flip a fucking table at him. Like it’s brunch. Like we’re late. Like my little tantrum was nothing but wind in the room.
He unlocks the door and holds it open. And I sit there, tape over my mouth, whole body vibrating, heart hammering, absolutely seething—because the bastard didn’t even look back.
I don’t move at first. Just sit there, fists clenched, glaring bloody murder at the back of his head.
I don’t know what pisses me off more—how he said it, like I’m just another stray being paraded out for show, or how I actually want to follow him just to figure out what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
But eventually, I rise. My body aches, muscles trembling from the crash still gnawing at my spine, but I force myself to walk. Step by step. Right toward him.
He watches me.
I stop in the doorway, right in front of him. And I rip the tape off my mouth with one rough, angry pull. It stings like hell, and I wince—fuck—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
Then I lift my chin and hiss, right in his face, “I hope the next dick you suck gets caught in your teeth, you stone-faced, overgrown fuckpile of daddy issues and repressed murder boners.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not even a twitch. But he takes a single step forward, and I suddenly forget how to breathe. His chest hits mine, firm and deliberate, pressing me back into the cold metal frame of the door. I suck in a sharp breath, shoulders locking up, blood screaming in my ears.
He lifts a hand and with careful, calculated ease—he presses the tape back over my mouth. His fingers smooth the edges, and his thumb drags slow across it, right over my lips, warm and steady and controlling in a way that makes something dangerous happen in my bloodstream.
My heart stutters and my dick—Yeah, okay, cool. Whole-body betrayal. Fantastic.
I stare up at him, stunned and all I can think is: Shit.
The air between us is razor-thin. He’s still so close, chest pressed to mine, breath steady while mine’s doing its best impression of a panic attack in slow motion. I’m pinned between him and the doorframe like something decorative—fragile and breakable and not going anywhere.
The tape clings to my lips again, fresh and hot where his thumb smoothed it down, sealing me in silence like it’s the only language he speaks. My body’s lit up like I touched a fucking wire. I can feel his heartbeat in the space between us. Hell, I can count it.
He leans in. “You sound better when you’re gagged,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “And I like watching you twitch.”
My pulse spikes. My whole body jerks—like I’ve been shocked, like I should flinch away, but instead I freeze, eyes wide, lips burning under the tape.
He pulls back. Not all the way. Just enough to look me in the eyes—storm gray into blue, silent command into stunned defiance. Then he turns and walks off like he didn’t just whisper filth in my ear and tape my mouth shut like a fuckin’ punishment kink come to life.
And I just stand there. Hard. Glaring. Mortified.
I follow him silently, fuming. The tape’s still on my mouth and I refuse to touch it.
Not because I’m afraid to rip it off again—I could—but because I know he wants me to try.
Wants me to fight it, mouth off again, give him another excuse to manhandle me like I’m a disobedient toy he gets to break in.
So I don’t.
I walk behind him, hands fisted at my sides, heart pounding, dick still fucking confused, and rage simmering just below the surface like a lit match in my veins.
The compound spreads out around us, sun cutting sharp lines over rusted metal and reinforced steel.
I hear voices in the distance—laughter, grunts, the echo of something heavy slamming into something else.
My head’s still swimming. I haven’t slept.
Haven’t had anything in my veins in almost two days.
But I’m alert. Everything’s moving too loud. Too fast.
Then we reach it the rink. Or what passes for one in this blood-soaked nightmare.
There are no boards. No plexiglass. No logos.
No sponsorship banners, no jumbotron. Just open ice in a wide, sunken pit of steel and concrete, with low walls slicked in grime and rust. There’s blood frozen into the ice—actual blood, red-stained cracks like spiderwebs across the surface, like someone went face-first and never got back up.
There’s a chill here that has nothing to do with the cold.
And we don’t even stop. Rafe walks past it like it’s just a hallway, and I trail him like a ghost, like if I blink, I’ll miss something that’s going to kill me later.
We head down another steel corridor, then into a wide room that reeks of sweat, leather, old fights, and newer ones. The locker room.
Ten people inside, and every single one turns when I step through the door behind Rafe. They look like a lineup from hell. Some shirtless, some mid-change, some sharpening blades like they’re prepping for war, not practice.
And Finn, of course, is front and center, sprawled across a bench like it’s a throne, grinning the moment he sees me. “There he is!” he crows, sitting up. “Daddy let you out of your box!”
I give him the middle finger. With the tape still across my mouth, the gesture feels appropriate.
Finn kicks his legs like he’s delighted. “Alright, listen up, psychos, we got ourselves a new toy. You’ve all seen the footage. Julian Reaver. Former NHL golden boy, current mouthy disaster.” He winks at me. “Don’t worry, he’s cute when he’s gagged.”
I lunge at him but Rafe’s hand clamps down on my shoulder before I can move more than a foot. Of course.
Finn keeps grinning like he expected it.
“Right, right, intros. That one—” He points across the room to a guy lounging with blood on his knuckles and singed sleeves.
“That’s Bishop. Don’t give him lighters.
He likes fire too much. That’s Vlad next to him.
He’ll stitch you up while whispering Romanian prayers, and you’ll cry while pretending you’re not into it. ”
Vlad lifts his hand in a wave. “Salut.”
Finn points next. “That’s Kai. You see that dead-eyed doctor vibe? He’s our medic-slash-dealer-slash-moral compass. Except he doesn’t have morals. He will cut you open and make it your fault.”
Kai doesn’t look up. Just nods once, slow.
“That one’s Luca,” Finn continues. “He’s cute, poisonous, and calls Kai Daddy. Make of that what you will.”
Luca blows me a kiss.
“Over there, sharpening his stick like a serial killer? That’s Misha. He’s a good boy unless you wake him up wrong. Then he breaks things.”
Misha winks. It’s disturbing.
“That’s Corso. He doesn’t talk. Don’t ask him to.”
Corso doesn’t even blink.
“Tank’s probably outside lifting a truck or something. Ezio’s likely in a mirror somewhere stabbing air with a monogrammed blade. You’ll meet them later.”
Then Finn gestures grandly toward the man still holding me in place like I weigh nothing.
“And this,” he says, smirking, “is Rafe. Our goalie. Our enforcer. Our unofficial captain. And the reason you still have all your teeth.”
Rafe says nothing. His hand stays on my shoulder. And I…I just stand there very aware that I just walked into a family of killers.