Chapter 17 JULIAN
JULIAN
Rafe’s gone.
That’s the first fucking problem.
He told me last night while standing in the doorway of my container like some damn mafia saint draped in black, his hair still wet from a late skate, his jaw dark with stubble, his eyes soft in that dangerous way they only get when he’s about to ruin me.
He didn’t say where he was going or how long he’d be gone, only that he and Misha had a job and that I wasn’t coming with them.
I pouted, he smirked, and when I asked why, he didn’t answer.
Instead, he handed me a goddamn photo—a printed one, like it was sentimental or some kind of psychotic parting gift.
It’s me on his bed, my throat wrapped in black tape, my face flushed and tear-streaked, breathing like I’d just been ripped apart and remade. My eyes are glassy, my mouth open, and I look completely wrecked, like I’ve been broken so beautifully it should be hanging in a museum.
Underneath it, scrawled in black marker in his brutal, jagged handwriting, are the words:
Stay sober until I come back, little halo, and I’ll fuck the tears out of you.
Then the bastard kissed me once—slow and soft, like he was branding me with his mouth—and left without another word, leaving behind nothing but heat, silence, and the sharp slam of the door.
It’s been thirty-six hours since my last fix, the only thing in my system the cocktail Kai pumped into me—the one that made me see two Finns and nearly flirt with the wrong one.
So naturally, today I’m a fucking nightmare.
The second problem is that I’m on the ice trying to use adrenaline like it’s heroin, skating so hard my lungs burn while I slice through drills like I’m being chased, praying the speed and the wind and the pain in my thighs might give me that float I’m missing.
It doesn’t.
All it really does is make me hard—for nothing, for him—because my body doesn’t know the difference and it remembers everything: his voice, his hand, the tape, the weight of him behind me, the threat of being kept.
And now I’m skating with a semi and an attitude problem.
Finn’s chirping at me from across the rink like we’re in some low-budget hockey porn. “Slow down, pretty boy! This isn’t a race, it’s a recovery!”
“Blow me, chaos goblin,” I snap, barely dodging a check.
He laughs. “Later, sweetheart. You got a safe word?”
Luca’s circling again like a buzzard, grinning as he drifts a little too close, looking far too pleased with himself. “Oh, look who’s grumpy,” he says lazily. “Is it because Daddy didn’t say goodbye?”
I stop dead again, cutting so sharply that ice sprays straight into his face.
He just laughs, fucking delighted with himself.
Kai’s on the sidelines, arms crossed, not saying a word but watching me like I’m a chemical equation about to explode.
He doesn’t step in. Doesn’t tell the others to back off.
Probably thinks I deserve the agitation.
Probably hoping I’ll snap and he can drag me back to his little lab and dose me with another hit of let’s-see-if-you-cry-this-time.
I’m not going to cry—I’m going to kill someone, or jerk off behind the bleachers, or maybe both, because my veins are screaming, my skin itches, and all I want—all I want—is to feel Rafe’s voice in my mouth again.
I want the tape, the threat, the promise; I want his fucking hand wrapped around my throat while he tells me I’ve been good.
But instead I’m stuck here with Finn pirouetting across the ice like a maniac, Luca mouthing off like a devil dipped in glitter, and Kai standing on the sidelines sharpening scalpels with his eyes.
And I’ve got a hard-on and a photo burning a hole in my jacket pocket like a drug I’m not allowed to take.
Luca says one more thing—one more fucking thing—and I snap.
Full-on, blood-boiling, teeth-grinding, blackout snap.
I don’t even register what he says, something slick and glittering about how Rafe probably left because he got bored of fixing broken toys, or maybe he just likes the taping up part more than the keeping part.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. I launch at him like a rabid dog let off leash.
No boards. No barriers. Just the exposed edge of the rink and cold hard concrete waiting for whoever flies off first.
Luca sees it coming. He’s grinning before I even make contact, laughing when I slam him chest-first into the ice and swing wild with my stick like it’s a goddamn blade.
He ducks it easily, spins, sweeps my feet, and then we’re both down—snarling, sliding, limbs tangled like we’re trying to fuck and fight at the same time.
The way he moves is fluid, practiced. Mine is not.
Mine is all rage and jagged hunger and thirty-six hours without a fix, chasing pain like it’s the only thing that’ll shut the noise off in my skull.
He grabs my collar and yanks me up just enough to hiss into my face. “Oh, baby, you do get prettier when you’re feral.”
I snarl, knee him in the thigh, elbow him in the jaw. “Don’t call me baby, you silicone-fueled psychosexual ornament.”
He barks a laugh even as I shove him. “Someone’s cranky! Did the big bad goalie forget to leave you a chew toy?”
“I’ll rip your tongue out and staple it to the ice,” I hiss, fully riding the high of fury now, fists tight in his jersey, heart pounding out a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like mine mine mine mine mine—
Luca gasps dramatically, then licks his fucking teeth. “You want to hit me or kiss me, golden boy? I can’t tell anymore.”
“Try me,” I spit, shoving him back again, only for him to grab my wrist mid-motion and twist, sending us both crashing to the ice so hard I see stars. I can taste blood in my mouth, not sure if it’s his or mine or both, and I don’t care. It’s better than silence. It’s better than nothing.
Somewhere in the background, I hear Kai exhale like a disappointed dad. “Julian,” he calls, so dry he could be reading an obituary. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“Shut up, Doctor Death,” I snap, trying to kick free of Luca, who’s now sitting on my stomach with a smirk like he just won prom king.
Kai mutters something about aneurysms and poor life choices, but he doesn’t skate over. Just stands at the edge, arms crossed, probably calculating how many painkillers I’ll beg for later and whether he’s in the mood to say yes.
Luca leans down until our noses almost touch, sweat and spit and melting ice hanging in the air between us while his eyes dance with heat and mockery. “You miss him,” he whispers. “It’s pathetic. And hot. Mostly pathetic.”
I grab a fistful of his jersey and yank him down harder, dragging his mouth even closer to mine. “You want pathetic?” I murmur back. “You’re calling Kai Daddy.”
He flinches—only a little—but then he grins, looking absolutely fucking delighted. “Ooooh,” he hums, “you are paying attention.”
So I slam my head into his and we both see white, and even that isn’t enough, because nothing fucking is.
Kai groans from the edge of the rink like the sound physically pains him, and when he finally pushes off and skates toward us, he moves with all the grace of a man who’s already planning my slow and sterile death.
He reaches us in seconds and wastes no time—slides to a clean stop, grabs Luca by the back of his jersey, and pries him off me like a mom pulling her toddler out of a candy aisle fistfight.
Luca immediately clings to him like a lovesick fucking koala, arms looped around Kai’s neck, legs probably ready to wrap around his waist if not for the skates. “You’re always so handsy, doctor,” Luca purrs, nuzzling into Kai’s jaw with a sigh so theatrical I almost gag.
Kai doesn’t even blink or flinch, and he certainly doesn’t indulge the chaos. He just holds Luca away from his body by the collar like a wet cat while his gaze drops to me instead.
“You,” he says, his voice clipped and clinical. “Did you take anything since I dosed you last?”
I glare up at him from the ice, breathing hard, ribs aching and lips wet with blood. “No,” I snarl.
His eyes narrow slightly. “And why not?”
I hate the question, hate the implication behind it, and hate the way he’s still watching me like a half-cracked experiment that might explode if he stops paying attention. But what I hate most is that the real answer sticks in my throat like a fucking secret.
So I snap.
“Because—” I cut myself off, biting the words back as my fists clench and my voice drops lower. “Because he promised.”
Kai’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the temperature shift anyway. His eyes flick once across my face, reading every twitch like a vital sign, before he gives a single quiet nod that somehow makes it clear the answer said far more than I intended it to.
Luca, of course, perks up like a hyena sniffing blood.
“Promised what, pretty boy?” he asks, grinning wide enough to show every tooth he owns, the look on his face pure menace and joy like this is his favorite soap opera and I just dropped a brand-new episode.
“None of your fucking business,” I groan, throwing my head back against the ice as if hitting it hard enough might knock me into a coma so I don’t wake up until Rafe comes home.
Luca gasps, absolutely delighted. “Oh my god, it’s a sex promise, isn’t it? Is he gonna tape your mouth or your cock this time?”
“Luca,” Kai sighs.
“I’m just saying—”
“Luca.”
“Fine,” he pouts dramatically, finally letting himself be dragged away like a bratty demon who clearly needs sedatives and a leash. “But if you want to talk about it later, I’m a great listener. Or voyeur. I’m flexible.”
Kai skates backward with him in tow, muttering something under his breath in a language I don’t understand but fully assume translates to I regret every decision that led me here.
I stay on the ice, still hard, still hurting, still clutching the photo in my jacket pocket like a promise I don’t entirely trust but desperately need to believe.