Chapter 19 Julian
JULIAN
I’m crawling out of my own damn skin, unable to sit, sleep, or eat, my body vibrating with a restless energy that won’t settle no matter what I do.
I’ve already jerked off six times today—six—and it’s not even one in the afternoon.
My dick hurts, my chest hurts, and my brain feels like a wasp nest set on fire.
Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Rafe—his mouth, his hands, the tape tight around my throat, the promise he left behind vibrating under my ribs like a curse.
He’s gone, and he’s not calling or texting back, and that one fucking message—Do it again—is still sitting in my phone like a loaded gun.
I can’t take it.
I can’t fucking take it.
I need something sharp, something loud, something that cracks me open without actually killing me. Normally I’d go to Misha and let him bark at me, shove me into a wall, maybe crack a rib for funsies—but he’s gone too, off somewhere with Rafe.
Which leaves only one other option in this whole deranged circus.
Vlad.
The coldest. The quietest. The one who stitches wounds while reciting scripture like a lullaby and tortures men without letting his pulse rise.
Perfect.
I storm across the compound barefoot, half-dressed and half-feral, my nails digging into my own arms because if I don’t scratch myself I might actually put my head through a wall.
The sun feels too bright, my skin feels wrong, and every sound scraping through the compound grates against my nerves like broken glass.
By the time I reach Vlad’s container, I’m already shaking.
I don’t knock. I slam both fists against the metal door hard enough that the entire row probably hears it, my heartbeat thundering in my throat, my skull, and the base of my spine.
The door opens, and Vlad stands there with his hair slicked back and his shirt half-unbuttoned like he was either in the middle of dissecting someone or praying—honestly hard to tell with him.
His icy eyes sweep over me once from head to toe, calmly taking in the disaster I am: bare feet, swollen mouth, pupils blown wide, nail marks carved down my ribs, sweat gluing my hair to my forehead.
He blinks.
I blurt it out before I lose the nerve. “Punch me.”
Both of his eyebrows rise slowly, like something being resurrected from the grave. Then—without saying a word—he slams the door in my face.
I snarl, grinding my teeth so hard my jaw pops as I slam my fist against the metal again, harder this time. “VLAD! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”
Silence.
I pound on it again, louder, the whole container rattling under the impact. “I SAID—OPEN—THE—DOOR!”
Nothing.
I draw back and kick the damn door, my toes screaming as fury spills out of me. “I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T HIT ME I’LL—”
The door flies open so fast I stumble forward.
Vlad stands there again, looking slightly amused now, his pale eyes cutting through me like a blade dipped in holy water.
“Little one,” he murmurs softly, his accent thick and his calm somehow crueler than shouting, “if you wanted pain, you should have gone to Luca. Or Kai. Or perhaps the wall outside Finn’s room. ”
I shake my head violently, my breath coming out sharp and uneven. “I don’t want them. I want something that will shut me up.”
His gaze moves over me again, slower this time. “You want the violence,” he says. It isn’t even a question. It’s a diagnosis.
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Because Rafe told me to stay sober. Because I’m losing my mind. Because three days without him is somehow worse than three weeks without drugs. Because I’m scared that if I don’t crack, I’m going to break.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead I bare my teeth and growl, “Just fucking hit me, Vlad.”
He takes a slow breath, quiet and measured, and then—terrifyingly gentle—reaches out to grab a fistful of my hair. He yanks my head back until my spine arches and our eyes lock, his voice dropping into something soft and cold. “This is not how you bleed for him,” he murmurs.
My breath stutters in my throat.
“And I will not mark you without the goalie’s permission,” he continues, calm and absolute.
I tremble. I hate it. I need it.
The door starts to close again.
“Vlad—” I choke, the sound scraping out of me before I can stop it.
He pauses just long enough to let the final words slip through the narrowing gap, half warning and half promise. “Rafe will be home soon. Endure.”
Then the door slams shut, the metal rattling as I’m left staring at my warped reflection in the dented steel, breathing like a trapped animal and aching for someone who isn’t here.
I stand in front of Vlad’s fucking door, seething.
Chest heaving. Fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. My whole body vibrates with a frustration so animal it makes me want to throw myself through the nearest window just to feel something.
My knuckles are bruising from slamming his door.
My jaw aches from clenching it shut instead of screaming.
And then it hits me.
I haven’t thought about Nathan in almost a week.
Rafe’s face has replaced him so completely in my skull that even my nightmares have changed. It’s not Nathan’s voice echoing through my head when I’m desperate anymore—it’s Rafe’s. His threats. His promises. His fucking presence taking up every inch of space in my drug-ravaged brain.
And now that I’ve realized it?
Of course Nathan’s face crashes back in vivid, humiliating detail.
That smirk.
That voice.
That last kiss before he threw me to the wolves.
“FUCK!” I snarl, slamming my fist into Vlad’s container as hard as I can. The metal booms, my hand screams, and my eyes water instantly from the impact.
From inside, Vlad mutters something low and dark that sounds vaguely Latin—or Romanian—or maybe he’s just casually summoning demons to drag me to hell for being annoying.
I flip the door off with my throbbing hand and storm away, vibrating with rage and humiliation, the itch crawling down my spine like a withdrawal symptom no dose on earth could fix.
Fine.
Vlad won’t touch me?
Then I’ll go to someone who will.
I head straight for Bish’s container, aiming for the one man in this deranged circus who might actually enjoy punching me in the throat without asking questions—Bishop Delaney, the unhinged pyro who once offered to set my name on fire just to see how it smelled.
I bang on the door, full of wounded pride and cracked libido. “Bish!”
The door cracks open two inches. A single, golden, singed eye peers out. Then—SLAM. “I ain’t touching the boss’s toy,” Bish calls through the door, voice full of laughter and the unmistakable sound of something catching fire.
I stare at the metal door like it just personally insulted my ancestors.
Oh. My. God.
I whirl around and march straight toward Corso’s container, banging on the door and waiting a second before pounding again when there’s no answer—but there’s still nothing, which is just typical.
Next I check Tank’s, but his door doesn’t even twitch and there’s no movement inside, which is hilarious considering the guy is built like a walking war crime and apparently still terrified of Rafe Scalzi’s dick.
Cowards. All of them.
By the time I drag my feral, sex-starved, dopamine-deprived ass back toward Kai’s container, I’m half ready to throw myself into traffic.
And of course—of course—Kai is already there.
He’s leaning against the frame of his open door like he knew I’d come crawling the second my tantrum finished short-circuiting the compound, arms crossed, shirt too crisp, expression far too smug.
That fucking smirk.
I stop a few feet away and narrow my eyes at him before glaring hard enough to burn holes through his skull. “You told them,” I accuse, my voice low, scratchy, and tipped with venom.
Kai’s smile widens slowly, satisfied in a way that makes me want to bite something.
“Of course I did,” he says.
The bastard.
“Have you decided to forfeit?” Kai asks, the smirk still sitting sharp on his mouth, his voice low and casual like he’s asking whether I’m finally ready to lie down and behave.
My vision goes red—not just because of the tone, or the implication, or the fact that he’s standing there like the entire compound hasn’t turned into a fortress of No One Will Touch You, Julian, Because Rafe Will Peel The Skin From Our Bones—but because he likes this.
He’s enjoying it.
Watching me crack open. Watching me spiral. Watching me need something I can’t have while I snap at everyone around me like it might somehow fill the void clawing at my ribs.
I glare harder, wanting to hit him, or bite him, or scream until the walls shake.
Instead I say, low and guttural and mean, “I decided to be a problem for everyone.”
Then I launch myself at him.
There’s no warning, no grace, no finesse—just a full-body lunge with my hands clawing at his shirt, teeth bared, a snarl ripping up my throat like I’ve finally crossed the line into something feral.
Kai catches me with a grunt, his back slamming into the container door, but I’ve already got fists twisted in his collar, trying to shove him—or climb him—I don’t even know anymore.
I just know I want to fight, I want to be hit, I want to be held down and wrecked.
I want noise, I want touch, I want Rafe—but he’s not here, and I’m losing my mind while Kai stands there smiling like I’m his favorite science experiment.
“You’re not very good at being subtle,” he murmurs, one hand catching my wrist before I can land a punch that probably would’ve glanced off his jaw anyway.
“I’m not trying to be subtle,” I growl, breathing hard in his face. “I’m trying to bleed.”
Kai tilts his head, completely unbothered.
I hate it.
“And you think I’ll make you bleed?” he asks mildly.
“I think you’re the only one left who hasn’t slammed a door in my face this week,” I spit.
He smiles wider.
Fucker.