Chapter 23 Julian
JULIAN
I’m floating. Not twitching on the floor or puking in a bucket or clawing at my own skin. Just… floating. Like my bones got replaced with smoke sometime between the moment Rafe kissed me against the shower wall and the moment he dropped a severed finger into my lap wrapped in a goddamn gift bow.
It’s the next morning. Maybe. I think. The light looks different.
The air smells less like sex and steam and more like dust and sweat and quiet.
The sheets are warm. My thighs are sore.
My jaw clicks when I yawn. Everything feels…
slow. Like my body’s moving through water.
Like gravity isn’t in a rush to make me feel anything yet.
I stare at the metal wall across from the bed, blinking lazy and dazed and too loose to sit up.
My brain’s not firing at full speed. There’s no come-down nausea.
No withdrawal rattling my ribs. Just this dull, blissed-out hum in my chest like someone rewired my nervous system with cigarette smoke and aftershocks.
I should feel something, right? I should feel fucked up. Or guilty. Or scared. Or something. But all I can do is lay here and think about the fact that I didn’t even flinch when I realized Rafe killed Nathan.
He handed me a box with a finger in it—Nathan’s finger—and I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw up or dissociate or melt into a puddle of unresolved trauma.
I just said ew. Called him a bastard. Told him he was deranged.
And then I laughed. And then he laughed.
And then I fell asleep on his chest while he kissed my hair like he hadn’t just erased the biggest ghost in my bloodstream.
I think that’s what’s really getting to me.
Not that Nathan’s dead. Not that I’m not sad. But that I’m so fucking fine about it.
I don’t miss him. Not even a little. The ache that used to sit behind my ribs—the one that lit up when I touched myself, or watched the tape, or heard his name on a broadcast—that ache is gone. Like Rafe carved it out with a knife and threw it in a trash can with the rest of Nathan’s parts.
And I should probably feel bad about that. But I don’t.
I feel…clean.
Like I’m still sore and dirty and fucked in the head, but that one infected piece of me finally rotted out and fell off. I feel new. Almost high.
Maybe it’s the withdrawal. Maybe it’s trauma. Maybe I’ve officially snapped. But as I lay here wrapped in one of Rafe’s shirts, legs bruised and back aching and thighs still sticky from last night, I can’t stop smiling.
It takes me three tries to stand without faceplanting. My thighs feel like I got hit by a truck and then dragged behind it for emotional support. I stumble to the edge of the bed, blinking blearily around the container as if the walls might have shifted overnight.
I drag a hand through my still-damp hair and shuffle toward the door like a newly hatched deer on unsteady legs. The second I step outside, the sun hits me like a slap—bright, merciless. I squint, groan, wobble on my feet.
And there’s Kai. Leaning against the railing like a smug fucking statue, arms crossed, black shirt unwrinkled, radiating surgical coldness as if it’s too early for anyone to breathe his air.
I blink at him until my eyes adjust. “So, uh… I think I’m over my ex.”
“Yeah,” Kai says flatly, not even blinking. “We heard.”
I frown. “You heard?”
His lips twitch—just barely. “Thin walls.”
My jaw drops and the bastard grins.
“Oh my fucking god.” I snatch a half-empty water bottle off the rail and chuck it at his head. He dodges like a cat, the smug never leaving his face. “You’re a monster.”
“You’re loud.”
“He’s loud!”
Kai doesn’t even dignify that. He just turns and starts walking, tossing a glance over his shoulder like I should already be following. “Come on. He’s waiting for you.”
I freeze, blinking up at him. “Wait—who?”
Kai doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking.
And because I’m an idiot with zero survival instinct and a biological craving for praise, I follow. The walk across the compound is short, but my legs feel like they’re trying to sue me for emotional damage. I wince with every step.
Kai leads me to his container, and confusion settles in fast.
“What—are we having a group therapy session or—”
But then he opens the door, and Rafe is inside—standing, waiting.
Still dressed in black, still barefoot, still that storm-eyed, nightmare-built monument of a man who held me against tile and fucked me until I sobbed his name like it was carved into my ribs.
The sight of him stops me dead in the doorway.
Rafe looks at me. His voice comes out low, calm, and quietly ruined. “Made you a promise last night.”
I stare at him, pulse kicking hard in my throat. Then it clicks—the syringe.
Oh fuck.
I stop just inside the container, rooted there, the air suddenly too thick and too still.
Rafe doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything else.
He just watches me from under those stormcloud lashes, like he’s already peeled back every thought I’ve ever had and cataloged them for later use.
He stands by the counter—barefoot, legs spread slightly, arms loose at his sides—his shirt wrinkled and damp at the hem, as if he hasn’t bothered changing since he wrecked me last night.
I’m standing here in nothing but his oversized tee and a dangerous amount of morning wood, barely upright, still sore, still floaty, and still not quite over the fact that he left me a severed finger as a love token.
So naturally—“Is it weird I’m still hard?” I blurt.
Kai groans behind me. “Jesus Christ.” Then he turns and walks out, muttering something in another language that I’m pretty sure translates to why am I surrounded by cock-hungry lunatics? The door clicks shut behind him.
Silence settles, thick and sudden.
I blink. Then I look back at Rafe—who’s smirking now. That slow, dangerous, crooked-up-one-side smirk that makes my blood pressure spike and plummet in the same heartbeat. He crooks one finger at me.
And like a fucking idiot, I go. I stagger forward, bare feet scuffing the floor, heart pounding harder with every step until I stop right in front of him, looking up, feeling small in the best possible way.
He lifts one hand and presses a single finger to the center of my chest. One firm push and I go down—collapse right into the chair behind me like my knees folded from the command alone. Fuck. That was hot.
“Sit up straight,” he says, stepping forward. “Feet flat. Hands on thighs.”
I obey instantly—too fast, too eager—and my cock throbs hard in response, straining against the thin fabric of his tee.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over me slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing whether I’m even worth the effort. Then—“You don’t do drugs without me anymore.”
The words hit harder than a slap. My spine jolts upright; my chest stutters on a ragged breath. I blink up at him, wide-eyed.
“You don’t crawl to Kai. You don’t beg anyone else for a fix.”
I nod—can’t stop myself. The ache between my legs sharpens, pulses worse.
He leans down slowly, hands braced on the arms of the chair, caging me in, mouth so close I can feel the heat of every word. “You want to get high?” he murmurs. “You ask me.”
My breath hitches. My thighs twitch involuntarily, muscles jumping under his gaze.
His voice drops even lower. “You want a hit, a touch, a taste, a needle, a pill, a punishment—anything—you come to me. You don’t crawl around this fucking compound asking to be ruined by anyone else.”
I’m sweating. My cock is leaking. I think I might pass out and I don’t even care.
He leans closer, mouth ghosting my ear. “You don’t move until I say. You don’t need unless I say. I own that now, halo. That hunger in you? It’s mine.”
I make a sound—something between a gasp and a moan—but I don’t move. I don’t fucking dare. Because he’s right. And I want that more than I want air. More than I want the drug. More than I want anything. I want his rules. I want his voice in my bloodstream.
And fuck me, I’ve never been harder in my life.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply steps back from me, opens the small black pouch sitting on Kai’s table—no theatrics, no warning.
And then I see it: the syringe. Clear liquid glinting in the light like glass and heat and fucking salvation.
My mouth goes dry. I suck in a breath through my teeth as my cock jerks hard in my lap—still rock-hard, still twitching from the sheer force of him earlier.
I watch the way his fingers handle the needle—confident, precise, practiced—holding it between thumb and forefinger like a priest cradling a relic, like he’s about to anoint me.
Then he turns back and comes closer. Slow. Heavy steps. The syringe held up between us like a promise and a threat.
And then he says it, voice soaked in smoke and command. He crouches in front of me, eyes dragging deliberately over my bare thighs, my flushed face. “Ask pretty…” he murmurs, “…and I’ll dose you myself.”
Every muscle in my body locks tight. I almost come from the sentence alone—not because it’s just a hit, not just a shot, but because it’s him. It’s control. It’s belonging.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. I’m breathing hard, trembling, gripping the arms of the chair like they’re the only thing anchoring me to this dimension. So I try again—this time softer, this time deliberate. “Please.”
His eyes flick up to mine. That slow, dangerous smirk returns.
I choke on a breath, then force the rest out. “Please, Rafe. I want it. I need it. I’ll be good.”
He hums—low, approving. “You’ll be mine.”
“I already am.” The words earn me the faintest twitch of his jaw. Then he shifts forward with slow predator grace, tilting my head to the side. His fingers brush my hair back, thumb stroking along my jaw in a touch that’s almost tender.
I go still. The whole world stills with me.
When he presses the needle to my neck, my eyes flutter shut.
Because this isn’t a high. This is a claim.
I can barely breathe. My whole body hums—skin tingling, blood moving like it suddenly remembers what purpose feels like.
I’m not twitchy. I’m not crashing. I’m just buzzing, floating six inches off the floor, tethered by nothing but the steady curl of Rafe’s hand still wrapped around my jaw.
His thumb brushes my lip—just once—then he lets go.
He straightens, staring down at me with those storm-dark eyes like he didn’t just rewire my entire nervous system, like he didn’t replace every addiction I’ve ever had with himself.
And then he gives the order, voice calm and absolute: “Now go skate, little halo.”
I blink. My breath catches. My chest tightens. Every part of me is still shivering from the way he said good boy, the echo of it humming under my skin like a live wire.
He steps back, folding his arms, that faint smirk curling just enough to make my cock twitch again. Low and final, he adds, “Show them who you really are.”
And I look at him. I look at him like he’s a fucking god—because he is.
Because he pulled me off the floor when I was nothing but wreckage, taped my mouth to keep the poison in, tore out my ghosts one by one, branded me with a needle and a kiss and a fuck so deep I forgot who I used to be.
And now he’s sending me out into the world like I’m not a disgrace anymore—like I’m something dangerous, something beautiful, something theirs.
His.
I nod once—tight, deliberate. Then I walk out of that container high, holy, and ready to burn.