Chapter 4 - Damian
Elias Mercer slept like a pup.
The rest of that second flight, his head kept tilting until it landed against me—shoulder, chest, arm, wherever gravity decided. He twitched sometimes, jerking awake for half a second, mumbling nonsense before sliding back under. But when he wasn’t twitching, he was muttering.
And what he muttered…
Let’s just say Mercer would deny every word if he remembered.
Explicit. Breathless. His voice low, cracked with need, broken sentences that had my jaw tightening, my hands curling into fists against the armrest. He doesn’t realize what slips from him when he’s not conscious enough to hide it.
He doesn’t realize how much of him is already mine.
Now it’s the morning of October 31st. Game day.
We’ve got the Haverton Phantoms tonight—our blood rivals. But first, breakfast in the hotel restaurant. A pathetic attempt at normalcy before the violence.
The boys pile around tables—Cole poking half the staff, Shane rearranging cutlery like it’s a curse-breaking ritual, Mats already halfway through his pancakes, Tyler pretending he isn’t vibrating with nerves. Viktor sits silent, looming, sipping his coffee like it’s lifeblood.
And then there’s Mercer.
His hair is a disaster. Like someone dragged their hands through it all night, left it a mess of blond curls sticking out at every angle. My mind betrays me with that image—fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his head back, making him look up at me.
I bury it fast.
He’s twenty. A kid, compared to me. Still wiry, still filling out, still got that boyish look in his eyes even when his grin is cocky. He’s reckless, untrained, too loud. But underneath that chaos is something sharp, something that could be carved into steel if guided right.
And I’ll guide him.
No matter what it takes, I’ll make a legend out of him.
The restaurant hums with the low clatter of forks and muted conversation, waitstaff weaving between tables with plates of eggs, pancakes, toast, all the things the boys think pass for fuel before a game.
It’s chaos—always chaos with this team. Cole’s halfway to standing in his chair already, Mats is pretending not to hear him, and Tyler looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week, just pale nerves and twitching hands.
Elias hasn’t touched his plate.
He’s leaning into Cole, voice quick, green eyes sparking, words flying faster than bullets. The two of them chirp like it’s a competition, back and forth so fast the rest of the table keeps glancing between them like a crowd watching tennis. His eggs sit untouched, steam curling off into nothing.
“Eat,” I say.
He doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t even look my way. His fork is in his hand before he realizes it, shoveling food between jabs, still firing shots, still leaning forward like he’s trying to win some invisible scoreboard.
No pause. No hesitation. Just obedience, baked into his bones.
And not one of them misses it.
The back-and-forth goes on, sharper, louder, Elias and Cole grinning like wolves while everyone else watches. Until, of course, Tyler opens his mouth.
“You two chirp so much,” he mutters, loud enough for the table to hear, “you’d think you’re flirting.”
Silence.
Every head turns. Forks hover midair. Cole freezes with a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. Elias stops mid-laugh, eyes wide, mouth open.
And then Cole drops the words, flat, no humor in his tone. “I’m not that stupid.”
Elias gasps, scandalized. “What’s that supposed to mean, Hollywood? Am I not good enough for you?”
Cole finally grins again. “Nah, rook. I just like my head attached to my body.”
The table chuckles low, uneasy.
Elias blinks, confused. “What the hell do you mean?”
Cole doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t need to. His gaze flicks to me.
Because the vets know.
They’ve seen it before. The way I look at something when I’ve decided it’s mine. They know the weight of it, the inevitability of it. They know how fast a man’s career—or his life—can end if he tests it.
Mercer doesn’t. Not yet.
He’s too busy fanboying, too busy burning himself alive to earn my nod, too busy mistaking the leash around his throat for air.
But the vets know.
And that’s enough.
The table hangs in that quiet. Elias is still staring at Cole, brow furrowed, waiting for an explanation that isn’t coming. Cole won’t give him one—not with me sitting here.
So I do.
“Finish eating.”
The command slices through the silence. Calm, steady, no need to raise my voice. “We’ve got practice after.”
The room exhales like I’ve released them. Forks scrape plates again, chairs creak, the noise of clinking silverware fills the gap where Tyler’s laughter had been. Cole leans back, smirking down at his bacon. Viktor grunts and drinks his coffee. Mats steals toast off Shane’s plate without looking.
And Elias—
He obeys. Instantly. His fork’s in his hand again, shoving eggs into his mouth, still smiling crooked at Cole as though nothing happened. Back to chirping, back to bouncing words like a ping-pong ball, so alive he doesn’t notice he’s just done exactly what I told him.
But the vets notice. They always do.
The rookies don’t. Tyler especially, poor bastard—he thinks he’s still got a chance to catch up, to earn something he never will.
But Elias…
He’s already mine.
Even if he doesn’t know it yet.
Haverton’s rink smells wrong.
It’s got that sharp tang of ammonia, overlaid with moldy boards and stale sweat that never leaves, no matter how much bleach they pour over the concrete. The Phantoms practice here, and their rot is soaked into the walls.
We’re on their ice this morning, a few hours of skate before the real war tonight. And I know exactly what’s waiting.
Mercer.
They’ll come for him. No question.
One: because he’s a rookie. Fresh meat. Easy target.
Two: because he’s a good rookie. Fast, already catching attention.
Three: because he’s center—every play runs through him, and breaking the spine means breaking the team.
And four…because he taunts like his life depends on it. Loud, reckless, teeth bared, mouth never shutting. He’ll bait them without even realizing it, and Haverton doesn’t let bait go unpunished.
I am ninety percent certain tonight ends with Mercer’s blood on this ice.
So I drill him.
Hard.
“Again,” I bark, whistle between my teeth.
He’s gasping, jersey plastered to him, hair dripping into his eyes, but he drops into faceoff stance without hesitation. Across from him, Viktor crouches like a wolf, bulk ready to crush him.
Puck drops. Mercer launches forward, fast hands, quick feet. He wins the draw, whips around, tries to cut past Viktor. Gets slammed instead, shoulder to chest, flattened to the ice.
“Up.”
He scrambles, legs wobbling, grabbing his stick again.
“Again.”
This time I throw Cole at him. Cole’s faster, dirtier, slashing at his stick. Mercer snarls back and somehow manages to break through, puck on his blade, ripping it toward the net.
Mats. Then Viktor again. Then both together. I pit him against every vet who knows how to crush bones without leaving a mark. Over and over, until his legs are shaking, until his breath is coming in broken gasps.
He never quits.
Not once.
Every time he hits the ice, he’s feral when he gets back up. Every time I bark the order, he obeys instantly. No hesitation, no questions. Just again.
The vets glance at me between drills, smirks, eyes knowing. They see what I’m doing. They know why. I’m sharpening Mercer against them now so Haverton doesn’t gut him later.
By the time I call it, he’s half-collapsed against the boards, sweat dripping, chest heaving. He’s smiling so wide his face might split in half.
“Good work today, boys,” I say, voice carrying across the rink. Then my gaze pins Mercer. “Especially you.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide, grin breaking into something feral. He doesn’t even notice the bruises already blooming across his ribs.
He’ll notice tonight.
And he’ll bleed for me.
The locker room smells like war. Sweat and tape, wet gear steaming in the air, the sting of liniment rubbed into bruises. The rookies are wrecked—Mercer’s grinning like a lunatic, Brooks looks like he might puke into his gloves.
The vets? They’re already scheming.
Cole slams his stall door shut with a grin too wide. “Halloween game, boys. You know what that means.”
Mats doesn’t even look up from unlacing his skates. “That you’ll get your ass handed to you by security again?”
Cole points his stick at him. “That was one time. And I still made it back before puck drop.”
Shane’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, pads half-off, muttering, “Masks, curses, bad omens—it’s all lining up, I’m telling you. The Phantoms will bleed for it tonight. They always do.”
Viktor grunts something in Russian that makes half the room laugh and the other half go pale.
Mercer, dripping sweat, leans forward with a grin too wide. “What are we planning, Hollywood? Haunted hotel hallways? Jump scares? You dressing up as a nurse and traumatizing Brooks?”
Tyler groans. “Can we not—”
“We are,” Cole cuts in, eyes gleaming. “It’s tradition. Phantoms game. Halloween night. Doesn’t matter where we are—we make the hotel ours. Costumes, chaos, booze. Half the league talks about it. They don’t call us the Reapers just because of the jerseys.”
The room erupts. Mats smirks, Shane actually claps, Viktor shakes his head like he’s already resigned to it. Brooks looks like he’s trying to melt into the floor.
Mercer? He’s vibrating, still high from drills, smirking so sharp it’s dangerous. He chirps Cole again, voice rough with exhaustion but bright: “What’s the plan then, oh fearless party planner? You gonna lead the Phantoms through a haunted corn maze before we kick their asses?”
The whole table laughs. Cole winks at him. “Stick with me, curls. You’ll see.”
The boys are wound too tight with that reckless energy that always comes before Haverton. They’re loud, laughing, half-planning a game of chicken with security, half-planning a haunted circus in the hotel halls. Mercer’s right in the middle of it, eyes bright, curls plastered to his forehead.
Cole’s the loudest, obviously. He’s waving his hands around like he’s pitching a movie. “Listen, listen—picture this. Capes. All of us. Full Dracula mode when we walk into their barn tonight. The crowd wouldn’t recover.”
Groans ripple through the room. Mats mutters something about dignity. Shane looks genuinely intrigued, whispering about blood sacrifices. Tyler looks horrified.
I’ve heard enough.
“If anyone shows up with capes at the game,” I say, “I’m benching you.”
The room freezes, then erupts. Laughter bounces off the walls, Viktor snorts into his hands, Mats actually grins, and Cole slams his palm against his stall like he’s been personally betrayed.
“You wouldn’t,” he groans.
I arch a brow. “Try me.”
Cole mutters something about “no sense of theatricality,” while Mercer cackles so hard he nearly drops his water bottle. He chirps Cole with something about being “vampire roadkill by the second period,” and the vets lose it all over again.
But even as the chaos builds back up, I can feel Mercer’s eyes darting toward me. Quick, sharp glances he probably thinks I don’t notice. Like he’s still chewing on every word I’ve given him these past days. Like he’s waiting for the next command.
The Phantoms will come for him tonight. He doesn’t know how hard yet. But when they do, I’ll be there.
And if I have to bleed half their roster to keep him breathing, so be it.