Chapter 6 - Damian
Of course Cole organized a party.
We walk into the hotel and the rookies think it’s over—the blood, the bruises, the war on the ice.
But Cole Vance doesn’t know how to stop.
By the time we’re out of the showers, the man’s already sweet-talked management into letting us use the roof, and by the time we’re upstairs, there’s booze, food, and half the team chirping the Phantoms like they’re standing right there with us.
They’re not. But that doesn’t stop the boys from howling into the night.
The roof hums with chaos. Mats is leaning against the rail, smirking at something only he knows.
Shane’s muttering curses into a beer can like it’s a holy relic.
Tyler’s looking around like he expects Haverton fans to crash through the stairwell doors.
Cole’s loudest, obviously, narrating plays that didn’t even happen: “And then Mercer looked Shaw dead in the eye and said is that all you’ve got, old man? —”
Mercer’s grinning like a lunatic.
Bruises bloom under his eyes, ribs wrapped in shadows, wrists taped rough. His curls are damp from the shower, sticking up wild, his grin sharp and too wide, laughter spilling from him like he doesn’t even feel the pain.
But I know better.
He jerks when he laughs too hard. Breath hitches when he leans back against the railing. Every time he flexes his fingers, I see the twitch in his jaw.
So I pull him aside.
He startles when my hand finds his shoulder, the grin faltering for a half-second before snapping back. I sit him down on one of the hotel loungers, crouch beside him, and peel his jersey up enough to see the damage.
His ribs are a storm of bruises, dark spreading under pale skin. My fingers press careful, testing. He hisses once, but nothing gives. Not broken.
His wrists are the same—angry red marks, swelling, but nothing torn. Just bruises.
I tape them tighter, silent, steady. He watches me the whole time, eyes wide and wild, like every touch is something more than it is.
When I finish, I glance up at him. “Not broken.”
He exhales like I just handed him oxygen. The grin snaps back. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Captain.”
My lip curls into a smirk before I can stop it. Because he’s right.
I should stand. I should leave him to his chaos, let Cole or Mats or the noise of the party swallow him whole. But I don’t. I stay crouched, eyes locked on his, watching him grin like pain’s just another joke.
And then he leans closer.
Curls wild, eyes green fire, mouth split sharp. He tilts forward until I can feel his breath against my jaw, until the noise of the team fades behind him. His grin is daring, cocky, a challenge wrapped in teeth.
“Careful, sir,” he says, too soft for anyone else. “You keep touching me like that, people are gonna talk.”
My hand stills against his taped wrist. His grin widens, like he thinks he’s won.
He hasn’t.
I let the silence stretch, heavy, deliberate, my eyes burning into his.
And for the first time all night, his laugh falters.
Then I speak.
“They already know who you belong to.”
His breath catches. His grin snaps wide again, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the crack under it, the way his chest stutters, the way his pupils blow wide like I just carved the words into him.
I rise, slow and steady, towering over him again. His eyes follow me up, too bright, too desperate, too undone.
And I leave him there.
I turn, stride back toward the chaos—Cole yelling about curses, Mats stealing someone’s drink, Viktor looming silent with his beer. The noise swallows me back, the team’s laughter spilling into the night air.
Behind me, Mercer chokes on his own silence. His own chirping. His own need.
Someone drags up a speaker, bass rattling through the concrete, and suddenly the boys are howling lyrics into the night sky.
Booze floods the tables—beer, whiskey, something Cole swears is “haunted punch.” Food disappears as fast as it’s dumped out: pizza boxes, fried everything, sugar like they’re fueling a war.
And then the costumes come out.
Of course Cole smuggled them here. He’s passing out masks, props, bits of fabric, fake blood packets like it’s some twisted Santa’s workshop.
Mats rolls his eyes but takes a cape anyway.
Shane’s drawing symbols on his cheeks with black eyeliner, muttering about warding off Haverton curses.
Even Viktor has plastic devil horns shoved on his head while he glares at everyone in silence.
Mercer doesn’t hesitate.
He dives in headfirst, laughing sharp, yanking half a costume out of Cole’s bag.
It’s some stitched-together mess—ripped black jersey, fake fangs still wedged in his mouth, blood smeared down his neck like he clawed his way out of a grave.
He throws himself into it like he’s been waiting his whole life for the excuse.
And God help me—he looks alive.
Grinning through bruises, ribs wrapped, wrists taped, chest still marked from every hit tonight. A pup wrecked and glowing, slipping into a monster’s skin like it was always meant for him.
The boys roar when he spins for them, Cole howling loudest, Tyler trying not to look impressed, Shane declaring him the “sacrifice come back from the dead.” Mercer cackles, throws himself into the chaos, dancing under the floodlights.
Cole’s in his element—loud, reckless, pouring drinks like the roof belongs to him. He grabs a plastic cup, sloshes whiskey and soda together, adds some of that neon “haunted punch” for effect, and presses it right into Mercer’s hand.
“Drink up, curls! First Reapers Halloween—gotta christen you properly.”
The others howl, banging fists against the tables, chanting his name like he’s about to down holy fire. Mercer stares at the glass, still grinning, fangs flashing under the floodlights.
But he doesn’t drink.
Not yet.
Instead—he looks at me.
His eyes bright, body vibrating, bruises carved across his ribs, wrists still taped from my hands. And still, he waits. Cup in hand, laughter hanging on his lips, he turns toward me like my answer is the only one that matters.
My chest tightens.
He’s twenty. Barely a man. Still a kid under the pads, reckless and grinning, buzzing out of his own skin. Technically, no booze for him. Technically, I should shut it down.
But his eyes stay on me.
One second. Two. Three.
I nod.
Just once.
His grin splits his face wide. He tips the cup back in a single pull, throat working, liquid gone before Cole even finishes his next jab. The boys erupt, chanting louder, clapping his back, Cole shouting something about “that’s my rookie!”
Mercer’s laugh cracks into the night sky,. His grin is blood-bright, his chest still heaving with the game under his skin.
And the whole time, he keeps glancing at me.
Like he knows who gave him permission to burn.
The drinks keep flowing, Cole’s voice rising louder with every pour. The boys howl into the night, chanting, singing off-key, dancing on the edge of the rooftop like gravity doesn’t exist. Mercer dives in headfirst, cup in hand, grin splitting his face, curls wild in the wind.
And by his second drink—he’s gone.
Not drunk. Not sloppy. Just tipsy enough that the leash in his head slips loose. Just tipsy enough that the filters fall away, that the rookie who never shuts up stops pretending he’s only teasing.
I see it before it happens. The shift in his stance, the flush in his cheeks, the gleam in his eyes.
Then he spins on his heel.
And heads straight for me.
The crowd doesn’t matter anymore—the yelling, the laughter, Cole practically screaming about curses into the night sky.
All I see is him. Elias Mercer, bruised and buzzing, chest still heaving from war on the ice, wobbling just a little from booze, walking straight toward me like he’s got a death wish.
He plants himself in front of me. Too close. Eyes bright, grin sharp, mouth reckless.
“Well, Captain,” he drawls, shameless, leaning forward just enough that I feel the heat of him. “You gonna keep staring at me all night, or you finally gonna admit you like what you see?”
The words slice the air open.
The boys don’t hear—too loud, too drunk, too busy with their own chaos. But I hear. Every syllable.
And he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Not drunk enough to claim ignorance.
Not sober enough to pretend restraint.
Just reckless enough to forget I’m his captain.
My jaw tightens, my knuckles flex against the tape still biting my hands. I hold his stare, calm and silent, watching his grin twitch at the edges under the weight of it.
I lean in, slow, deliberate, until my mouth is just beside his ear. My voice cuts low, rough enough to scrape his skin.
“Careful, pup. You’re one word away from something you can’t take back.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. His grin doesn’t falter—it widens, reckless and dangerous.
“And what word would that be?” he shoots back, eyes sparking.
My jaw tightens. My hand flexes once at my side.
And I realize—this isn’t a rookie chirping anymore.
This is Mercer begging me to snap the leash.
The rookie doesn’t know what he’s asking for.
Or maybe he does.
I lean in slow, hair falling forward, shadow cutting us off from the rest of the rooftop. His breath stutters for half a second, but he holds his ground—grin twitching, body swaying with the booze and the adrenaline still boiling in his veins.
My mouth brushes his ear.
“Mine.”
The word lands hard, heavier than a fist, sharper than a blade.
His entire body jerks. The grin breaks, falters, reforms—shaky, wild, too wide, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or choke. Color floods his face, crawling up his neck.
Elias Mercer—the loudmouth, the brat, the rookie who never shuts up—goes silent.
Just for me.
Mercer just stares at me, wide eyes caught between panic and hunger, lips parted around words he can’t seem to find. He looks like he’s deciding if he should bolt for the stairwell or step closer and burn himself alive.
Then—he digs deeper.
“…Aren’t you too old for me, sir?”