Chapter 8 - Damian
The storm sounds like the end of the world.
Rain hammers the tin roof of this so-called airport, wind shrieking against walls thin enough to blow down if you breathed hard at them.
It isn’t even an airport—more like a barn with a runway attached, concrete floors slick with mud, walls sweating water through warped seams. We landed here because the pilot had no choice.
Better than ocean, better than fire. Still feels like we dropped into hell.
Now we’re outside, trudging through sheets of water, twenty men and half a coaching staff, soaked to the bone in minutes.
The storm eats umbrellas, laughs at raincoats.
Cole is already narrating like it’s a survival documentary.
“Day one, the Ravensburg Reapers brave the apocalypse. No food. No shelter. Just Hollywood with a six-pack—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Viktor grunts.
They all crowd closer to me as we march through the downpour, huddling against my back like ducklings chasing their mother.
Vets, rookies, doesn’t matter—they all stick to me when the ground shakes under thunder and the lightning turns the sky into a floodlight.
It’d be pathetic if it wasn’t so predictable.
Mercer is silent.
Too silent.
I keep reaching out—small touches. My hand brushing his curls, my knuckles dragging his sleeve, fingers pressing his shoulder in the crowd.
Just to make sure. Just to remind him he’s still here, still grounded.
His panic on that plane wasn’t nerves. It was deeper, darker.
He came apart in my hands, shaking like he was dying.
I’ve seen men break in war on the ice. This was different.
I don’t know what haunts him. Not yet. But I’ll find out.
The “hotel” is an inn, though calling it that is generous.
It used to be a rail station. I can still see the old tracks half-buried in weeds on the way in, still smell the rust and oil under the mildew stink.
Inside, the wallpaper is damp, curling off plaster in strips.
The whole place smells like rot wrapped in lavender cleaner.
The desk clerk stares at twenty hockey players dripping puddles onto her wood floor like she’s seeing ghosts. I grunt, ask for rooms, and she rattles around until she produces ten keys. One for each hand.
“Ten?” Cole’s voice is horrified. “We’re twenty. That’s math, isn’t it?”
“Sleep in the storm if you want,” I tell him.
He groans, flopping dramatically onto the desk like he’s fainting. “Food. We need food. I can’t room with a starving Viktor. He’ll eat me in my sleep.”
Viktor growls low, which only makes Cole whimper louder.
I ignore them all. The keys are cold and heavy in my hand. I turn, and every single man is watching me. Waiting for orders. Like they always do.
“Pairs,” I say, flat. “You’ll live.”
I start tossing keys. Cole and Mats—let them bicker each other to sleep. Shane and Tyler—the curses might cancel the nerves. Viktor can room with the trainer; he won’t kill him in his sleep. That leaves the rest.
And Elias.
Mercer hasn’t said a word since we hit the runway. His curls are plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his jaw. His eyes look wild but empty at the same time. He’s shaking—not from cold.
I keep the last key in my hand.
“You’re with me.”
He blinks at me. Like he didn’t hear right. Like he’s not sure he wants to hear right. Then he nods, quick, obedient without question.
The others notice. They always do. Cole smirks, Viktor grunts something in Russian that might be a prayer, Mats tilts his head like he’s filing it away for later. None of them say a word. They wouldn’t dare.
We climb the creaking stairs, water dripping off our gear, the floor groaning under boots. The inn feels alive, like the walls breathe with mildew, like the old station clock ticking down the hall has been waiting a century for something to happen.
I shove open our room with my shoulder. Two beds, old as sin, sheets smelling faintly of mold and mothballs. A radiator clanks in the corner, cold as stone.
Mercer steps in behind me, dripping puddles onto the warped wood. He hasn’t looked at me since the runway. Hasn’t said a single word.
I shut the door. Lock it.
And now it’s just him and me.
Ten seconds. That’s all I give him.
Ten seconds of watching Elias Mercer stand there in the middle of the room like the storm followed him inside—dripping, shaking, eyes glassed over with something not even here. He’s not in this inn. He’s not in his body. He’s back on that plane, in the freefall, lungs closing like a trap.
I can’t have that.
“Strip.”
It cuts the air clean. My voice. My order.
His head snaps toward me, hair flinging droplets across his face. His eyes go wide, green blown bright under the dim bulb swinging from the ceiling. “What?”
“You heard me.” My tone doesn’t shift. “Strip.”
The word lands like a slap. His shoulders jolt, his mouth opens, shuts. He sways on his feet like he’s balancing between running and falling at my boots.
“Now.”
That does it. His body moves before his head can catch up.
Fingers fumbling at his soaked hoodie, tugging it over his curls with a wet slap, water spattering the warped floorboards.
His shirt follows—plastered to his chest, tugged up to reveal bruises still shadowing his ribs, tape half peeling at the edges.
His jeans cling like a second skin, heavy with rain, peeled down slow, leaving his legs bare and pale under the flickering light. Socks sodden, clumped.
And then his briefs.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. Just pushes them down, lets them slap wet to the floor with everything else.
And there he is.
Naked. Steam rising faint off his skin, chest streaked with bruises, water trailing over every line of him. He doesn’t cover himself. Doesn’t look ashamed. He just stands there, breathing harder now, waiting for whatever comes next.
I shouldn’t look. I’ve seen him bare in the locker room, steam and chaos and laughter to cover it. That’s different. This is quiet. Private. My order. His obedience.
And it’s hell.
My eyes betray me. They drag lower, trace the lines of him, the bruises, the sharp jut of bone under wet skin. He’s twenty, still wiry, still growing into himself. But his eyes are fire, and his body—Christ. He’s wrecked and radiant at once.
My jaw locks until it aches. My fists curl until the tape bites.
“Shower.”
He blinks. “What—”
“Hot. Now. Before you catch a cold.”
Relief flickers across his face. Or maybe it’s something sharper—something too close to a grin. He moves, still bare, still dripping, not even bothering to hide himself as he strides past me to the bathroom.
The door doesn’t close all the way.
Steam hisses out almost instantly, curling into the cold, damp room. The pipes groan like ghosts in the walls. And then I hear him—his breath breaking under the spray, a low sound caught between a gasp and a groan.
I drop onto the edge of the bed, drag a hand through my wet hair, and stare at the warped floorboards like they can keep me sane.
I’ve seen him naked before. Locker room, showers, chaos. But this is different. He stripped because I told him to. He’s naked because I ordered it. And my pulse hasn’t steadied since.
Christ help me.
The hiss of the shower fills the room, steam curling out in pale ribbons. I sit there a long minute, listening to it. Listening to him. His breath breaks against tile, his body crashing through the spray like he’s trying to wash off the panic, the flight, the storm.
My own clothes are clinging to me like a second skin. Cold. Heavy. The smell of rain and mildew clings to everything. So I move.
Routine steadies me. Always has.
Jersey peeled first, dripping across the warped floorboards. Pads tugged free, dropped neat in a corner. Tape ripped from my wrists, knuckles raw again under the strip. The rest follows—boots, jeans, undershirt. All heavy, all sodden, all stripped until I’m down to skin and scars.
The radiator clanks once, fails to cough out heat. The storm outside rattles the glass. And I stand there, bare under the flickering light, breathing slow until my pulse evens out.
The bathroom door creaks. Steam spills out thick.
And Elias steps through.
Fresh bruises purple across his ribs, but the hot water’s given him more than clean skin.
It’s given him attitude. His curls drip down into his eyes, his grin is sharp and cocky again, his shoulders loose where they’d been locked tight.
Naked but for a towel knotted low on his hips, he looks at me like he’s daring me to notice. Daring me to look.
And I do.
Because I’m only human.
His grin widens when he catches it. “Shit, Captain,” he drawls, dragging the towel across his hair, water still beading down his chest. “You get prettier every time I look.”
The storm rattles the windows like applause. The inn creaks around us like it’s listening.
And Elias Mercer—cocky, reckless, twenty, dripping wet—just tilts his head and keeps grinning at me like he knows I’m seconds from snapping.
I move before the smirk can split any wider.
One step, then another. My hand closes around the edge of his towel, knuckles white against the damp cotton. I yank him forward, hard enough that his chest bumps mine, water still dripping off him in rivulets. His breath catches, his grin stutters for just a second—before it comes back feral.
“Cap—”
I cut him off. My mouth brushes his ear.“You really want to test me, pup?”
His breath shudders out. The grin twitches, crooked, almost breaking—until he swallows, eyes blazing, and tilts his chin up. “Maybe I do.”
My grip tightens on the towel. My other hand fists in his curls, jerking his head back just enough to make him look at me. His mouth parts on a sound he swallows too late.
I lean in, forehead almost touching his, my voice nothing but gravel and threat.