Chapter 8 - Damian #2
“You keep running that mouth, and I’ll put it to better use. Right here. Against this wall. Until you can’t even remember how to grin.”
The towel slips a little lower on his hips. His chest jerks with a broken breath, ribs straining under bruises. And still—still—he grins.
“Say when, Captain.”
My eyebrow lifts slow. Heavy. “So panic was replaced by attitude, then?”
Elias doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, my brain right now has two settings—panic, and the filth you told me to make me breathe. So…yes.”
My jaw ticks.
That mouth. Always running. Always daring. Always begging for me to shut it the fuck up.
My hand moves before I even think about it. Big, unyielding, wrapping around his throat. His pulse jumps under my palm, wild and fast, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to pull away. He leans into it. My thumb presses under his chin, forcing his head back, making him look at me.
Those eyes blaze up at me, wild and wrecked, towel slipping lower at his hips. His grin trembles but doesn’t die.
“Careful, pup,” I murmur. “You think I won’t remind you which setting you belong in.”
His throat works under my grip, a broken little sound spilling out—half laugh, half gasp. His hands twitch at his sides, not lifting, not grabbing, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“Y—you mean the filth setting?” he rasps.
My thumb presses harder under his jaw, tilting his head back until his head brushes the wall. My eyes bore down into his, steady, unblinking.
“No,” I growl. “The obedient one.”
His breath shatters against my palm, chest jerking, towel barely clinging now. His grin splits again—feral, reckless, helpless.
“Yes, sir.”
My thumb stays pressed under his jaw, his throat hot and pulsing against my palm. His eyes are blown wide, green gone dark, towel one slip away from hitting the floor.
I smirk, slow and sharp. “You done with the panic?”
His breath stutters. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” My voice dips lower, heavier. “You gonna tell me what that was about today, or tomorrow, Elias?”
His back thumps into the wall, shoulders squaring, but his eyes never leave mine, “Tomorrow, sir.”
My jaw tightens. My chest burns. And then I give him what he’s been begging for since the second he opened his reckless mouth.
“That’s right.”
I close the last inch between us and finally kiss him.
He melts.
Every muscle in his body goes loose at once, towel slipping even lower, his hands flying up at last—grabbing at me, clutching my shoulders, my chest, anywhere he can anchor himself.
His mouth parts under mine instantly, desperate, ruined, like he’s been starving for this since the first time he looked at me across the ice.
The storm rattles the windows, the old inn creaks around us, but all I feel is him. His curls brush my face, his breath is hot against my mouth, his ribs press into me when he leans up like he’d climb me if I let him.
And I might.
Because Elias Mercer tastes like panic turned devotion, like chaos broken into obedience, like every filthy word I’ve dragged out of him lit a fire straight through his chest.
When I break the kiss, he’s panting, lips swollen, eyes glazed. He looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
I don’t let him catch his breath.
I crush my mouth back against his, harder this time, swallowing that sharp little gasp like I own it. My hand on his throat tilts his head up, my other palm braced against the wall by his ribs, caging him in. He moans into my mouth—high, wrecked, helpless—and it shoots straight through me.
He kisses like he plays: reckless, buzzing, no hesitation. His mouth crashes against mine, messy and hungry, tongue sliding desperate when I part his lips. He’s clawing at me now, fingers digging into my shoulders, trying to climb me, trying to take more.
And I give it to him. For a minute.
I let him burn. Let him melt against me, whimpering when I bite his bottom lip, gasping when I drag my thumb along his throat. I press him so tight to the wall the old plaster groans. His towel gives up entirely, pooling at his feet. He doesn’t notice—too gone, too lost, too needy.
When I rip my mouth from his, he’s panting, glassy-eyed, wrecked.
“Cap—”
“Get dressed,” I cut in.
His jaw drops. “What? Now?”
“Dinner.” My smirk widens at the outrage on his face. “Move, pup.”
He groans, full-body, throwing his head back against the wall. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me—”
“Elias.” My tone snaps like a whip.
His whine turns into a laugh, ruined and sulky. “Fine.” He stomps toward his bag, naked as the day he was born, muttering about cruel and unusual punishment.
I smirk as I pull on clean sweats, then a shirt, moving slow, steady. My cock is still hard, straining, but I don’t touch it. I won’t. Control is mine. He doesn’t get that yet—but he will.
When he turns back, dressed and still pouting, I let my eyes drag slow over him once more before jerking my chin at the door.
“Let’s go feed you before you start chirping me about starvation.”
He grins despite himself, crooked and reckless, following me out into the hall.
The inn’s restaurant looks like it hasn’t been touched since the day the trains stopped running.
Yellowed wallpaper peeling at the corners, lampshades tilted, tables draped in cloth that smells faintly of mildew and smoke.
A fire wheezes in the old brick hearth, struggling to keep up with the storm hammering outside.
The boys are already spread out across two long tables, loud and restless. Wet jackets hang over chair backs, boots thud against warped floorboards. Half of them look like drowned rats, the other half like they’re about to climb the walls if they don’t eat soon.
Cole spots us first. His grin splits wide, loud enough to cut through the storm when he throws his arms up.
“Finally! Took you long enough, Cap. Thought you two got lost in the wallpaper.” He jabs at the sad little menu in front of him, horror etched across his face.
“Also, what the fuck is half this food? I asked the waiter what schnitzel is, and he said ‘meat.’ That’s it. Just meat.”
Elias doesn’t miss a beat. He drops into the chair across from Cole, towel-dried curls bouncing, smirk already in place. “Don’t act like you don’t eat mystery meat all the time, Hollywood. Half your protein shakes smell like they were scooped out of a swamp.”
The table erupts in laughter. Cole clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded, then cuts a glance at me. A silent question: Is he too fragile to chirp back tonight?
I tip my chin once. Permission.
Cole’s grin snaps back feral. “Listen here, curls—at least my protein doesn’t look like a toddler dumped candy into a blender. What the hell was that gummy worm graveyard you were snacking on during the flight?”
The whole table howls. Elias throws his hands up. “Hey, it’s called a balanced diet. Carbs, sugar, joy—you should try it sometime instead of choking down kale like it owes you money.”
It’s chaos instantly. Viktor grunts, smirking into his beer.
Mats tips his chair back, muttering, “He’s not wrong.
” Shane starts whispering about cursed schnitzel.
Tyler’s trying not to laugh but failing.
And Elias and Cole are off—snapping, one-upping each other so fast it’s impossible to tell who’s winning.
I flag down the server while they’re still at it.
The man looks half terrified of twenty hockey players packed into his dying inn, but he nods quick when I give him the order: two plates of schnitzel, bread, potatoes, water, whiskey.
One for me, one for Elias—because he hasn’t even looked at the menu, too busy grinning at Cole like they’re fighting for a crown.
When the drinks land, Elias grabs his glass without missing a beat in their war. Cole’s pointing a fork at him, Elias is leaning halfway across the table like he’s going to stab him with a butter knife, and the rest of the team is egging them on.
I sit back, silent, watching the storm rattle the windows and Elias Mercer light up the table like chaos itself.