Chapter 9 - Elias
The storm kills the lights halfway through my plate.
One second it’s clinking silverware and Cole trying to tell me schnitzel isn’t a real food group, and the next—the whole place goes black.
A crack outside, like the sky just split open, and then nothing but the hiss of rain and the groan of wind against the warped windows.
The boys erupt instantly.
Shane makes the sign of the cross so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t sprain his wrist. Mats mutters something in Spanish under his breath.
Cole? He slaps both hands dramatically over his heart, tips sideways into Viktor’s shoulder, and sighs like a Victorian bride.
“Ah, romance. Our candlelit night begins.”
The inn staff scramble, rushing candles onto tables like they knew this was coming. Flame flickers against the old wallpaper, shadows stretching, faces carved in orange glow. The whole place smells like wax and wet coats.
Viktor doesn’t even shove Cole off. He just sits there, silent, massive, letting Hollywood hang off him like dead weight. The big bastard only scoffs under his breath when Cole presses a hand to his forehead and whispers, “My hero.”
Phones light up next—half the guys flicking their flashlights on, beams cutting through the gloom. The room looks like a haunted movie set. The storm rattles the windows so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
I laugh, loud, just to keep the panic at bay. “What’s next? Seance? Bloody Mary in the bathroom mirror? Shane, you got a Ouija board hidden in your pads?”
“Don’t joke,” he mutters immediately. “The walls are listening.”
That only makes me cackle harder, smirking as I lean back in my chair. “Relax, curse boy. Worst that happens is we get haunted schnitzel.”
That’s when Damian’s voice cuts through, low and final.
“Enough.”
It silences the table like a whip crack. Even Cole shuts his mouth mid-laugh. His eyes burn steady in the candlelight, his jaw hard, shoulders heavy like he carries the whole storm in his chest.
“Up,” he says, calm as stone. “All of you. Bed. Now.”
Groans ripple through the team—Cole whining, Shane muttering, Tyler looking like he might cry at the thought of wandering dark hallways—but nobody disobeys. Chairs scrape, boots thud, bags get grabbed.
I stand too, grinning just to cover the way my pulse jolts every time his gaze flicks across me. He’s still close, still watchful, his hand brushing mine for the briefest second as we move toward the stairs. Just a touch. Just enough.
And my brain is buzzing again—panic traded for something hotter, sharper. Every nerve in me screaming for more.
The stairs creak under twenty sets of boots, thunder groaning overhead like it wants to shake the whole inn off its rotten foundation. Everyone’s muttering—Cole bitching about candlelight room service, Shane whispering prayers under his breath, Mats sighing like he’s too good for any of us.
I’ve got my phone out, flashlight cutting through the pitch-black hallway as Damian leads us to our room. I trail after him, curls dripping from the storm, bruises aching, brain still replaying mine on a loop like a song I can’t shut off. My chest is buzzing, nerves sparking.
The old lock clicks, hinges groaning when Damian shoves the door open. I step in, hold my phone high to light the corners—the cracked wallpaper, the warped wardrobe, the crooked mirror that probably is cursed because Shane’s right about everything.
Then the door slams.
And I don’t even have time to gasp before my back hits it.
My phone slips from my hand, flashlight beam spinning wild across the warped floorboards before it dies with a clatter. Darkness swallows the room—dark except for him. Damian’s weight pins me, chest to chest, his palm flattening against my ribs, his mouth crushing down on mine.
Holy fuck.
My brain blanks. My body takes over. I gasp into the kiss, then melt, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt like I’ll drown if I don’t anchor myself to him. His mouth is hard, deep, filthy—his teeth catch my lip, his tongue drives past mine, and I moan into it, shameless, desperate.
I forget the storm. Forget the creaks and whispers of this haunted inn. Forget my bruises, my panic, everything.
It’s just him.
Captain. Predator. God.
I kiss him back like my life depends on it, sloppy and frantic, my whole chest shaking.
He tastes like whiskey and war, heat rolling off him, his hair damp where it brushes my face.
My knees actually buckle under the weight of it, and he just presses harder, one hand braced against the door beside my head, the other sliding up into my curls, fisting, tugging until I gasp again.
“Sir—” I choke against his mouth, breath ragged.
“Quiet.” His lips crash back onto mine, swallowing whatever else I try to say, drowning me in him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m gone. Completely gone.
The kiss turns feral. His mouth eats mine alive, tongue forcing me open, teeth biting until I gasp.
My whole body thrums, a live wire sparking against his weight, my brain gone static.
Then he’s moving—pushing, dragging me off the door like I weigh nothing, hauling me across the room with his hand still twisted in my hair.
The backs of my knees slam into the mattress. I fall, bounce once, and he’s over me instantly. Towering. Hungry. His hands catch my wrists, pinning them above my head, his hips crashing down between my thighs.
I gasp, arch, and he grinds against me, hard, heavy, deliberate. Heat explodes through me. My ribs ache but I don’t care, not when his mouth is on me again, rough and claiming. His hair drags across my face, his gaze blazing down when he rips his mouth free.
“Breathe,” he growls, low, lethal, like he’s dragging me through it again. “Good boys breathe when I tell them to.”
My lungs obey before I can think, dragging in air sharp enough to burn. My chest heaves, my body thrashing under his weight, but he doesn’t move an inch. He’s a wall, crushing me down, reminding me exactly who owns the ground I stand on.
“Sir—” I rasp, but it breaks when his hips slam down again, grinding me into the mattress, filthy friction tearing a cry out of me.
“Say it,” Damian snarls, his mouth ghosting over mine. “Say who you belong to.”
My whole body trembles. My wrists burn under his grip, my throat closes around words I’ve been choking on for weeks. I arch helplessly, moaning into the space between us. “You. I’m yours—sir, I’m yours.”
He crashes down on me again, mouth biting like my confession just wasn’t enough, his hips grinding harder, crueler, until I’m nothing but wrecked sound and trembling limbs beneath him.
Every promise he whispered on the plane, every filthy order he used to drag air into my lungs—it’s all here, written into my skin now.
He finally rips his mouth away, his forehead slamming against mine, his breath hot against my lips.
“Good boy.”
The words detonate through me, heat flooding my chest, my cock, my whole fucking body. I choke, and I’m not sure if it’s panic anymore, or hunger, or both tangled into something I can’t crawl out of.
The world tilts. One second I’m crushed under him, wrists pinned, body burning—the next, he yanks me upright like I weigh nothing. My head spins, my curls yanked in his fist, my chest slamming into his as he drags me off the bed.
“On your feet,” he growls.
I stumble, legs weak, but I move. He doesn’t give me a choice. His hand never leaves my hair, dragging me across the warped floor until my back hits the cold wall. The impact knocks a grunt out of me, my palms flying up to catch myself against the peeling wallpaper.
And then he’s there.
Pressing me flat, pinning me with the full weight of him, hips driving against mine until I cry out.
His mouth crushes into me again, teeth and tongue, no air, no mercy.
My phone torch is still dead on the floor, so the room is pitch black—just stormlight flickering through the curtains, thunder shaking the windows, lightning flashing enough to show me the shadows of him.
Predator. Captain. God.
“You wanted this?” he snarls against my mouth, his hand fisting my hair tighter, forcing my head back against the wall. “Came looking for it, didn’t you, pup?”
“Yes, sir,” I gasp, my voice cracking, my whole body arching for him.
His eyes catch the lightning once and I swear my knees nearly buckle. Then his hand slides from my hair to my throat, thumb pressing my chin up until I’m straining to breathe.
“Then earn it.”
My whole body shudders. I don’t even know what he means, not really, but my mouth opens anyway. “How?”
His smirk is lethal, shadow cutting across the scar at his lip. His hips slam harder into mine, grinding me against the wall until I’m gasping, choking, whimpering against his palm.
“Show me what you’re good for,” he rasps, low and filthy, his forehead slamming against mine again, rough, intimate, claiming. “On your knees, in your mouth, or against this wall. Doesn’t matter which—just prove you’re mine.”
Lightning flashes. Thunder cracks. The whole building shakes. And I nod like I’d bleed myself out on this floor if he told me to.
“Yes, sir.”
The second his words hit me—on your knees, in your mouth, against this wall—my body makes the choice for me. My legs give out. I sink.
The storm rattles the glass, thunder tearing through the walls, but all I hear is my knees hitting the warped floorboards and his breath hissing out low and harsh above me. My hands slide up the wall behind him for balance, then fall useless to my thighs, trembling.
I look up.
Fuck.
He’s huge from here. Towering. His hair is damp and wild around his face. His eyes pin me to the floor like I’m nothing and everything all at once. The storm flickers blue light across his bare chest, every muscle cut sharp, bruises painting his ribs, tape still biting his knuckles.