Chapter 11 - Elias
Morning is hell.
Not because of the storm—it’s still screaming outside, rain pelting the old windows like it wants in—but because every muscle in my body feels like it’s been used, broken, put back together, and used again. My ass aches. My thighs burn. My throat is raw in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
And whose fault is that?
Right. Captain Mine.
I want to glare at him across the table, I really do. But my neck still feels the ghost of his hand there, my scalp still tingles where he gripped my curls, and my brain short-circuits the second I remember what it felt like when he praised me last night. So no—glaring is off the table.
Instead, I shovel food down my throat like the starving little rookie I am. Eggs, toast, whatever greasy bacon the inn managed to wrangle up. I don’t stop chewing long enough to tease anyone, don’t lift my head to crack a smile. I just eat.
And that… apparently, is a crime.
Cole is sitting three seats down, leaning back in his chair like he owns the goddamn inn. Sunglasses indoors, hair slicked like he’s about to film a commercial. And he is staring. Daggers. Holes. An actual fucking laser beam into the side of my head.
I ignore it. Bite into toast. Keep chewing.
Doesn’t work.
“So…” Cole’s voice rings out over the clatter of silverware, pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Curls lost his tongue.”
A ripple of amusement runs down the table. Mats smirks into his coffee. Shane mutters something about curses and sacrifices. Tyler almost chokes on his juice.
I keep chewing.
Cole grins wider. “What’s the matter, Mercer? Too tired to chirp? Or did somebody finally shut you up?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Heat blasts my face so fast it’s dizzying.
I can feel Damian sitting at the head of the table, calm as a shadow, unreadable. I don’t dare look at him.
I force the fork into my mouth, chew, swallow, like I didn’t hear Cole at all.
“Uh-huh,” Cole says, dragging it out. “That’s what I thought. Guess the pup’s finally housebroken.”
The whole table chuckles. Not mean, not really. Just blood in the water.
And I sit there, cheeks hot, ass aching, voice gone, stuffing my face with eggs like my life depends on it. Because poking back isn’t an option today. Not when the only words in my head are the ones Damian dragged out of me last night.
Cole spares me. Or maybe he just gets bored when I won’t rise to the bait. Either way, he shifts his attention down the table, grinning wide, sunglasses sliding down his nose.
“So, Cap,” he drawls, teeth flashing like he’s on camera, “what are we doing today in this haunted little murder-town? Gonna summon ghosts? Conduct a séance in the lobby? Trick-or-treat in a storm?”
The table laughs. Even Tyler manages a nervous chuckle, though his eyes keep darting toward the rain-streaked windows like he’s convinced a phantom goalie’s going to claw through the glass.
Damian doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t.
“Training.”
The word drops out of him flat, heavy, no room for air.
The table goes silent. Forks pause midair. Chairs creak.
Everyone stares at him like he just announced we’re about to do wind sprints across a graveyard. Which, knowing him, wouldn’t even be out of the question.
Cole’s grin falters into a gape. “…Training? Here?” He gestures broadly, arms sweeping toward the dripping windows. “Captain, with all due respect—this place is half cemetery, half railway station. The only cardio we’re getting is running from the ghosts Shane’s about to summon.”
Shane perks up immediately. “I already have the candles.”
Viktor grunts. Low. Dismissing. Like even the weather wouldn’t dare touch him.
But me?
My fork clatters against my plate as I choke on a laugh. It bursts out of me before I can stop it, sharp and manic, because of course he said training. Of course. Damian Kade could be stranded in a hurricane on Mars and he’d still have us lined up for suicides.
“Where?” I demand, grinning so wide it hurts my sore throat. “Out in the rain? Between tombstones? You gonna make us run laps around the cemetery gates, Captain?”
Damian’s eyes flick to me. One cold, one void. Steady. Too steady.
And my grin dies on my face.
Because he isn’t joking.
I swallow. Loud. My fork suddenly feels way too heavy.
“Stairs. Until your legs give out. Then we’ll use the station.”
I blink. “What station?”
His lip lifts, just faintly, like I’m an idiot. “The one this inn is built into.”
The boys groan. Loud, collective, chorus of suffering. Shane mutters about curses. Tyler makes a face like he’s about to cry. Viktor just drinks his coffee like this is Tuesday.
And Cole—Cole fucking Vance—slaps a hand to his forehead with all the drama of a man dying. “Suddenly…I miss Coach.”
That earns him a round of hollow laughter. Because Coach Harrow isn’t here. He never is when things go sideways. That man’s like a ghost—shows up when it suits him, vanishes when it doesn’t. If he ever heard about this mess, he’d probably just nod and say, “Good conditioning, Kade.”
I slump in my chair, stabbing at my eggs like they betrayed me. The wind rattles the windows, rain hammering down, thunder cracking. And all I can think is—great. We survived a plane crash landing just to die on the stairs of a haunted train station.
Cole tips his head back dramatically. “I’m telling you, curls—when I collapse on those stairs, you better drag my corpse to the top so at least I die a hero.”
I grin, leaning across the table. “Nah, Hollywood. I’ll leave you halfway. That way your ghost has to climb the stairs forever.”
The table cracks up, Cole groaning, Tyler hiding a laugh behind his hand. And Damian?
He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even blink. He just sits there, still, his eyes cutting to me again.
And my grin falters. Because I know what that look means.
He’s already decided I’ll be the last one standing.
It’s official. Damian Kade is a sadist.
The storm hasn’t let up, thunder still shaking the windows of this haunted-ass inn, and here we are—running stairs. Actual stairs. Three floors, spiral, narrow, creaky wood. Up and down, up and down, until I swear I’m going to hurl up my breakfast all over Cole’s perfect hair.
“Cap,” Cole groans from somewhere behind me, his voice broken like an old man’s. “This is…this is abuse. This is straight-up human rights violation level.”
“Keep running,” Damian says, deadpan. Not even out of breath. Just planted at the bottom of the staircase with his arms crossed, watching us suffer like it’s his favorite TV show.
And then—it happens.
He smiles.
A real one. Crooked. Cruel. The kind that makes my stomach flip and my legs move faster even though they’re already jelly. Holy fuck. I think the bastard is enjoying this.
Shane’s muttering about curses with every step. “This building was a station, stations are liminal spaces, liminal spaces breed ghosts—”
“Shut up!” Tyler wheezes, two steps from collapsing.
Mats doesn’t even sound human anymore, just breathing like a demon at my shoulder.
And Cole—God help him—he’s chirping still. “Curls—you—better carry me—when I collapse. Hero’s funeral. Stair-shaped coffin—”
I cackle even though my chest is on fire. “Nah, Hollywood. I’ll trip you on the way down.”
We’re loud. Too loud. So loud that by the time we thunder past the second floor for what feels like the fiftieth time, the inn’s guests are peeking out their doors.
Old lady in a floral robe—staring like we’ve escaped from a madhouse.
Couple in matching pajamas—glaring at us like we’ve ruined their romantic getaway.
Some guy in a business suit—phone raised like he’s about to call the cops.
“Don’t mind us!” Cole hums between gasps, stumbling past them like a dying clown. “Just—training to die young!”
The looks we get could curdle milk.
And Damian?
Still smiling.
It’s sick. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes following us every lap, lips curved faintly like this is his masterpiece. Like he’s painting our misery into art. Every grunt, every gasp, every complaint is fuel to him. He’s not tired. He’s not sweating. He’s just watching. Enjoying.
My legs are giving out. My ribs still ache from Haverton. But I keep going. Because every time I glance down, he’s there. Smiling. Watching me.
I want that smile again. I want it bigger. Wider. I want it aimed just at me.
So I run harder. Until my thighs are screaming. Until my knees buckle. Until, on the forty-somethingth lap, my legs finally betray me.
I stumble. My foot catches. The world tilts.
And the only thing I see as I pitch forward is Damian—smirking at the bottom of the stairs like he knew this would happen all along.
My legs give out completely. I trip the last few steps, arms pinwheeling, vision tunneling, the kind of stumble that should send me sprawling face-first onto the dusty wooden floor.
Except I don’t fall.
Because Damian catches me.
One second I’m crashing forward, the next—his hand fists the back of my jersey, the other bracing hard against my chest, hauling me upright like I weigh nothing. My ribs slam into the steel of his arm, my legs buckle, and I’m caged against him—saved in front of the entire goddamn team.
“Such a good boy,” he murmurs. Just for me.
But the word echoes.
Because the stairwell’s gone silent, everyone else wheezing to a stop, staring down at us from the landings above. Cole’s mouth hangs open, Mats’s brows shoot up, Shane looks like he just witnessed a resurrection. Tyler looks like he’s about to faint harder than I almost did.
My face is burning. My ribs are screaming. My chest is full of wildfire.
Because he said it out loud.
I melt against him like he carved the words straight into my spine.
But Damian doesn’t let me linger. He sets me down steady on my feet, eyes sweeping up the staircase. “You’re all too loud for this building,” he says, calm but final. “We’re going deeper.”
Cole blinks. “Deeper…where?”
The smile Damian gives him is lethal. “The station.”
The inn is built into an old railway station, and I don’t realize how creepy that is until we’re down there. The air smells of dust and rust, of old smoke trapped in the walls. The ceilings are high, rafters exposed, the floors cracked concrete instead of creaky wood. Our footsteps echo.
It looks like a place where ghosts come to stretch their legs.
“Jesus Christ,” Cole mutters, spinning in a slow circle. “This is how horror movies start.”
“Then you’ll die first,” Mats says flatly.
“Worth it.”
Damian ignores them all. He prowls forward, scanning the space like a wolf scenting blood. There’s old cargo stacked against one wall, metal beams crossing the ceiling, iron benches bolted to the floor. Rope. Rusted weights. Enough debris for a man like Damian to turn it into torture.
And he does.
“Petrov—bars. Pull-ups until failure.”
Viktor grunts once and obeys.
“O’Rourke—benches. Tricep dips. Don’t stop.”
Shane groans but starts muttering curses under his breath, already moving.
“Vance—cargo stacks. Jumps. High. Fast.”
Cole gapes. “Captain, you’re insane.”
Damian arches a brow. “Go.”
Cole goes.
“Mercer.” His voice cuts through the space like a blade. My chest jerks, head snapping up.
“You’re with me.”
By the time the weather outside has shifted from thunder to pounding rain, every single Reaper is crawling.
Cole’s collapsed over the cargo, muttering about writing his will.
Shane’s still chanting curses between gasps.
Mats is pale with sweat, Viktor’s dripping like he swam through the Volga, Tyler’s sprawled on the floor wheezing like a dying animal.
And Damian’s still standing. Smiling faintly. Watching us drown under his command like it’s the best day of his life.
I’m wrecked. Drenched. Shaking. But every time I falter, he’s there—steady hand at my back, calm voice in my ear.
“Again, Mercer. Good. Again.”
I don’t stop. I can’t. Not when he’s watching. Not when his smile says he’ll make a legend out of me, even if it kills me first.
“Enough.”
The sound of it slices cleaner than any whistle. The groans, the curses, the labored breaths—they all taper off.
Cole groans louder than the thunder. “Oh, thank Christ—” He immediately faceplants, arms spread wide on the concrete like he’s offering himself to the ghosts. “Leave me here. Tell my family I died beautiful.”
Mats kicks at his ankle without looking. “You were never beautiful.”
“Heartless,” Cole moans, limp.
I’m staggering forward on legs that don’t belong to me anymore, body buzzing, ribs aching. My boot catches on Cole’s sprawled leg and I nearly eat it face-first.
“Jesus—fuck—” I stumble, arms flailing, heart dropping like I’m going to hit the floor.
Except I don’t.
Because his hand is there again.
Heavy. Firm. Catching me under the elbow, fingers locking around my arm.
Damian steadies me like he’s been waiting, pulling me upright with no effort at all.
My chest collides with his for half a second, and the storm outside might as well be inside me because lightning shoots straight down my spine.
“Watch your feet,” he mutters.
I look up, wide-eyed, gasping. My throat’s destroyed, but the words slip out anyway, shaky and broken. “Yessir.”
Cole, of course, lifts his head off the floor just long enough to catch it. His grin splits wide, feral. “Ohhh my God—did he just—”
“Shut up, Hollywood,” I snap. My face burns, my chest burns hotter, and I can feel Damian’s eyes on me like he’s etching me into the steel beams above.
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to. He just keeps that hand on me all the way back up the stairs, while the others crawl behind us like broken soldiers.