Chapter 14 - Damian #2
“You did.” My lips brush the shell of his ear, low, final. “Whole room heard you.”
He groans, raw and desperate, trying to twist away. My grip tightens, dragging his scalp until he arches harder, throat stretched, mouth open under the water. His lashes flutter.
“They know now,” I murmur. “They know you kneel. They know you beg. They know who you belong to.”
His groan cracks into a whimper. His thighs tremble under me, knees nearly buckling. His hands claw useless at the slick tile. “Sir—please—”
“Please what?” I snarl against his jaw, teeth grazing. “Please don’t tell them? Please don’t ruin you harder than you already ruined yourself?”
“Fuck—yes—”
My mouth drags against his skin. My grip in his hair tightens until his gasp bounces off the walls again.
“Too late.”
His breath catches, sharp, ragged, steam curling off his lips. He thrashes once under my grip, but the tile’s slick and my fist holds him like a leash.
I lean in, close enough the water runs off my jaw and down his neck. My voice cuts through it, low and lethal.
“Do you think I give a fuck they know, pup? They knew you were mine before you opened your mouth.”
The words detonate through him. His body jerks, ribs shuddering under the spray, eyes rolling back like the truth burned deeper than the steam.
“Cap—” he gasps, hoarse, broken.
I slam his chest harder into the tiles, spread hand flat between his shoulder blades, holding him there while the water cascades over his wrecked body. My other hand still twisted at his scalp, forcing his throat to arch, forcing his mouth to stay open like prayer.
“You think Vance didn’t see it when I dragged you into my SUV? You think Petrov hasn’t been waiting for you to crack since the first time you called me sir? You think any of them would dare touch you when you wear my leash this tight?”
His groan tears out raw, hips stuttering forward against the tile, forehead pressing into the spray. “Fuck—fuck, sir—”
“Too late to hide it,” I snarl into his ear, teeth grazing, lips curling against wet skin. “They already knew. You just gave them proof.”
His fingers claw at the tiles like he’ll carve grooves into the grout. His legs shake, his thighs trembling. And I hold him there, body caged, steam wrapping us both.
“I should thank you,” I rasp, my mouth hot against his jaw. “You saved me the trouble of hiding it. Now every man in that locker room knows you belong to me.”
His breath shatters. His whole body bows under my weight, water streaming down both of us, tile slick, steam heavy. His voice cracks like glass.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
His pulse hammers under my thumb, wild, frantic, but his eyes are locked on mine like he can’t look anywhere else. His blown wide, lashes wet with steam, mouth trembling open.
I drag my hand slow along his jaw, rough fingertips tracing the line slick with water. He shudders. My grip tilts his head until those wide eyes are forced up, until his lips part under mine like they’re waiting.
And I take them.
I kiss him—hard, final, claiming—steam curling hot around us, water cascading down our faces. His gasp breaks into me, desperate, hungry, wrecked. My hand fists at his throat, my chest crushing him into the wall, my mouth devouring every sound until his knees nearly give out.
When I finally tear back, his lips are swollen, his jaw slack, his breath ragged.
“Now get ready to go home,” I murmur. My thumb presses firm under his jaw until he swallows. “And stop hiding.”
His lips tremble. But he nods. Once. Obedient.
Good.
I let him go. Just like that. Turn, slow, deliberate, and leave him braced against the tile, water pouring down his shaking body, the echo of my words branded into him.
The locker room is noise again—snickers and mutters bouncing off the tile like middle-schoolers who just got away with passing notes in class.
Pads clatter into bins, jerseys peel off sweaty backs, boots thud heavy on the floor.
And through it all, Cole is smirking so hard his whole stupid face looks like it’s going to split in half.
I strip out of my gear, methodical. Pads, skates, tape. Trade the black for the black—hoodie, jeans, boots. Normal clothes, normal armor. My knuckles flex as I roll the last tape free.
Cole’s grin is still there. Crooked. He’s dying for it, holding back like it hurts.
I snap my head toward him, slow, deliberate. My eyes pin him from across the room. His grin flickers—just for a second—but then it sharpens again.
“You’ve got ten seconds,” I say, calm as stone. My scar splits with the faintest curl. “Use them wisely.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Cole doesn’t waste a breath. He launches in immediately, words firing like bullets:
“Oh my God, Cap, finally! Jesus, I thought curls was gonna crawl into your SUV with a leash in his mouth, but nope—guess it’s just attached to his throat already.
You kiss him like that every time you tell him to stop hiding?
Or just when he starts drooling on your shoulder at thirty thousand feet?
I mean, honestly, congrats—rookie’s got stamina, didn’t even pass out on those stairs—though judging by the noise in the showers, he might’ve been on his knees for other reasons—”
“Four seconds,” I murmur.
Cole barrels on, louder: “You fuck as mean as you coach, Cap? Because if so, someone should check Mercer for internal bleeding.”
“Two seconds.”
“—and don’t even get me started on good boy—”
“Time’s up.”
The entire room exhales at once, like they’ve been holding their breath through his suicide sprint. Mats groans into his locker. Tyler looks pale enough to faint. Shane mutters something about a funeral. Even Viktor snickers into his gear bag like he wants front-row seats.
Cole lifts both hands, still grinning, still reckless. “Worth it.”
I smirk back, cruel, peeling my hoodie down over my shoulders. “You’ll regret it on the ice.”
Cole just shrugs, sunglasses already in hand, grin bright as hell. “Story of my life, Captain.”
Steam rolls out first. Then Mercer.
His face is pink from heat, throat still raw. A towel slung low on his hips, jersey scars still blooming red across his ribs. The whole room goes quieter, like every man in here suddenly remembered what they just heard echoing in the showers.
And of course—Cole’s grin stretches wider. Too wide. He looks like a wolf about to chew on a steak bone.
I catch it before he even opens his mouth. My eyes cut to him, final.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Cole’s grin falters for half a heartbeat. Then he presses a palm flat against his chest and tips his head, all fake innocence.
“Yes, Captain.”
The room exhales in laughter, but it’s muted. Nervous. Because everyone knows what Cole’s itching to say, and everyone knows why he won’t.
Mercer doesn’t look at a single one of them.
He just walks straight to his stall, towel snapping, shoulders stiff.
Doesn’t flinch at the stares, doesn’t even smirk.
He just pulls on his sweats, drags a hoodie over his damp hair, and sits there tying his laces like the locker room isn’t vibrating with tension.
Like he can ignore them all. Like he can hide.
But he can’t. Not anymore.