Chapter 15 - Elias
I keep my head down while I dress, like if I don’t look at anyone then they’ll stop staring. Doesn’t work. I can feel the eyes, burning holes into the back of my hoodie, sliding along my ribs like the bruises are still written in neon letters.
Sweats on, socks damp, gear bag heavy. The second I shrug into the black-and-crimson Reapers jacket—mine, official, stitched like a brand—the air shifts.
Because his hand lands at the back of my neck.
My chest jerks like he shocked me. The whole room goes tight, laughter biting through the steam and sweat.
“Bye, cuuuurls,” the vets sing, drawn out and mocking, like a funeral dirge. “See you never, rookie.”
Heat explodes across my face. I don’t dare look at them. Don’t dare look at Cole, who’s probably smirking so hard his cheeks hurt. Don’t dare open my mouth, because whatever comes out will bury me six feet deeper.
So I just…go.
His grip guides me through the locker room like I’m on a leash. I stumble once when my bag knocks against my shin, but his hand doesn’t shift—it just holds me steady, pushes me forward until the tile turns to concrete, until the cold hits my damp hair, until the parking lot yawns open.
Laughter still echoes behind us. The dirge still ringing.
Bye, curls.
My lungs burn. My throat aches with too much—shame, want, something in between.
And still, I let him steer me.
The SUV looms like a shadow in the far corner of the lot—black steel, tinted windows, purring low even before he unlocks it. He steers me right up to it, hand never leaving the back of my neck, grip locked as gravity.
When he swings the passenger door open, the cold air hits me like a slap. My bag shifts against my hip, my knees bend to climb in—
But his hand doesn’t let go.
It tightens, just enough to keep me still, right there on the threshold with one boot on the step. His body blocks out half the sun, his shoulders filling my whole sky.
And then he bends down. Low. Close enough that his breath drags hot across the shell of my ear, close enough that the whole fucking team could still see us if they bothered to look over their shoulders.
“You’re going to unlock your door for me tonight,” he murmurs.
“You’re going to take me upstairs to that little apartment you’ve been hiding like I don’t already know every inch of your life.
And the second that door closes, Mercer—I’m going to put you on your knees in your own goddamn living room and remind you who you belong to. ”
My lungs seize. My grip on my bag strap goes white-knuckled. Heat detonates behind my eyes, down my throat, straight into my gut.
He’s never been upstairs. Not once. He’s never set foot past the shitty stairwell of my building, never stood in the kitchen where the coffee maker barely works.
And he just told me—flat out—that tonight, he will.
My mouth falls open, useless, and the only sound I manage is a broken little “fuck.”
His eyes cut down to mine. One cold, one abyss. And the smirk he lets curl across his scar looks carved out of sin.
“Get in the car, pup.”
My legs move before my brain does, hauling me up into the leather seat like the world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
The door slams shut, sealing me in, the echo still rattling in my ribs.
And I can’t breathe steady the whole drive, because all I can hear is: your knees, your apartment, your captain.
I’m trying—really fucking trying—to keep my cool. Keep my grin. Keep my mouth running just fast enough to distract myself. But then his voice cuts through the engine hum.
“Tell me about the posters.”
My chest caves. My head snaps toward him. “Wh—what posters?”
His lip lifts faint “The ones you admitted to on the plane, pup. Ceiling, closet, over the bed.” His hand flexes once against the wheel, knuckles split and scarred. “Start talking.”
My face ignites. “Jesus Christ—you’re really not gonna let that go?”
“No.” His eyes flick to me, one ice, one void. Terrifying. “You had four. You said it yourself. I want to know what they were.”
I choke out a laugh. High. Nervous. “You—you seriously want me to describe my teenage jerk-off material while you’re driving? That’s—that’s what we’re doing?”
“Now.”
The word hits like a bodycheck. My throat closes. My knees bounce hard against the dash.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging both hands through my hair.
“Okay. Fine. Uh—first one was…your rookie season. Red jersey. They had you skating off after a fight, blood all down your chin, helmet hanging off your hand. I, uh—I taped it up right above my desk.” My laugh cracks.
“Inspirational, you know? Study motivation.”
Damian hums. Low. Amused. “And the second?”
My stomach drops. My cheeks are nuclear. “Jesus, you’re cruel.”
“Yes.”
I groan, smacking my head back against the seat. “Alright, fine—the second one was the Chicago fight. The helmet rip. I already told you that.”
“You said you taped it. Not that you had the poster.”
I swear under my breath, but I can feel the smirk cutting across his mouth even without looking. “Yeah. Okay. It was on my ceiling. Happy now?”
His voice drags lower. “Very.”
The leather seat creaks when I shift, my jeans suddenly too tight, my skin buzzing hot.
“The third?”
“Christ, Captain—this is—this is sadism.”
“Correct.”
I wheeze a laugh, burying my face in my hands. “Okay. Okay. Third was the cup run. That shot of you holding the trophy up with your lip split open, looking like—like some kind of war god. I…” My voice cracks. “Yeah. That one was over my bed.”
He hums again. Slow. Dangerous. “And the fourth?”
My throat works. “Locker room shot. You without a shirt. Tattoos, bruises, ice pack on your shoulder.” My face burns hotter. “I—uh—I may have stolen that one out of a magazine.”
The SUV is silent except for the engine growl and the sound of my own lungs trying not to collapse.
“You touched yourself under every single one of those, didn’t you?”
My whole body jolts. “Captain—fuck—”
“Answer me.”
“Yes, sir!” The words tear out of me too fast, too loud. My palms slam useless against my thighs. “Fuck, yes, I did, I—Christ—”
His smirk cuts at the scar.
“Now tell me,” he says. “Exactly how you touched yourself under those posters.”
My lungs seize. My legs kick useless against the floorboard. “Wh—Captain—”
“Every detail, pup. Every sound you made. Every way you fucked your own hand while my face stared down at you. Or I’ll pull over right here and make you reenact it in the backseat with the whole goddamn city walking past.”
My jaw unhinges. My eyes bug. “You wouldn’t.”
The SUV slows. The lane widens into a busy cross street, cars shoving past, pedestrians crowding the crosswalk under glaring morning sun. And he doesn’t hide the way he eases his foot off the gas. Doesn’t hide the way his eyes flick to me, then to the crowds outside the tinted glass.
“I would.”
My voice cracks. “F-fuck—okay—okay!”
I clutch the seatbelt across myself like it could hold me together, heat tearing up my face, my skin sparkling everywhere at once. My mouth runs reckless, faster than my brain, spilling filth just to survive.
“The—the ceiling one—I—fuck—I used to lie in bed staring at it, my hand down my boxers, stroking so fast my sheets creaked. Thought about you pinning me to the boards, ripping my helmet off, making me choke on your—” I slam a fist into the dash, half sob, half laugh.
“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this in traffic—”
“Keep going.” His hand is steady on the wheel, but his knuckles flex, bruises white under the leather.
I choke a laugh, broken and hoarse. “The cup run shot—I used to…fuck—used to grind against the mattress, biting my pillow, pretending it was you. Thought about you splitting me open like you did last night—”
The SUV slows again. Another red light. This time he takes the long way—downtown, congested, loud, bodies everywhere. My pulse detonates.
“The—the shirtless one—I’d spread my thighs and stroke slow, just staring at it, thinking about your hands bruising me, your lip split on mine, your voice telling me—telling me good boy.” My throat closes. My eyes sting. “I’d come so fucking hard I—fuck—I couldn’t even breathe after.”
A horn blares behind us. Damian hasn’t moved. He’s letting the light go green, letting the car idle, his gaze flicking to me like he’s pinning me alive to the leather seat.
“Louder,” he growls. “Make the city hear it.”
And I do. “I jerked off to you every night, Captain. Posters, tapes, everything. I fucking ruined myself on you before I ever met you.”
The SUV roars back to life, tires squealing when he finally floors it. My head slams against the seat, my lungs collapsing with the G-force. His scar curves into a smirk, lethal, perfect.
“Good boy,” he rasps.
And my cock throbs so hard it hurts.
The SUV rumbles to a stop at the curb. My stomach drops with it.
He kills the engine, silence swallowing the car whole, and I swear my heartbeat is louder than the traffic outside.
My palms are slick by the time I wrestle my bag onto my shoulder and reach for the handle.
His eyes burn steady in the corner of my vision, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.
The walk up the steps feels like the longest of my life. Every crack in the concrete, every flicker of that shitty streetlight, every ghost of his hand still at the back of my neck—it’s all louder than the city around us.
My keys rattle in my pocket. I fish them out with sweaty fingers, jam the first one toward the lock. Miss. It clatters to the ground, a sharp metallic sound that makes my face blaze.
“Fuck,” I mutter, crouching to grab it. My ears are burning. My chest is on fire.
I shove it at the door again. Wrong angle. It skates useless against the plate and falls from my grip a second time.
“Jesus—” I hiss, bending again. My curls fall into my eyes, my face hot enough to combust.
Behind me, he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just waits.
And somehow that’s worse.