Chapter 15 - Elias #2
The weight of his silence presses harder than his body ever could. I can feel him standing there—six-foot-five of calm predator, watching me unravel over a goddamn lock like he already owns the place.
By the third drop, I’m shaking so bad my laugh comes out cracked. “This is—this is pathetic. I swear, I know how doors work—”
The key finally slides into place. The lock clicks open. My whole body slumps like I just survived sudden death overtime.
I push the door in with my shoulder and flick on the light.
The apartment yawns out in front of us—bare walls, cheap carpet, boxes half-unpacked, a sagging couch that came with the lease. No posters. No trophies. No life yet. Just the shell of a place I haven’t had time to make mine.
Because I didn’t come here for home.
I came here for the Reapers.
For him.
The door shuts behind me with a heavy thunk. And then he’s inside, his shoulders filling up the whole narrow entryway, his silence following me in like a second shadow.
And my stomach flips, because for the first time in two weeks, this place doesn’t feel empty.
He doesn’t take another step, doesn’t shed his jacket, doesn’t glance at the half-unpacked boxes stacked in the corner.
He just leans back against the door, broad shoulders blocking out the whole world, eyes locked on me like I’m prey stupid enough to trap myself in here with him.
“Strip.”
One word. Low. Steel.
My breath punches out of me. My fingers twitch stupid at my sides.
If anyone walked in right now, they’d think this was a mugging. Six-foot-five monster with fists like wrecking balls pinning a rookie in his own entryway. They’d see me trembling, see my jacket still clinging to my shoulders, my throat working around a desperate swallow—and they’d think I hated it.
I don’t.
Christ, I don’t.
I love every single second.
I love that he doesn’t need to move, doesn’t need to raise his voice, doesn’t need to do a damn thing but order, and my body obeys before my brain can catch up. I love that my heart’s trying to beat out of me and I’m shaking like I’ll fall apart—and still, I want it.
“Captain—”
“Now, Elias.”
His tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shift. Calm as a blade in the dark. And that’s what undoes me.
My hands fly up. My jacket slips off my shoulders, sliding to the floor. My shirt follows, curls brushing my cheeks when I yank it over my head. My jeans fight me—trembling fingers fumbling at the button, zipper snagging, keys still rattling useless in the pocket.
I drop them. They clatter on the floor again, loud, humiliating.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
My face burns hotter. My breath stutters louder. I shove the denim down my thighs, stumble out of them, kick them aside until I’m standing there in nothing but boxers and socks.
I don’t dare meet his gaze. I stare at the carpet instead, eyes wide, throat dry, trembling like I’ve been dragged here against my will.
But the truth—the filthy, terrifying truth—is that I’ve never wanted anything more.
Then his hand lifts.
Not fast. Not harsh. Just two fingers rising, curling in the faintest command.
“Here.”
My knees almost give out.
Because it isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t a test. It’s an order, simple and final, spoken like gravity itself. And my body reacts before my brain can argue.
I sink.
First onto shaky knees, the cheap carpet scraping against my skin, then forward, palms pressing flat as I shuffle toward him.
The sound of my breathing fills the entryway—ragged, frantic, loud as sin.
The closer I get, the heavier his presence feels, like the air thickens around him, dragging me lower.
When I reach his boots, I freeze. My hands twitch on the floor. My thighs burn from the crawl like I just skated suicides for hours.
I look up.
Fuck.
From here, he’s massive. Towering, shoulders crowding the doorway, shadow cutting down over me. His mismatched eyes look carved from something older than stone—one glacial, one abyssal, both pinning me like prey dumb enough to kneel at a wolf’s feet.
I love that anyone looking in would think I’ve been forced here, think this is a scene of ruin and power and nothing else. They’d never believe the truth—that I’m aching for it, trembling with want, yearning to be exactly where I am: on my knees, looking up at my captain like he’s God.
“Good,” he says at last. His hand lowers, fingers curling into my hair, not yanking this time—just holding. “Exactly where you belong.”
My breath shatters. My eyes flutter. My whole chest caves around the word, heat shooting down my spine until I’m swaying into his grip.
“Yes, sir.” It falls out broken, hoarse, but real.
And the smirk that cuts across his scar tells me he knows it.
His hand tightens firm enough that my breath hitches, my throat straining under the pull as he drags me up off the floor. My knees scrape across the carpet, my legs stumble, and then—suddenly—I’m standing.
Pinned.
And for half a second I think he’s going to make me wait again. Make me crawl more, beg more, shake more.
He doesn’t.
He spins me fast, shoving me back against the wall just inside the door. My spine slams the plaster, my head snaps back, and then his mouth is on mine.
It’s nothing like the SUV kiss yesterday. That was silencing. Controlling. A command to shut the fuck up.
This? This is a promise kept.
His teeth bite my lip until I gasp. His tongue drives past mine, filthy and claiming, drowning me in whiskey heat and the taste of salt on his skin. His hand fists tighter, yanking my head back until I’m open, exposed, moaning shamelessly into him.
“Sir—” I choke, voice cracking, but it breaks apart when his hips slam into mine.
Christ.
The weight of him pins me to the wall, grinding down against me through fabric, his cock hard, heavy, exactly where he said it would be. My legs almost give, but he holds me up with one hand in my hair, the other clamped around my jaw.
“Promised you,” he growls against my mouth, every word vibrating into my bones. “Said I’d fuck you the second we got here. Didn’t I, pup?”
My lungs seize. My whole body trembles. “Y-yes, sir—”
His smirk is cruel and perfect. “And you thought I wouldn’t.”
Then he shoves my legs apart with his knee, crowding closer, his cock grinding harder through the thin fabric between us.
My head slams back against the wall, a moan ripping out of me so loud the neighbors could hear—and I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything except him, the weight, the heat, the way he promised and now he’s making it real.
“Mine,” he snarls, kissing me harder, teeth clashing, spit slicking my chin. “Every inch of you.“
And I let him take it. Every bit.
Because this is the part I love most—when he makes good on his threats, when he doesn’t leave me guessing, when his hands and his mouth and his cock prove that being his is more than a word.
It’s survival.
It’s everything.
His mouth devours mine, hard and merciless, his grip in my hair keeping me right where he wants me. And the whole time, I’m grinning into it. Broken, desperate, half-mad—but grinning.
Because I know exactly what’s happening.
He wrecked me once today already. Out on the ice, drills sharp as blades, body pushed until my lungs screamed and my legs gave out.
He didn’t let me coast, didn’t let me hide, didn’t let me be anything less than raw.
Every whistle was a knife. Every look was a reminder: you’re mine, pup, and I’ll carve you into something worth the jersey on your back.
And now he’s about to wreck me again.
At home.
Where there are no whistles, no eyes, no excuses.
My cock’s already hard in my boxers, a wet spot spreading, my thighs trembling just from the grind of his clothed body against mine.
I’m barefoot, stripped down, pathetic in nothing but cotton and socks while he’s still fully dressed—black Reapers jacket, jeans, boots, the whole package. Untouchable.
It should humiliate me. It does. But fuck if I don’t love it.
Because it drives the truth deeper: I’m the rookie, the one undone, and he’s the captain who keeps his armor on until he decides otherwise.
My grin spreads when his hand slides off my jaw and down my chest, dragging his knuckles rough over my ribs. I bite back the jab that almost slips out—something about how he coaches as mean as he fucks, or maybe the reverse—because I know better. If I mouth off now, he’ll make me pay twice as hard.
But the words are there, buzzing on my tongue like bees.
He feels it. Of course he does. His eyes catch mine, cold and dark all at once, and his hand tightens in my hair. “Go on,” he murmurs, low, steady, lethal. “Try it.”
My grin falters for half a breath. Then it’s back, shaky but there. “Didn’t say anything, sir.”
“Yet,” he corrects, grinding his cock against me harder, enough to make me gasp. “You never know when to shut your mouth, Mercer.”
And he’s right. God, he’s right. My whole body is straining to spit something reckless. But I swallow it down, let the moan rip out of me instead, nails scratching helpless at the wall behind me.
“Good boy,” he says, lips brushing mine again. “Almost learning.”
Almost. Not quite.
His hand finally drags down, over my stomach, into the waistband of my boxers. My head thumps the wall, a shameless gasp tearing out of me when his knuckles brush the slick head of my cock. My grin twists into something feral, my breath breaking apart.
“Fuck—sir—”
“Louder,” he growls, palming me rough through the thin cotton. “Let the neighbors hear who ruins you.”
I moan, loud, raw, body jerking helpless against his grip. My cock twitches in his hand, precum slicking his palm, my thighs shaking with the effort not to crumble completely.
He doesn’t let me go. Doesn’t strip. Doesn’t even unbutton his jacket. He just keeps me half-ruined right there against the wall, stroking slow, cruel, grinding his clothed cock against my hip until I’m trembling and whimpering, grinning even as my eyes blur.