Chapter 17 - Elias #2
And my stomach twists hot, because I know I’ll crawl through it if he tells me to.
The gym is hell.
Not the kind with flames and devils, though I’m pretty sure Cole would argue otherwise. This is the kind of hell built on sweat and steel—plates clanging, ropes slapping, and Damian prowling through it all like the devil himself.
“Push.” His voice slices through the echo, steady as a metronome.
Tyler’s already on his knees by the sled, coughing like his lungs crawled up his throat. Cole’s on the ropes, whipping them with all the force of a man writing his own obituary. Shane’s muttering curses from the bike, Viktor’s expressionless while squatting half his weight in iron.
And me? I’m flying.
Every nerve in my body’s screaming, but I’m still keeping up with the vets.
Nearly matching them, rep for rep. My thighs are shaking, arms burning, but my grin’s sharp enough to cut steel.
Because I know he’s watching. I feel those eyes track me every time I haul the bar up, every time my form slips and I correct it instantly, every time I collapse for half a second then surge back up.
Cole notices too. Of course he does.
“Jesus Christ, curls—” he gasps between rope slams. “Trying to—kill me—showing off like that?”
“Already killed you, Hollywood,” I pant, sweat dripping into my eyes as I slam the bar back down. “You’re just too dumb to notice.”
Cole groans, nearly trips over the ropes, and half the boys laugh—even through the wheezing, even through the ache.
Damian doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t even twitch. He just stalks closer, boots echoing against the mats, arms crossed while his eyes drag down me like he’s dissecting every muscle, every breath, every shred of obedience I’m bleeding out for him.
“Again,” he says.
And I do.
My chest is fire, my arms jelly, my throat raw. But I do.
Because he told me to.
Because I’ll keep going until my legs snap clean in half if it makes him look at me like that one more second.
I last longer than I should. Way longer.
Long enough that even Cole stops chirping me mid–rope slam and just gapes, sweat dripping off his chin like he’s never seen me before.
Long enough that Tyler mutters something broken about me being possessed.
Long enough that Damian’s mouth curves just faintly at the scar, like he’s already decided how he’s going to wreck me for this later.
And then my legs give out.
Not graceful. Not heroic. Just—boom. The bar slips, my knees buckle, and I hit the mat flat on my ass with a grunt that rattles the rafters. The burn hits me all at once, fire in my lungs, every muscle in my thighs screaming, vision tunneling at the edges.
The boys howl. Cole drops the ropes instantly, throwing his arms wide like he just won a war. “FINALLY! The golden child goes down! Somebody get a camera—this is history!”
“Shut up,” I wheeze, dragging myself across the mat on shaking arms. I don’t even know where I’m going until I hit his shin—Cole’s shin—and collapse behind him.
He blinks down at me. Then his grin explodes, wide and wicked. “No way. No fucking way. The pup hides behind Hollywood? This is better than Christmas.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I gasp, curling into his shadow like it’ll save me. “I’m not hiding, I’m—strategically recovering.”
Cole cackles loud enough to wake the dead. “Strategically—oh my god, Cap, you hear this? Kid’s actually shaking so hard he’s using me as cover.”
And yeah. He’s not wrong. My body’s trembling like I’m about to combust, every nerve fried, every muscle gone. I can still feel Damian’s gaze on me though—burning, steady, drilling through Cole’s smug grin like he can see me crouched behind him anyway.
“Hollywood.”
One word.
Cole freezes mid-laugh. His grin falters, and he looks at Damian like he just realized the grim reaper wears a Reapers jacket. “Uh. Yeah, Cap?”
“You’ve got three seconds to move.”
Cole’s eyes dart down to me, still crouched behind him. Then back to Damian. His smirk comes back—slower, shakier—but he doesn’t budge. “You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s protecting the weak, would you?”
The silence that follows is lethal.
Cole’s arm drops heavy across my shoulders, sweat-soaked and ridiculous, but steady all the same.
He’s grinning like the devil himself, chest heaving, hair plastered down from the workout, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as twitch when Damian’s glare pins him like a butterfly under glass.
One second. Two. Three.
My lungs are screaming. I can feel the weight of it—the silence, the storm brewing in Damian’s chest. I’m bracing for the snap, for the inevitable hand on the back of my neck dragging me out like a bad dog.
Instead, Damian’s scarred mouth lifts just faint at the edge. “Good.”
Cole blinks. The grin stutters on his lips. “…Good?”
“Protect him like that on the ice too.” Damian’s voice is steel, low and final.
For once, Cole doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t stall. Doesn’t even breathe wrong. He just nods, still wide-eyed, still sweating, and says, “Yes, Cap.”
Damian tilts his head. The silence stretches, then—“Now move.”
The weight of it lands heavy. I can feel Cole’s pulse jump under the arm he’s still got slung over me. For half a second, I think he might be suicidal enough to hold his ground. But then he lets out a wheezing laugh, pats my sweat-drenched curls like I’m a dog, and sidesteps fast.
“Can’t say I didn’t try, curls,” he mumbles under his breath, eyes still flicking nervously toward Damian. “Better you than me.”
And just like that—I’m exposed. Knees still trembling, chest heaving, every muscle in my body wrecked. Damian’s gaze lands on me like a goddamn guillotine, and I swear I can’t feel the ground under my feet anymore.
“On your feet.”
The words crack across the gym like a blade.
My stomach drops. My legs already feel like wet noodles, lungs still shredded from the last set—but there’s no mistaking that tone. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.
The whole team hears it.
Cole’s arm slips off me instantly. Tyler’s eyes go wide as saucers.
Mats mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like “he’s fucked.
” Shane actually crosses himself. Even Viktor pauses mid-rep, watching me with that stone-wall stare of his like he’s measuring whether I’ll rise or die here.
And Damian?
He just waits.
He doesn’t tap his foot. Doesn’t growl again. Just—waits. Like he already knows what I’ll do.
And god help me—I do it.
My arms shake as I shove off the mat. My legs tremble like they’re about to give out again. But I stand. Wobbling, swaying, teeth grit—but standing.
“Good,” he says.
And then—“Again.”
The groan that rips out of the boys is loud enough to shake the rafters. Tyler actually mutters, “Jesus Christ, Cap’s gonna kill him.” Cole’s grin falters for once. But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.
Because I’m moving.
Burpees. Suicide sprints across the cracked floor. Push-ups until my arms lock and scream. Damian’s voice cuts through every rep like a blade, steady, sharp: “Lower, Mercer.” / “Faster.” / “Don’t you fucking quit.”
And I don’t.
Every muscle in me burns. My chest is splitting.
My throat feels like sandpaper, but I’m still moving.
Still giving him everything I’ve got, because it’s him.
Because it’s his eyes on me. Because if I collapse again, it won’t be behind Cole.
It won’t be behind anyone. It’ll be in front of him, and I can’t—I won’t—let that be what he sees.
Somewhere behind me, Cole whistles low. Mats mutters, “Kid’s insane.” Viktor grunts his approval. Shane mutters something about demonic possession. Tyler looks like he might puke just watching.
But I don’t stop.
Until my vision tunnels, my lungs burn like fire, and my body finally hits the floor —flat, trembling, every nerve fried.
And the last thing I hear before the black edges eat my vision is Damian’s voice, low, carved into my spine:
“Good boy.”