Chapter 18 - Damian
“Cap…are you actually trying to kill the kid?” one of the vets asks, half a laugh in his voice, half awe.
I don’t answer right away. My eyes are on Elias.
Flat on his back, chest heaving shallow, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. The crazy little bastard gave me everything—everything—until he dropped. Fainted. Body wrung dry, but not once did he quit, not once did he look for a way out.
That’s why Tyler will never measure up to him.
That’s why soon enough, none of them will.
“If I wanted to kill him,” I say at last, “he’d be dead.”
The room goes quiet. Cole shuts his mouth mid-chirp. Tyler gulps hard enough I can hear it. Mats smirks faintly, like he knew I’d say it.
I bend, grab Elias under the arms, and haul him up. He’s limp, head lolling against my chest, legs dangling. My jaw ticks at the sight. Then I shift my grip and toss him over my shoulder, one arm locking him in place like he weighs nothing.
“Showers. Home. Go.” I dismiss them all.
They scatter fast. Cole limps toward the door, muttering something about writing his will. Shane makes the sign of the cross like he just survived the apocalypse. Mats yawns like none of this fazes him. Viktor doesn’t even blink, just grunts and follows.
Except Tyler.
He stays frozen, hunched on the mat, pale and wrecked. “I—I can’t move, Cap,” he stammers, clutching his thighs like they might split in two. “My legs—they don’t work anymore.”
I stop. Turn. Let my eyes pin him in place.
“Unless you’re also unconscious,” I say sharp as steel, “move. Now.”
He squeaks. Tries. Fails. But the sight of my hand tightening on Elias’s hip is enough. He scrambles up, staggering toward the showers like a newborn deer.
Good.
I don’t bother with the showers. Waste of time. Waste of heat.
The kid’s limp against my shoulder, breath shallow but steady, body wrecked from giving me everything. He doesn’t need soap. He needs walls that won’t let him fall.
I grab his Reapers jacket off the hook by the locker, shake it once, then wrap it around him.
He stirs faintly, a broken sound slipping out of his throat, but his eyes stay shut.
It’s end of November, the kind of cold that cuts to the bone the second you step outside. No way in hell I’m letting him freeze.
The rest of the room parts for me without a word. They watch—silent, wide-eyed—as I shoulder the door open, Elias tucked tight in my arms. Cole mutters something under his breath about me being a villain in a mob movie, but even he doesn’t push it past that. Nobody does.
The air outside hits sharp. Bitter. I ignore it. His jacket’s pulled snug around him, my hand braced at the back of his neck, his face buried against my chest like he was built to fit there. I take the lot in long strides, boots crunching against frost.
The SUV looms in the corner, black steel humming like it’s been waiting. I set him down gentle, his body sagging against the leather, then lean across and strap him in myself. Belt clicks into place, snug over his chest.
For a second, I just watch him. His lashes stick damp against his cheeks, lips parted, jacket collar high around his throat. My pup. My center. My reckless little firebrand who doesn’t know when to quit.
I shut the door, circle around, and slide behind the wheel. Engine rumbles low to life, headlights cutting white through the dark. My mismatched eyes flick to him once more before I pull out.
Not his apartment this time.
Not Cole’s stupid convertible drop-off routine.
My place.
Because if he’s going to give me everything until he drops, then he’s going to collapse where I can keep him. Where he’ll wake up with my walls around him, my roof above him, my rules holding him steady.
The drive is quiet, steady. I take the long way, city lights blurring across the windshield. He stirs once, murmurs something incoherent, but never wakes. My hand stays steady on the wheel, jaw tight.
By the time I park in the underground, the decision is already made. He doesn’t get a choice. Not in this. Not in me.
Tonight, Elias Mercer sleeps in my bed.
The underground garage hums quiet, concrete echo carrying the sound of my boots as I haul him toward the elevator.
Elias barely stirs, his head limp against my chest, lips parted, jacket slipping askew over his shoulders.
He’s heavy in the way unconscious men are—dead weight—but I don’t notice it. He’s mine. Mine to carry. Mine to keep.
My door unlocks with a click. The apartment swallows us whole—warm, lived-in, nothing like the rookie’s bare little shoebox.
This place has years in it. Leather couches broken in by bruised bodies and late-night film.
Shelves lined with pucks, sticks, plaques from games long past. Jackets I outgrew years ago hang on the hooks by the door, sleeves frayed, numbers faded.
Trophies gleam dull under low light, reminders of blood earned and fights won.
This is home. Not a bed barely slept in. Not empty walls. Mine.
I don’t stop moving. Straight through the hall, into the bathroom. Warm tiles, dim light, steam curling as I turn the tap on. Tub fills slow, water hot enough to ease muscles torn to shreds.
I set him down on the edge of the porcelain. His head tips, curls falling forward. He mumbles something slurred, low, half in the world, half out.
“Wha—Cap?” His voice is rough, wrecked, like he’s drunk. Green eyes slit half-open, unfocused, but still locking on me like I’m the only anchor in the room. His mouth curves crooked. “We…home?”
“Yes.” My hands are steady, tugging his arms free from his jacket, peeling sweat-soaked layers from his skin. “Home.”
He chuckles—weak, slurred, tipsy from exhaustion alone. “Not…not my place.”
“No,” I say. Calm. Low. “Mine.”
His laugh cracks high, delirious. “Fuck. I’m…in your bed, huh?” He giggles, shoulders shaking. “God, I’m so fucked.”
“Language,” I mutter, dragging his socks off one by one. He just grins up at me, drunk on fatigue, drunk on obedience.
His head lolls back, a wrecked smile painted across his lips, eyes slipping shut again.
“You undress all your rookies, Cap?” he slurs.
I pause. My jaw ticks. Then I lean down, thumb tracing his jaw until his head tips back toward me. “Only the ones who belong to me.”
That shuts him up. For half a second, his breath hitches, chest stuttering under my hand. Then he melts again, lips parting around another half-delirious laugh.
“Yessir.”
Water steams high. I test it, then brace him upright, steady. He’s weak, pliant, still giggling faint under his breath. And I know—he won’t remember every word of this. But he’ll remember enough.
I lower him into the tub, slow, careful. He sighs, head tipping back against porcelain, lashes fluttering. A sound slips out—low, wrecked, a moan disguised as a sigh. His whole body relaxes under the heat.
And I crouch beside him, sleeves pushed up, watching steam curl over his wrecked little frame.
My pup.
The steam fogs the mirror, curls soft around the edges of the tub. Elias sinks deeper into the water, head tipped back, lips parted like he’s in some fever dream.
I kneel beside him, roll my sleeves higher, and reach for the washcloth. Dip, wring, smooth. Slow. Deliberate.
He makes a noise—half sigh, half moan—when I run the cloth down his chest. His lashes flutter, his mouth crooks into that stupid, wrecked grin. “M’gettin’ the royal treatment, huh? Captain bath service. Fancy.”
I grunt. Don’t answer. My hand drags the cloth lower, across bruised ribs, over muscle that trembles even now. He flinches, gasps, then laughs breathlessly.
“You do this for all the boys, Cap? Gonna start a…a bubble bath rotation?” He snickers, delirious and half-slurred. “Viktor’s first, right? Big guy, lotta soap.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but my hand keeps steady, dragging the cloth over his arm, down to his wrist.
He lifts his head clumsily, grinning sharp through his haze. “What about Cole, huh? Bet he’d ask for…rose petals. Champagne. A camera crew—”
I dip the cloth again, wring it, press it over his mouth just long enough that he squeaks against it, muffled. His eyes go wide, then brighter, grin splitting wider even as water drips down his cheeks.
“You’re mean,” he says when I pull it back. His voice cracks into another laugh. “Sadist. World’s scariest babysitter. Bet the team thinks you—fuck—think you—” His head lolls, curls dripping, chest heaving. “Think you fold me like a napkin.”
My jaw ticks. My hand moves steady, dragging the cloth slow over his throat, his shoulders, down across his stomach.
“Do you?” I ask, low.
He blinks at me, sloppy grin tugging his mouth sideways. “Do I what?”
“Love it.” My thumb presses under his chin, tilting his head up until his eyes fight to focus. “Being folded. Being mine.”
His laugh is wrecked, broken. “God, yes. Love it. Love it so bad.” His voice drops, slurring into something filthy. “Cap folds me up, puts me away, pulls me back out again. Love it. Always—sir—always.”
The sound he makes after is more whimper than laugh, too drunk on exhaustion to know the difference. His body melts further into the water, trusting me to hold him there, trusting me to keep him upright.
I wash him slow. Methodical. Every inch of him claimed by my hand, by the drag of the cloth, by the low murmur of my voice when I tell him, “Breathe.” And he does.
His head tips forward when I push his curls back, eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. Steam beads against his lashes, mouth curved sloppy, wrecked. I let my knuckles drag once down his jaw before I ask, calm, steady:
“Do you want sleep, or do you want food and then sleep, after bath?”
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Then grins crooked, words spilling out drunk and shameless.
“I want cock…then food…then sleep.”
A sound rumbles low in my chest before I can stop it. Not a growl this time. A snort. The kind of laugh I don’t give anyone.
“Pup,” I mutter, smirk curling across the scar at my lip, “you can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I can too,” he insists, head lolling against the edge of the tub. He tries to sit taller, fails, sinks lower with a splash. His voice drops to a whine, softer, filthier. “’M awake. Awake enough. Could…could take you right here. Captain bath-time special.”
His words crack into another laugh, a high, broken sound, and then he sighs like the effort of talking wore him out. His hand drifts under the water, sloppy, but he doesn’t make it far before I catch his wrist.
“Enough,” I say, grip firm, pressing his hand back to his thigh. “Food. Sleep. That’s all you’re getting tonight.”
“’M still hungry,” he mutters. “For both.”
“You’ll live,” I rasp, wringing the cloth out over his stomach. “Barely.”
He snickers at that—wrecked, small, almost sweet—and tips his head back like he’s given up the fight, letting me finish what I started.
By the time I’ve rinsed the last of the sweat from his hair, Elias is half-gone again. His head tips back against the tub, mouth parted, eyes closed, breathing steady like the heat has melted every bone in him.
I drain the water, haul him up out of it. He stirs, makes a noise low in his throat, but doesn’t fight. He just folds into me, wet and heavy, arms limp at his sides. I wrap a towel around him, dry him slow, methodical. My hands drag over ribs, arms, thighs until his skin is flushed warm again.
When he’s steady enough to stand, I dig into the closet for an old pair of sweats—black, worn soft, waistband frayed. Too big for him, but they’ll hold. I pull them up his legs myself, cinch the drawstring until they cling to narrow hips. “These are huge…Cap’s pants, mine now.”
“Stay awake,” I mutter, tugging the hem down.
He doesn’t. Not really. His head lolls against my chest when I scoop him up again, arms folded across my shoulder. He sighs, breath warm against my throat, and lets me carry him straight into the kitchen.
Cooking’s pointless. He’d be unconscious before the pan hit the stove. I set him down in a chair, one big hand braced at the back of his neck to keep him upright, and pull leftovers from the fridge. Meat and potatoes from last night. Enough protein to refill what he burned out on the ice.
Microwave hums. Plate clatters. I set it down in front of him and crouch, catching his glassy eyes before they shut again.
“Eat.”
He groans like a child, tries to tip sideways. My hand catches his jaw, straightens him. I press the fork into his palm and don’t move until he stabs a bite. He chews slow, miserable, muttering around his mouthful.
“Sadist.”
“Correct,” I murmur again, pushing the plate closer.
He eats. Sloppy, half-asleep, but he does it. Bite after bite until the plate is scraped clean. My pup, even drunk on exhaustion, obeys.
When the last fork clatters, his head drops to the table, cheek pressed against the wood, breath evening out before I’ve even pulled the plate away.
He’s limp as I lift him from the chair, head lolling into the crook of my neck. One arm dangles over my shoulder, curls sticking damp to his temple, mouth slack with exhaustion. He should be out cold.
Should be.
But the second I lower him onto the bed—my bed, heavy sheets, pillows worn in by years—he stirs. A mumble slips out, slurred and low, the kind of wrecked sound that means his brain is still running even if his body’s gone.
“…fuckin’…Cap’s bed…knew it’d smell like blood and soap and…god, so good…”
My jaw tightens. I pull the blanket over him, tugging it to his chest. His hand fists the fabric immediately, knuckles white, as if I might rip it away. His lashes flutter, mouth crooks into a grin.
“…poster over my bed was good but…this? better. way better. warm. heavy. you’re heavy, Cap. love it when you crush me. can’t breathe—don’t wanna breathe…”
“Elias,” I warn.
He doesn’t stop. Too far gone. Too delirious to censor. His head rolls against the pillow, his laugh cracked and drunk.
“…’m such a mess for you. Bet you knew, huh? Knew before I opened my mouth. knew when I chirped you in juniors highlights. knew I’d crawl. Knew I’d beg. fuck, I love begging…”
My hand fists tight in the blanket at his chest, keeping him pinned when he tries to roll toward me. My blood burns hotter with every word he spills.
“…gonna ruin me more, right? make me your good boy till I can’t skate, can’t breathe, can’t think. want it. need it. please, Cap. always.”
Christ. He’s unconscious and still begging for me.
I lean down. “Sleep, pup. Or I’ll make sure tomorrow’s practice kills you.”
He burrows deeper into the sheets. “…yes, sir.”
Then finally—finally—he goes quiet.