Chapter 19 - Elias
The first thing I smell is him.
That weight under my cheek isn’t a pillow. It’s solid. Warm. Hard enough my ribs are molded around it. My eyes snap open before my brain even finishes booting up.
And yeah. Holy fucking shit.
Not a dream. Not a poster. Not a replay on VHS.
Damian’s chest.
I’m sprawled across it—sweats that don’t belong to me hanging off my hips, my curls sticking every which way, my face pressed to the heat of his skin where his shirt’s tugged down. His heartbeat is right there, steady and heavy under my ear.
And he’s awake.
Already looking at me.
Those eyes burn down steady, unreadable. One ice. One void. My pulse slams into overdrive like it’s trying to escape through my throat.
“Oh, fuck,” I croak. I bolt upright so fast I nearly brain myself on the headboard. “Oh my god, no—”
His hand clamps my hip before I can escape, calm, final, dragging me back down.
“Don’t.”
That’s it. One word. And I freeze. Half-sitting, half-folded across him, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest.
“I’m in your bed,” I rasp, stating the obvious because my brain is melting.
“Yes.”
“You—you brought me here?”
“Yes.”
“And I—” My throat closes around the words. “I didn’t…like…fuck, did I—did we—”
One brow lifts, scar cutting sharper over his mouth. His voice is steel, low. “You begged. You babbled. You passed out.”
My face goes nuclear. Every inch of me goes hot, throat strangling itself, stomach twisting in knots. “Oh my god. I’m gonna die. Just bury me now.”
He doesn’t let me go. Doesn’t even flinch. His hand stays firm at my hip, his chest steady under me, his gaze pinning me down.
“Relax, pup.” His thumb presses against my hipbone, slow, deliberate. “If we’d fucked, you wouldn’t be able to walk today.”
That does not help.
At all.
A sound squeaks out of me. “You’re—you’re a fucking menace.”
His mouth curves. Not soft. Not amused. Predatory.
“Eat first,” he says, calm as if none of this is insane. “Then practice.”
Practice. My brain short-circuits all over again.
Damian gets up first. Of course he does. He moves with the same brutal calm he always has, sheets dragging off his shoulders, his frame blotting out half the room while I just sit there staring.
No, not a dream. An alien abduction. Because nothing about this feels real—me in his bed, me in his sweats, my curls a rat’s nest and my throat raw, watching Damian Kade pad across his own apartment like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I should run. I should say thanks and sprint home before my heart explodes.
Instead, I follow.
Like the dumb little rookie dog everyone already calls me.
The second I step out of the bedroom, it hits me: his place. Not mine. Not Cole’s flashy condo. Not the half-empty box of an apartment I’ve been crashing in for two weeks. His.
And Christ, it looks like him.
Warm, lived-in. Not neat, but not a mess either. Trophies line one wall—shining, scarred, dented. Sticks propped in corners, blades taped and frayed, one split right down the middle. Pucks scattered in bowls.
And the jackets.
Hung up near the entry, half-hidden, too small for him now.
Black and crimson, worn soft, logos half-faded.
I know every season by sight, which years they’re from.
And I know—I know—they still smell like him, even if they haven’t touched his skin in years.
My teenage self would’ve sold his soul for a whiff of those jackets.
Hell, my twenty-year-old self wants to shove his face in them right now.
I almost walk into a wall because I’m too busy staring. My shoulder clips the frame, makes me stumble, and Damian doesn’t even glance back. He just keeps walking.
Like he knows I’ll trail after him no matter how many times I nearly concuss myself on his furniture.
By the time he stops, it’s in the kitchen. Wide, dark counters. Steel appliances that gleam like he actually uses them. Coffee already brewing, the smell so strong it punches me in the chest.
He doesn’t look at me. Just opens the fridge, starts pulling things out, as if dragging a half-dead rookie into his bed and letting him drool there all night is the kind of thing he does every Tuesday.
And I’m still frozen in the doorway, staring at him like he’s the last human on earth and I just learned how to walk.
I can’t help it.
I really can’t.
The second his back is turned, I beeline straight for the rack by the door. Those jackets—those relics—are hanging there, and before my brain can shout don’t do it, my hands are already buried in the fabric.
And then my face is too.
I shove myself right between them, curls disappearing in a nest of old Reapers jackets, and inhale so hard my chest hurts.
Oh. My. God.
Leather, soap, faint smoke, a bite of steel, the ghost of sweat that no detergent on earth could ever erase. I moan—actually moan—into the fabric like a goddamn lunatic.
“Fuck…” It tears out of me, wrecked and reverent. “Yes. Yes.”
One more sniff, greedy, nose dragging across faded embroidery. My fingers clutch the worn sleeves, my forehead pressed to cracked vinyl lettering. “Exactly like you… oh my god.”
Behind me, the kitchen hums. Coffee brews. A pan hisses low on the stove. Damian doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even pause.
He just lets me.
Lets me bury my face in his old jackets, moaning while he makes breakfast like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
And maybe that’s worse.
Maybe him not stopping me is the most dangerous part.
Because it means he knows.
He always knows.
The smell is everywhere, thick and heavy in my chest.
And then—heat.
A shadow swallows me whole. A chest against my back. A hand braced firm against the wall by my head. His weight cages me in before I can even jolt.
Damian.
His breath ghosts over the side of my throat. My knees nearly give.
“You really are pathetic, pup,” he murmurs, low and lethal, right against my ear. “Face in my old jackets, moaning like a slut. Bet you’d hump the fabric if I let you.”
A sound rips out of me—wrecked, high, desperate. My grip on the sleeves tightens. My head tips back helplessly against the broad steel of his chest.
“Do you even hear yourself?” His mouth brushes the curl of my ear. “Whimpering like I’ve got you bent over already, when all you’ve done is sniff where I used to sweat. You’re so fucking gone for me you can’t even stand in my hallway without making a mess of yourself.”
The sound is muffled in the fabric, half-groan, half-plea. My thighs tremble. My breath stutters. And the worst—best—part is that he doesn’t push further. Doesn’t drag me to my knees or shove me against the wall.
He just steps back.
Gone.
By the time I turn, heart hammering, face burning, Damian’s already at the counter again. Calm. Controlled. Pouring coffee into a mug.
He sets the mug down in front of me. Black. Strong. Steaming.
“Drink,” he says, as if nothing happened at all.
And I do.
Hands shaking, throat burning, chest wrecked—because I know I’ll follow every order he gives me.
The coffee burns down my throat, hot enough to sting, bitter enough to make my face twist—but it’s the only thing keeping me upright. Then Damian’s hand sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, something that looks like he actually cooked instead of just dumped out of a container.
I blink at it. Blink at him.
He sits across from me, calm as ever, already eating.
I narrow my eyes.
And because apparently I have no sense of self-preservation left around him, my mouth opens.
“What is this, Cap? Trying to feed me up before you fold me again? Gotta keep your rookie plump so he crawls prettier?”
The chirp hangs in the air. My fork hovers over the eggs I haven’t touched, my pulse hammering because—Christ—why did I say that?
But Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t even look up from his plate. He just chews, swallows, and lifts his gaze to mine.
And fuck. That look.
My grin wobbles on my face, reckless fire in my chest warring with the survival instinct telling me to run far, far away.
Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch. He just lifts his mug, takes a slow sip, sets it down—and smirks.
“Plump’s better,” he says, voice flat as stone. “Fills my hands when I bend you over.”
I choke.
Coffee shoots the wrong way down my throat, burns like acid as I gag, coughing so violently I nearly flip the plate right off the table. My face goes scarlet, eyes watering, lungs wheezing while Damian just…keeps eating.
Unbothered.
“Jesus—fuck—” I croak, pounding my chest, wheezing through another cough. “You can’t—you can’t just—”
“Yes,” he says, calm, final, already buttering his toast. “I can.”
My brain short-circuits. My grin sputters back across my face, wild and wrecked, because oh my god he chirped me back. Not even teased—obliterated.
I drop my head into my hands, curls falling into my eyes, half-laughing, half-dying, and groan, “I hate you so much, Captain.”
“Eat,” he says again. Like that’s the end of it.
I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth just to buy myself ten seconds to recover. He’s still eating like he didn’t just casually ruin my entire existence before nine a.m., and that—that—makes me burn hotter.
No way.
No way I’m letting him win this round.
I swallow, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and grin wide across the table. “Guess that’s why you’re feeding me toast, huh? Gotta keep your rookie stuffed so he can take it better?”
His eyes flick up. Just a flick. One cold, one void.
My pulse stutters, but I keep going. “Bet you measured the macros too, right? Protein for power, carbs for stamina, all so you can fold me like a lawn chair for cardio?”
The smirk that cuts across his scarred mouth is lethal.
I’m grinning, leaning over the table. “What’s next, Cap? Gonna start packing me post-practice snacks? Write ‘good boy’ on the Tupperware?”
His jaw ticks.
But I swear—swear—there’s a glint in his eyes that says I just poked the wolf on purpose.
And I love it.