Chapter 10
Idon’t know why I did that. No—scratch that. I do. I absolutely do, because I was spiraling, feral, full of something that felt suspiciously like panic wrapped in glitter and dumped straight into a cocktail of adrenaline and pure, uncut Damian Kade.
And now I’m in the passenger seat of his car, curled into the corner with my fingers twitching and my leg bouncing, my body already bracing as I feel it coming—not the ride, not the traffic, not any of that, but the punishment.
Because I didn’t just shout obscenities in public or confess a whole decade of drooling over my captain like a lovesick idiot; I stole his keys, in front of the team, right after screaming that he’s the best fuck of my life.
And he heard me. Of course he heard me.
Because now, as I watch the arena doors swing open, Damian Kade steps out like the end of the world wears custom-made, and I whimper before he’s even halfway to the car. He sees me. I see him. And I am so incredibly fucked.
He reaches the driver’s side, opens the door without a word, slides in with the calm lethality of a sniper and I backtrack. Because my mouth, God help me, is faster than my survival instincts.
“Sir…” I blurt, twisting in my seat, eyes wide. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—” Lie. Full-bodied, shame-soaked, pathetic lie.
Damian doesn’t even look at me. He plucks the keys out of my twitching hand, slides them into the ignition, and starts the engine with a slow, brutal purr.
I sit very, very still.
Breathing? Optional.
Heartbeat? Questionable.
Regrets? All of them.
Damian smirks. It’s not a nice smirk. Not a forgiving one. Not a you’re-too-pretty-to-punish kind of smirk. No, this is the smirk that comes before ruin. This is him deciding how long to make me suffer.
And then he starts driving—slowly, very slowly—and I blink as the car creeps forward like it’s wading through molasses, engine humming low while the street drags past in exaggerated slow motion.
A pigeon hops across the road and somehow still manages to beat us, and I twist in my seat to stare at the speedometer in disbelief. Four. Four miles an hour. Four.
“Are we…” I gesture vaguely at the windshield. “Are we… crawling to my death?”
He doesn’t answer. His grip on the wheel is relaxed, posture loose, like he’s out for a scenic drive on a goddamn Sunday, and he doesn’t look at me or speak or even twitch as he just drives, slow—painfully slow.
A guy jogs past us on the sidewalk and waves and I die inside. “Sir,” I whine, shifting in my seat. “This feels illegal.”
No answer.
I huff loudly, crossing my arms and uncrossing them again before slouching, fidgeting, my whole body buzzing like it’s wired too tight.
“Are you gonna kill me, or kiss me, or put me in the trunk?” I blurt.
“What’s the game plan here?” Damian glances over, gives me one slow, deliberate drag of his eyes up and down my seat-writhing body, then looks back to the road like nothing happened—like he isn’t absolutely fucking with me. And it’s working.
I squirm harder, frustration spilling out of me.
“Do I at least get to know how many spanks I’m getting?
I need to mentally prepare.” He gives me nothing.
Absolutely fucking nothing. The car crawls around a corner, and I watch a toddler on a scooter zip past us like he’s training for NASCAR, which makes me actually shriek. “You’re torturing me on purpose!”
Damian finally speaks. “Correct.”
I snap. I fucking snap. One more light turns red ahead of us—red, then green, then yellow, then red again—before we even reach it, and I lose what fragile grip I had on my sanity. “I’m gonna jump out!” I shriek, hand flying to the door handle.
Damian doesn’t even flinch. He presses a button, a quiet click echoing through the car as the doors lock, and I gasp—scandalized, betrayed, embarrassingly horny all at once. “You asshole,” I breathe, half accusation, half awe.
His voice stays calm and low, the same one he uses before faceoffs and executions, steady enough to make my spine go tight. “What do you want to be, pup?”
I glare at him without hesitation. “Your brat,” I snap, the words coming out fast and loud like the answer should’ve been obvious—because it is, because I’m clearly doing a phenomenal job proving it.
He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Try again.”
I blink as my brain short-circuits, watching another light ahead turn green while we still haven’t even reached the last one. “…your center?” I try, my voice tipping uncertainly upward as my hands twitch uselessly in my lap.
“You’re already my center.”
Well. Shit. I fidget, sweat, then try again, glancing at him sideways like I already know I’m playing with fire. “Your… slut?”
That finally earns me a look—a very specific, very dangerous one—that makes my toes curl and my lungs forget how to work. “Okay, okay,” I mumble, shrinking into the seat. “Your… husband?”
Damian’s lips twitch. His hands are still perfectly calm on the wheel, “I can’t hear you, pup,” he says smoothly, all tease.
Bastard.
I clench my fists, huff like a dying star and scream into my palms. “FINE!” I yell, arms flailing, my whole body vibrating with indignation. “I WANNA BE YOUR HUSBAND!”
Damian hums, the barest nod, still calm.
I lean harder into the seatbelt, fuming and boiling over, until the words rip out of me all at once—“YOUR HUSBAND!”—louder this time, nose wrinkled and eyes wide like I’m about to combust. “Your lifetime contract,” I keep going, breathless and wild, “your permanent line mate!”
Nothing. “YOUR FULL-TIME PUKE TARGET—WHATEVER!”
He doesn’t blink.
I glare at the windshield, then whip my head toward him. “YOUR STICK BUNNY!” Still nothing. “YOUR RING BITCH!”
Damian’s mouth twitches.
“YOUR PERSONAL HOCKEY WIFE!” I scream, hands in the air. “I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABIES!”
Damian snorts—an actual, audible snort—real laughter forcing its way through that stone-cold face, and I light up instantly, beaming as I gasp, “Oh my God. You laughed. You laughed.”
He shakes his head, lips twitching like he’s trying to suppress it, voice dry when he finally answers, “That’s not biologically possible, pup.”
“Yet,” I purr, wiggling in my seat. “Don’t underestimate me. Medical science is evolving.”
Damian exhales slow. “You’re unhinged.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer, because I saw it and I heard it—the snort of death, the Captain Crack—and that’s how I know I win. Even if I get spanked later so hard I can’t walk straight, I. Fucking. Win.
I wait until he’s distracted, somewhere between “you’re unhinged” and “you’re not having my babies.
” He’s driving now, finally, finally going faster than a tortoise with asthma.
So I inch my hand across the console. Just a little.
Just enough to graze the edge of his jacket.
Because I know it’s there—something—small and square, tucked into that pocket, something I felt earlier when I tackled him at home like a love-drunk maniac, and now it’s all I can think about.
Now I need to know. So I go for it, two fingers light as a whisper as they dip into the edge of his jacket pocket, like I’m not about to risk my entire life for a mystery box.
“Put your hands in my pockets again, pup, and I’ll edge you for a week.” Damian’s voice is dark. A growl straight from hell, stitched with heat and threat and certainty.
I freeze. Absolutely freeze. My eyes go wide like I’ve been caught defiling the Holy Grail. I yank my hand back to my lap so fast you’d think it got bitten. I clutch it, cradle it, mourn its poor decision-making. “…okay,” I whisper. “We respect the pockets. We respect boundaries.”
Damian doesn’t look at me. But I feel his satisfaction roll off him in waves. “Good,” he says, all smug and dangerous. And then he floors it. The car roars. My seat jolts. My bones rattle. We go from casual cruise to warp speed in a heartbeat.
I scream—not from fear, but from pure whiplash—as the words tear out of me in one sharp, breathless burst. “What the hell—!”
“Home,” he says, deadpan. “Now.”
The moment the door shuts behind us, it’s over. I don’t even get to shrug out of the damn jacket.
Damian slams me back into the wood with a thud, one hand fisting my collar while the other braces beside my head, and then his mouth is on mine—crushing, all heat and teeth and tongue and want with no warning and no mercy.
I gasp and yelp, my fingers clawing at his chest as I scramble for balance I never had in the first place, because the world tilts every time he looks at me, and right now I can’t even see it—only stars, black flaring behind my eyes, and the taste of him burning across my tongue.
He kisses me like he’s starving. Like I’m the last breath he’ll ever take. Like possession isn’t a choice, it’s a fact. His teeth nip my bottom lip and I whine, twisting under him, jacket still on, shoes still on, dignity long gone.
I break for air, panting, brain wheezing on fumes. “Sir—fuck—don’t we have a game in two days?” I gasp, squirming under him. “We need to rest! We need to hydrate—”
His lips brush mine again rough and cruelly calm. “Do you think I care about the Bastards right now, pup?” His voice is a growl, low and laced with promise, as if he’s daring me to say yes.
I go boneless against the door. Because no, obviously. No I don’t think he cares about the Bastards. Not when he’s pinning me like this. Not when my knees are jelly and my brain is melting and my soul is whimpering.
"Didn't think so," he says, kissing down my jaw. "Now say it again."
"S-Say what?" I stutter.
"What you screamed in the tunnel."
Of course I make it worse. I mean, better. Better, depending on who you ask. He says “say it again,” and what do I do? Do I whisper something sweet and reverent? Do I give him the thing he wants? The thing I know he’s waiting for?
No. No, I do not. I lean in, lips brushing his throat, all honey and sin, and I purr—“You’re the best fuck of my life.”
The silence that follows is nuclear.