Chapter 12
Iam on a fucking mission.
The apartment looks like it’s been raided. Not by burglars. No. Just by one feral, furious, half-naked rookie who lost his first playoff game and is now possessed by something worse than rage: curiosity. Obsession. Possibly rabies.
I yank open another drawer, growling under my breath. Nothing. No box. No clue. Just receipts and spare sticks of gum and one of Damian’s spare cufflinks that I definitely did not flick across the room in frustration.
I’m wearing nothing but his shirt. The black one. The one that smells like his cologne and makes my thighs look fantastic. But it’s not for him. No. This is my battle uniform. Because that ring is somewhere in this damn apartment, and I am not sleeping until I find it.
From the kitchen, Damian watches like I’m putting on the most entertaining one-man circus he’s ever seen. Bastard’s got a glass of whiskey in hand and a smirk on his face, lounging against the counter like the embodiment of unbothered.
“You should be packing, pup,” he says eventually, sipping slow. “We’re flying tomorrow evening.”
I freeze mid-rummage, turn to him and glare.
He looks amused.
I slam the drawer closed with exactly the kind of drama that would make any Broadway director cry with joy. “I am packing. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. For marriage,” I snap.
Damian raises a brow. “Oh? And where exactly are you planning to put that in your carry-on, baby?”
I throw a throw pillow at him. It doesn’t even get halfway. “I heard you,” I hiss, stalking toward him. “You said the ring’s at home.”
“I did.”
“You said it’s waiting for me.”
“I did.”
“So where is it?!” I stop in front of him, chest heaving, shirt riding up dangerously high, one sock half-off my foot, the other lost to the void an hour ago. My curls are a mess. My cheeks are red. My dignity’s in a ditch somewhere.
He sets the glass down and stares at me, eyes dark and slow-burning. “Do you really think I’d hide it somewhere you could find it before the Cup?” he asks, low, smooth, infuriatingly calm.
“I was hoping you got stupid,” I mutter.
“You know I’m not.”
“Unfortunately.”
He smiles wider. “Still mad, pup?”
“Yes.”
“Still losing your mind over one loss?”
“Yes.”
“Still planning to be my husband?”
I freeze, then nod, then blink rapidly because I hate him and he’s too hot and I can’t fucking breathe when he says things like that.
“Then quit tearing the apartment apart and come sit with me,” he says, reaching for my wrist, tugging me close.
“I hate you,” I mumble, climbing into his lap anyway.
“I know.”
“Not giving up.”
“I’m counting on it.”
I shift in his lap, arms folded tight, still vibrating with frustration and spite and the kind of feral energy only a loss and a hidden ring can create. He smells like sin and whiskey and smugness. I hate him so bad I wanna marry him twice.
And then I notice it, the bulge—not that one, okay yes that one too, but the one in his pocket—because his slacks are tailored and tight and there’s something in the right one, thick enough to snag my attention, square and suspicious and boxy.
I freeze, eyes narrowing as my hand slides—real slow, real casual—toward his hip.
“Don’t,” he warns.
I smile sweetly and do it anyway.
The second my fingers graze the edge of his pocket, Damian growls.
Growls. And a heartbeat later I yelp, because the fucker grabs me by the waist and throws me over his shoulder.
I shriek, kick, slap his ass, but he hauls me down the hallway, one hand firm on my thigh, the other wrapped around my hip like he’s got every intention of committing a felony with it.
“Cap!” I squawk, upside-down, jostling as he walks. “Put me down! I saw it! It’s in your pocket!”
“It’s not the ring, pup,” he mutters, half laughing now. “You think I’m that careless?”
“You’re that cocky!”
“Also true.” He kicks open the bedroom door and tosses me onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes with abandonment issues. I bounce, flail, and land in a heap of twisted shirt, one sock, and sheer, undignified rage.
“Fuck you,” I huff.
He kicks the door shut, steps closer, and grins that dangerous grin. “You’re gonna,” he says.
And my brain shorts out. “Okay,” I say, sitting up, hair a mess, shirt halfway down one shoulder. “What if, hypothetically, I do everything you want. Right now. No whining. No bratting. I even make you coffee in the morning. Two sugars. That weird creamer you like. Full blowjob while it brews.”
Damian raises an eyebrow from where he’s leaning on the door. His arms are crossed. His face is neutral. That vein in his neck is not.
I keep going. “I cook. I clean. I stop stealing your socks. I don’t chirp the refs. I—fuck it, I’ll stop chirping Viktor. I’ll be an angel. Halo and everything.”
His mouth twitches.
I crawl forward on the bed, slow and dramatic, until I’m kneeling at the edge, resting my chin on my fists like a kitten in heat and blink up at him. “All I want in return,” I purr, drawing the words out like a tease, “is to see it.”
Damian hums low in his throat. “See what?”
I blink at him, lashes heavy, expression pure bait. “You know what,” I whine, just enough brat to make it sweet.
“The ring?”
I nod, biting my lip like that’ll somehow help my case, and he stares at me for a full five seconds before finally stepping closer.
My heart leaps as he crouches, leans in, and my breath hitches when he brushes a curl from my cheek, fingers featherlight beneath my jaw like he’s about to say something soft—something real.
And then he whispers—“No.”
I choke. “What?”
“No, pup.”
I flail. “But I just—did you hear my offer?! Full domestic head!”
Damian stands up again, smug as sin, and turns toward the closet like I’m not on the verge of having a tantrum so epic it cracks the foundation of the building. “You can hold it when I give it to you,” he says over his shoulder. “And not a second before.”
I shriek into a pillow.
Alright. If bribery won’t work, we move to seduction.
I drop the pillow, slow and deliberate, sitting up straighter so he gets the full effect—nothing but his shirt and my rage stretched across this mattress like a loaded weapon.
He’s halfway to the closet with his back turned, muscles flexing through that smug-ass t-shirt like he doesn’t know I’m plotting filth with every cell in my body.
I shift, arch my back just enough to ride the edge of sin, thighs parting as my voice dips low and syrup-sweet. “Cap,” I whisper. “C’mere.”
He pauses so I keep going. “Come touch your favorite thing. I’m warm and needy and so good for you, sir.”
He turns slowly—not out of hesitation, but because he’s savoring the theater of it—eyes dragging over me like he’s already won. “I thought you were mad at me,” Damian murmurs, head tilting as that smirk ghosts across his lips.
“I’m furious,” I reply, sliding my hands up my thighs. “Furious and naked and not above using sex to get what I want.”
He laughs low and rough.
I crawl to the edge of the bed, let my hands slide up his shirt where it hangs off my body. “C’mon, captain,” I purr. “Let me ride you while you hold the ring. I’ll even moan your full name.”
Damian steps close enough to make my breath catch, eyes on mine like he’s already undressing my soul. “You trying to bribe me with sex, pup?”
“I’m trying to destroy you with sex, actually.”
He leans in, kisses me once, hard, then pulls back and grins. “You are going to destroy me. But you’re still not seeing the ring.”
I groan. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re a tease.” He palms the front of his pants, smirking. “Try harder.”
Oh, I fucking will.
I drop to my knees so fast I surprise even myself. The carpet hits my skin, and I settle there, spine straight, palms resting obediently on my thighs, eyes wide.
Damian raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You said try harder,” I whisper, tilting my head. “So I’m trying.”
He watches me—eyes dragging down my body. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. He stands there, arms still folded, like he wants to see how deep I’ll fall before he decides to catch me.
I lick my lips. “Sir,” I say, soft and low, “please let me see the ring.”
Damian hums, not impressed yet.
I lean forward, just slightly, eyes still up on him. “I want to know what it looks like when you claim me. I want to know what it feels like to wear it before anyone else. Just for a second. Please.”
He still doesn’t move.
I push further. “I’ll be good. I’ll listen. I’ll let you do anything. Restrain me. Ruin me. I’ll sit at your feet and wear your name and that ring, and I won’t even touch myself unless you say so.”
Silence.
I inhale shakily, and try one more time, voice trembling from how hard I’m trying to stay still. “Please, sir. I want to be yours so bad it hurts.”
Damian takes a step forward, then another, until he’s towering over me—his boots near my knees, his hand settling lightly at the back of my neck, fingers curling as he murmurs, “Good boy.”
I shudder.
“But you’re still not seeing the ring.”
I wail into his thigh.
Damian moves like I was never meant to touch the floor in the first place.
His arms scoop me up, and I yelp as he tosses me onto the bed, my legs still dangling over the edge.
The second my ass hits the mattress, he’s there—hands on my thighs, prying me open so fast a wrecked little sound tears out of my throat.
“Fuck—” My head drops back against the pillows, but I don’t even get a breath before I feel his knees hitting the floor. That smug, powerful man just dropped to his knees for me, and I swear the room tilts with it.
Then his mouth starts—slow, cruel and worshipful—a kiss just above my knee, then another, higher, until his tongue drags up the inside of my thigh, hot and slow enough to short-circuit my entire brain.
I twitch.
“Easy, pup,” he murmurs, vibrating against my skin. “You’ll have it. The ring. My name. The whole world if that’s what you want.”
My hips jerk. “Then give it to me—”