First the wrists.
I wrap the left slow and deliberate—black tape, matte finish, clean lines that follow the curve of bone and tendon. Then the right. Tighter. Smoother. A little higher than normal, enough to feel like cuffs instead of padding, enough to remind me the restraint is mine now, not someone else’s.
Then the throat.
I tilt my head back, exposing the column of my neck. One hand holds the end in place while the other winds the tape around—slow, a kiss of pressure that makes my breath change shape, shallow and careful. It’s not choking. It’s control. It’s a memory. It’s Rafe’s hand when he whispersbreatheand meanslive for me. I finish the third loop, tear the tape with my teeth, and tie it off clean.
Then I grab the Sharpie.
The locker room’s starting to buzz. Kai’s lacing his skates in the corner, eyes flicking up once to clock the tape around my neck before returning to the laces like he’s not impressed. Misha’s doing pull-ups on the doorframe, shirt already off, muscles carved like a war sculpture. Luca’s sitting backwards on a chair, chirping Corso in a voice way too sweet to be trusted. Finn is pacing, grinning, singing something filthy in Russian he learned from Misha. Vlad is stitching something red into the cuff of his glove. Bishop is bleeding from a knuckle and laughing about it.
Everyone’s here. Everyone’s unhinged.
I uncap the Sharpie and scrawl one line across the tape on my throat—all caps, all venom, right over the pulse point where my heartbeat hammers against the pressure: YOU WISH YOU COULD FUCK THIS.
I say it aloud as I write, not loud enough for anyone to catch, just a whisper for myself, letting the words sit heavy on my tongue before they settle permanently into my skin. The ink sinks in dark and final, a brand I chose, a dare I’m wearing like armor.
Someone whistles low. “Jesus, Jules,” Finn says, leaning in close for a better look, eyes wide with delighted shock. “Subtle.”
“Don’t need subtle,” I mutter, standing up and letting the hoodie slide off my shoulders to pool on the bench behind me. There’s nothing under the jersey—just bruises blooming in shades of purple and yellow, black tape wrapped tight around wrists and throat, and the kind of vengeance that feels like it’s been simmering in my blood for years.
Misha walks past and slaps my ass hard enough to leave a fresh red handprint that stings through the thin fabric. “Captain Slut.”
I grin, sharp and unrepentant. “You’re just mad I look better in black.”
He doesn’t deny it—just smirks, gives my shoulder a rough shove that’s half affection, half challenge, and keeps walking like he knows exactly what kind of storm I’m about to unleash on the ice.
Luca blows me a kiss from across the room, then flips me off in the same motion. “Break a leg, Reaver. Preferably Ezio’s.”
“Or his neck,” Corso says without looking up.
Bishop claps twice like he’s at a strip show. “You gonna moan while you snipe, sweetheart? Really seal the trauma in?”
“Depends,” I purr, licking the edge of my teeth. “You gonna cry when I outscore you?”
They laugh—loud and unhinged, not with joy but with the sharp, jagged relief of pressure finally snapping. This is ritual. This is family. This is the moment before we all step into hell and see who makes it back. The chirping matters. The teasing matters. It reminds us we’re alive, that we belong, that we’ve earned this war with every bruise, every scar, every night we didn’t break.
The door opens.
The room freezes.
Because he’s here now.
Rafe.
Full black. Tactical jacket open just enough to reveal the throat tattoo I still want to bite. Black tape wrapped tight around both wrists. Gloves already on. Pads visible under his shirt. His hair’s wet, like he just washed blood off something and decided not to explain. His eyes land on me immediately and don’t move. He walks through the noise like it’s smoke, like he doesn’t breathe the same air as anyone else.
No one speaks. No one dares.
Rafe stops in front of me, close enough that the heat of him cuts through the locker-room chill, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of soap and sweat and whatever dark thing he washed off his skin before walking in here. My breath stutters—sharp, involuntary, caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
Then I rise to my feet—slow, steady—until we’re toe to toe, chest brushing chest, the C on my jersey pressed against the open edge of his tactical jacket. The whole room watches, frozen in the sudden, electric hush, every eye locked on us like we’ve just become the only thing happening in the world.
And I kiss him.
Deep. Dirty. Filthy.
I slide one hand behind his neck and pull him down into it—tongue first, no warning, no hesitation. My lips part wet and demanding, and he meets me instantly—teeth catching my lower lip, tongue sweeping in with the same possessive hunger that lives in every look he’s ever given me. His hands grip my hips so tight I feel the bruise of his fingers bloom through the fabric, and I moan into his mouth before I even mean to, the sound vibrating between us like a shared secret.
