Good.
I like him already.
I stay where I am for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable—not scared, no, he’s too high and too stupid for that yet—but aware. Aware that this room is mine, that the air is mine, thathe’smine whether he understands it yet or not.
He glares at me like I’ve kicked his dog. “Circus keeper,” he mutters, snorting. “Cute. Real poetic. Lemme guess—you’re the head clown?”
I laugh under my breath. “You wish I was a clown,” I tell him, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward him. “Clowns try to entertain you. I’m here to make sure you don’t embarrass us before you even get on the ice.”
Julian scoffs, rolling his eyes so hard his whole head moves with it. “Embarrass you? Honey, I’m already doing better than this dump. You all kidnap your players or am I just special?”
“You’re not special,” I say, because someone needs to be honest with him. “You’re a debt.”
That gets him. His jaw tightens, something dark flickers behind his eyes, but he masks it fast—too fast. Defense mechanism. He’s been carrying lies like oxygen.
“Oh yeah?” he snaps back. “Well your little welcoming committee didn’t even give me water, so tell your boss he’s a cheap date.”
I bite back another smirk. God, he really doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. “Keep talking,” I tell him, stepping closer, until I’m right in front of him. “Let’s see how far that mouth gets you.”
He lifts his chin, shaky but defiant. “Oh, don’t worry, big guy, my mouth usually gets me everything.”
His voice trembles at the end, not because he’s scared—because the withdrawal is clawing him open from the inside. But he keeps going anyway. “And you?” Julian continues,eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to size me up through a fog. “What are you? The muscle? The big silent type who beats the shit out of people for fun?”
I tilt my head. “Sometimes for fun,” I admit. “Sometimes for necessity. Sometimes because someone pisses me off.”
“Wow,” he mutters, leaning back against the wall, rubbing his arms like he’s freezing. “What a résumé. Bet your mom’s real proud.”
That one earns him a step forward. His breath stutters when he realizes I’m close enough to feel his shiver through the air. “Careful,” I murmur, lowering my head just enough to level our eyes. “You’re in no position to mouth off.”
He smirks again, weak but sharp. “And you’re in no position to act tough. I’ve been in this cage twelve hours and you’re already paying me a visit. Who’s the one obsessed here?”
I don’t laugh this time, but I lean in just a fraction, my voice dropping until it’s barely a sound, more breath than words. “You keep pushing me, Reaver,” I say, “and I’m going to show you exactly what happens to people who don’t learn their place.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, finally giving me a reaction.
I step back—only a little, only enough to watch the way his pupils drag toward me without him meaning to. “Say one more smart thing,” I warn quietly, “and you’ll find out how fast I can make you beg.”
His breath shudders. His fingers twitch. But his eyes? Still defiant. He groans like his world is ending, dragging his hands down his face, shaking and twitchy, breath rattling through clenched teeth. “Why thefuckam I here anyway?” he snaps, like maybe if he says it loud enough, the steel walls will echo back a different answer.
I watch him for a beat, unblinking, then shrug like it’s obvious. “Told you. Debt.”
He freezes, then squints up at me like I’ve just spoken in tongues. “What the fuck doesthatmean?” he huffs, breath catching halfway through, chest hitching like even his lungs are arguing with him now. “What, you guys think I owe you? I don’t even fuckingknowyou.”
I sigh, slow, bored and step in close again. I crouch, grab his wrists, and pull out my knife. He tenses immediately like he thinks I’m about to gut him, but I just slip the blade under the ropes and slice clean through. They drop from his skin in a soft hiss of friction. He flinches anyway. His hands fall uselessly into his lap, wrists raw, red, twitching from the damage and the withdrawal.
“Means your fuck-up cost someone a lot of money, pretty boy,” I say calmly, folding the knife and slipping it back into the strap on my chest pad. “And now you’re going to earn it back.”
Julian stares at me. His lips part, then press together, like he’s trying to hold in the five different things he wants to say. He doesn’t. He just stares like he’s doing the math and hating every answer. “What the fuck did I do?” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Jesus, was it the drugs? The press? The game? What—what the fuckwas it?”
But I don’t give him anything else. He’s not ready to know.
He hesitates just long enough to convince me he’s not stupid, but the second I turn toward the door, he moves—lunges for it with all the twitchy desperation of a dying man chasing air. His feet skid across the concrete, shoulder dropped low like he thinks he’s fast enough, strong enough, anything enough to make it past me.
He’s not.
I catch him mid-stride, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt, and slam him back into the steel wall so hard the whole container shakes. His breath punches out in a gasp, but he’s already thrashing again, wild and reckless, all teeth and defiance and muscle memory that doesn’t mean shit in this place. I crowd in close, and then I press my hand to his throat to hold him there. Just enough to remind him.
His pulse hammers under my thumb but he glares up at me, spitting venom like it’s all he has left, shaking with rage or withdrawal or both. His eyes are glassy and blown wide, pupils devoured by the aftermath of a high he didn’t earn, a crash he doesn’t know how to survive. The coke’s still in there, lingering, making his jaw clench and his shoulders twitch and his tongue sharp when it should be silent.
