He takes the bottle away when I lean back, sets it down, pulls out his phone with the other hand, and starts texting. Precise, short movements—like everything he does. Focused, intentional. He doesn’t tell me who he’s texting, but I’d bet my fucking leg it’s Kai.
I’m right.
Not three minutes later, the container door opens without ceremony, no knock, no warning, and Kai strolls in like he owns the place. He’s dressed in black sweats and a long-sleeve compression shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, hands already gloved likehe came here straight from cutting someone open. There’s still a faint smear of something red across his forearm—maybe from me, maybe from someone else.
He glances at me, then at Rafe, then back at me, and grins like this is his favorite fucking soap opera.
“How’s our favorite junkie doing?” he says, voice smooth as ever, smirk already locked in place like he came here just to make me roll my eyes.
I stare at him. Groan. Drop my head back on the pillow. “Fuck off, Doctor Death.”
Kai’s all business the moment his gloves are on, like flipping a switch from smug bastard to clinical executioner. He drags over the tray that’s already set up beside my bed—gauze, antiseptic, saline, scissors, something in a syringe I don’t recognize. I try not to flinch when he lifts the edge of the blanket, but I’m not exactly subtle about the hiss that slips out when cool air hits my leg.
“Still tender?” Kai says, not even looking at my face.
“Oh no, I love it,” I mutter, dry. “My new favorite hobby.”
He cuts the outer bandage, peels it back slow, revealing the gauze beneath soaked through with dull red and whatever weird chemical smell they used to keep me from rotting. He hums low under his breath like he’s inspecting art. Rafe doesn’t move from the chair. Just watches, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, fingers twitching like he wants to murder someone again just to feel better about the whole thing.
Kai discards the soaked dressing, disinfects the area with a quick, brutal swipe that makes me jolt and hiss, and then tosses a fresh gauze pad over it like it’s just another day in the office. Which, for him, it is.
He reaches for the syringe, holds it up in front of my face like he’s about to auction it off. “This is all you’re getting,” he says, tone flat, slipping the needle into the IV port in my arm without warning.
I don’t even have time to react to the stab before the slow slide of warmth floods into my veins, dulling the ache in my thigh almost instantly.
“All I’m getting?” I pout, eyebrows pulled. “That’s it?”
Rafe glares at me like I’ve personally insulted his ancestors.
Kai doesn’t even blink. “You want more? Bleed harder next time.”
“Mean,” I huff, sinking back into the pillow, lips forming a dramatic little scowl.
“Mm,” Kai hums, and then the bastardpats my thigh right next to the wound.
I jolt. “Youdick.”
Kai smiles—serene, soft, full of malice. “Healing nicely. Try not to reopen it by being dramatic.” He peels off his gloves, tosses them in the bin, and saunters out like he didn’t just punch me in the soul with his fingertips.
Rafe watches him go.
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes. “Can you shoothimnext?”
“Almost did,” Rafe mutters, not even looking at me as he says it. His voice is low, matter-of-fact, like shooting Kai was a passing temptation he decided against last minute, probably for logistical reasons like blood cleanup and paperwork. He leans back in the chair, arms crossed now, ankle propped on his opposite knee. He looks tired—exhausted really—but not in a weak way. In that simmering, slow-burn rage kind of way. Like he’s still waiting for someone to fuck up so he has an excuse to do something unforgivable.
The silence stretches. A few seconds, maybe more. And then Rafe shifts, his eyes cutting to mine. “You know what that little stunt did, pretty boy?”
I arch a brow. “Which one?” I rasp, voice still fucked from screaming. “The knife-stabbing, the goal-scoring, or the near-bleeding-out part? Gonna need you to be specific, boss man.”
He doesn’t take the bait. He just keeps that unreadable glare trained on me like he’s already got the answer locked and loaded. “It peaked the interest of some other fucking mobsters, Jules” Rafe says, voice hard now, clipped. “That’s what it did. Word’s already out. They saw you play. Saw what you did. Saw the blood. The knife. The goal. The fucking madness of it. And now they want you for themselves.”
I blink. That… should probably worry me. Definitely should. I should be hearing danger in that. Possession. Threats. Leverage. But instead, I’m stuck on something else entirely. Because somewhere in the middle of all that doom, Rafe dropped a word he’s never used before.
Jules.
He called me Jules.
Nobody’s ever called me that. Not even Nathan. Not coaches, not teammates, not the media. It was always Reaver. Golden Boy. Pretty Boy. Kid. Sometimes Julian, when they were trying to be nice before fucking me or firing me.
