Not just watching me. Not just glaring from the corner. I need the weight of him. The size of him. The feel of him solid and hot and grounding while the rest of the world feels like it’s drifting off the edges of my nerves.
And because I am, apparently, a suicidal genius, I yank again.
Rafe doesn’t stand a chance. His balance shifts, weight tips, and I pull him down right into the narrow bed, into the sheets, into me.
“AaaaaaAYYYSSHHH—!” I yelp the second the movement jolts my thigh, the wound screaming a protest sharp enough to nearly knock me out. Pain explodes like fireworks behind my eyes. My head snaps back, and I nearly fucking sob.
“Idiot!” Rafe snaps, already bracing me, already adjusting his weight so he doesn’t crush me or—worse—touchthe injury. His arms cage around me fast, holding me still, voice vibrating near my throat. “What thefuckdo you think you’re doing—”
But he doesn’t pull away.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t get up.
Hestays.
I burrow against his chest like some deranged, injured barn cat, breathing through the ache, trembling from the aftershock, but smiling all the same. “’S warm here,” I mumble, words thick, cheek pressed to his sternum. “You’re heavy. That’s nice.”
Rafe sighs. It’s a violent exhale, full of frustration and disbelief and that low, dangerous affection he won’t name yet.
But he stays and I win.
Again.
12
RAFE
The gates open like they’ve been expecting me for hours. They probably have. Leonardo’s estate looms in the distance—black steel and limestone, pristine landscaping carved with the kind of precision only blood money can buy. It’s quiet here. Always is. Too clean. Too cold. No scent of sweat, no blood on the walls, no music through the halls. Just power. Controlled, curated power. The kind that doesn’t raise its voice because it never needs to. The kind that whispers and the world burns for it.
I pull into the circular drive and kill the engine. I sit there a second, hand still on the wheel, thumb tapping once, twice. I hate leaving the compound. I hate leaving Julian. Even when he’s technically surrounded by allies. Even when Finn is probably clinging to him like a horny koala and Kai is feeding him enough tranquilizers to knock out a horse. Doesn’t matter. The rookie’s still a fucking menace, stitched-up leg or not. This morning, he was already halfway into his skates before Kai caught him and jabbed him with another dose. They were still arguing when I left. Julian whining. Kai smirking. Finn recording it like the feral little shit he is.
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t stop it either.
Because that sound—Julian’s voice, high and bratty and alive—was the only reason I left in the first place. If he can scream at Kai, he’s not dying. If he can pout at Finn, he’s still got fight. So I walked out, slid into the car, and drove to this marble-lined hellhole because Leonardo summoned me.
Only me.
Ezio comes and goes whenever he wants—nobody questions him. I’m the only other one who doesn’t need an escort, a tracker, or a fucking leash. I earned that right. Through violence. Through years. Through ice that ran red under my blades. But even so, the moment I step out of the car and hear the front doors open like a breath before a command, I know this isn’t about me.
This is about Julian.
And that means blood.
The gun presses into the waistband of my jeans beneath my coat. Always there. Always loaded. It rode with me through every game, every street job, every conversation that could turn into a bloodbath with the wrong word. It was useful during the last game, when the rink turned into a fucking warzone. Hell, it bought me time. Bought Julian a heartbeat. Bought us another breath.
I don’t come here without it.
The estate doors part with a hiss of hydraulics—Leonardo never could resist his little touches of theater—and I step through into marble and silence. The place hasn’t changed. It never does. Cold light. Black floors that shine like ice. White walls that never hold the echo of laughter. No family pictures. No warmth. Just the smell of old power, clean steel, and wine that costs more than any soul ever sold here.
“My dear boy!” Leonardo greets me like I’m some long-lost fucking son come home for Christmas.
I’m not his son.
Never was.
He scooped me up off the street when I was twelve—too fast for cops, too angry for school, too good on blades for anyone’s comfort. I didn’t know who he was at first. Just that he had a clean coat, sharp shoes, and a laugh like a knife. I was a stray dog with blood on my hands and frostbite in my lungs. He fed me. Gave me heat. And when I tried to run years later—tried to choose hockey over murder—he didn’t stop me.
