“Why?”
Because Rafe told me to staysober. Because I’m losing my mind. Because three days without him is somehow worse than three weeks without drugs. Because I’m scared that if I don’t crack, I’m going to break.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead I bare my teeth and growl, “Just fucking hit me, Vlad.”
He takes a slow breath, quiet and measured, and then—terrifyingly gentle—reaches out to grab a fistful of my hair. He yanks my head back until my spine arches and our eyes lock, his voice dropping into something soft and cold. “This is not how you bleed for him,” he murmurs.
My breath stutters in my throat.
“And I will not mark you without the goalie’s permission,” he continues, calm and absolute.
I tremble. I hate it. I need it.
The door starts to close again.
“Vlad—” I choke, the sound scraping out of me before I can stop it.
He pauses just long enough to let the final words slip through the narrowing gap, half warning and half promise. “Rafe will be home soon. Endure.”
Then the door slams shut, the metal rattling as I’m left staring at my warped reflection in the dented steel, breathing like a trapped animal and aching for someone who isn’t here.
I stand in front of Vlad’s fucking door, seething. Chest heaving. Fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. My whole body vibrates with a frustration so animal it makes me want to throw myself through the nearest window just to feel something. My knuckles are bruising from slamming his door. My jaw aches from clenching it shut instead of screaming.
And then it hits me.
I haven’t thought about Nathan in almost a week.
Rafe’s face has replaced him so completely in my skull that even my nightmares have changed. It’s not Nathan’s voice echoing through my head when I’m desperate anymore—it’s Rafe’s. His threats. His promises. His fucking presence taking up every inch of space in my drug-ravaged brain.
And now that I’ve realized it?
Of course Nathan’s face crashes back in vivid, humiliating detail.
That smirk.
That voice.
That last kiss before he threw me to the wolves.
“FUCK!” I snarl, slamming my fist into Vlad’s container as hard as I can. The metal booms, my hand screams, and my eyes water instantly from the impact.
From inside, Vlad mutters something low and dark that sounds vaguely Latin—or Romanian—or maybe he’s just casually summoning demons to drag me to hell for being annoying.
I flip the door off with my throbbing hand and storm away, vibrating with rage and humiliation, the itch crawling down my spine like a withdrawal symptom no dose on earth could fix.
Fine.
Vlad won’t touch me?
Then I’ll go to someone who will.
I head straight for Bish’s container, aiming for the one man in this deranged circus who might actually enjoy punching me in the throat without asking questions—Bishop Delaney, the unhinged pyro who once offered to set my name on fire just to see how it smelled.
I bang on the door, full of wounded pride and cracked libido. “Bish!”
The door cracks open two inches. A single, golden, singed eye peers out. Then—SLAM. “I ain’t touching the boss’s toy,” Bish calls through the door, voice full of laughter and the unmistakable sound of something catching fire.
