He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply steps back from me, opens the small black pouch sitting on Kai’s table—no theatrics, no warning.
And then I see it: the syringe. Clear liquid glinting in the light like glass and heat and fucking salvation.
My mouth goes dry. I suck in a breath through my teeth as my cock jerks hard in my lap—still rock-hard, still twitching from the sheer force of him earlier. I watch the way his fingers handle the needle—confident, precise, practiced—holding it between thumb and forefinger like a priest cradling a relic, like he’s about to anointme.
Then he turns back and comes closer. Slow. Heavy steps. The syringe held up between us like a promise and a threat.
And then he says it, voice soaked in smoke and command. He crouches in front of me, eyes dragging deliberately over my bare thighs, my flushed face. “Ask pretty…” he murmurs, “…and I’ll dose you myself.”
Every muscle in my body locks tight. I almost come from the sentence alone—not because it’s just a hit, not just a shot, but because it’s him. It’s control. It’s belonging.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out at first. I’m breathing hard, trembling, gripping the arms of the chair like they’re the only thing anchoring me to this dimension. So I try again—this time softer, this time deliberate. “Please.”
His eyes flick up to mine. That slow, dangerous smirk returns.
I choke on a breath, then force the rest out. “Please, Rafe. I want it. I need it. I’ll be good.”
He hums—low, approving. “You’ll be mine.”
“I already am.” The words earn me the faintest twitch of his jaw. Then he shifts forward with slow predator grace, tilting my head to the side. His fingers brush my hair back, thumb stroking along my jaw in a touch that’s almost tender.
I go still. The whole world stills with me.
When he presses the needle to my neck, my eyes flutter shut.
Because this isn’t a high. This is a claim. I can barely breathe. My whole body hums—skin tingling, blood moving like it suddenly remembers what purpose feels like. I’m not twitchy. I’m not crashing. I’m just buzzing, floating six inches off the floor, tethered by nothing but the steady curl of Rafe’s hand still wrapped around my jaw.
His thumb brushes my lip—just once—then he lets go. He straightens, staring down at me with those storm-dark eyes like he didn’t just rewire my entire nervous system, like he didn’t replace every addiction I’ve ever had with himself. And then he gives the order, voice calm and absolute: “Now go skate, little halo.”
I blink. My breath catches. My chest tightens. Every part of me is still shivering from the way he saidgood boy, the echo of it humming under my skin like a live wire.
He steps back, folding his arms, that faint smirk curling just enough to make my cock twitch again. Low and final, he adds, “Show them who you really are.”
And I look at him. I look at him like he’s a fucking god—because he is. Because he pulled me off the floor when I was nothing but wreckage, taped my mouth to keep the poison in, tore out my ghosts one by one, branded me with a needle and a kiss and a fuckso deep I forgot who I used to be. And now he’s sending me out into the world like I’m not a disgrace anymore—like I’m something dangerous, something beautiful, something theirs.
His.
I nod once—tight, deliberate. Then I walk out of that container high, holy, and ready to burn.
24
RAFE
The room smells like leather, tobacco, and old money. Not the clean kind. The kind that bleeds when you touch it. Long oak table. Heavy chairs. Concrete walls painted the color of silence. There’s a single screen mounted on the far wall, and right now, all three men in this room are watching it like it might burn.
Julian is on the feed.
Live. No delay. Surveillance cam, corner angle, fixed on the rink back at the compound. And he’s skating like the fucking ice owes him an apology. Shirt off, sweat slicking his back, black tape around his wrists—not restraining, not today—just there, like a reminder of who he belongs to.
And he’sfucking lethal.
No one can touch him. Not Vlad. Not Bishop. Not even Misha, who’s currently laid out against the boards grinning like a man who just saw the gates of heaven open and got kicked back down by a blond angel in bloodlust.
Julian cuts across the ice like he owns it. Like he never fell. Never broke. Like he wasbuilt for this.
And the bastard’sreading plays,too. Reading and reacting before the puck even touches a stick. He’s predicting movement two passes ahead, curling his body around wind and instinct andrage.He’s backchecking like a demon, toe-dragging past three men at once, and finishing with a snap-wrist shot top shelf that hits so clean the whole feed pixelates from the impact.
I smirk.
