I’m already reaching for him. My palms slide up his thighs, fingers trembling as I press my forehead to the fly of his pants and breathe him in through denim like I’m starving, like I’ve forgotten how to live without the taste of him flooding my mouth. He’s hard already—half-hard and thickening fast—and the sound he makes when I nuzzle against him is barely human, a ragged, guttural thing that vibrates straight down my spine.
“Please,” I whisper, kissing along the seam. “Let me. Let me take it. Let me feel it again. Let me replace everything.”
His hands fist in my hair—dragging my face harder against him—and for a second, I think he’s going to say no. I think he’s going to grab me by the throat and slam me against the wall for trying to take what’s already his.
But then he rasps, “Open.”
And I do. Immediately. Mouth wide, tongue out, eyes on him like a prayer. His zipper’s down in a second. His cock hits my tongue in the next. Heavy. Thick. My throat opens on instinct, taking him deeper than I ever have. He doesn’t ease in. He doesn’t warn. He shoves forward like he’s claiming it again—this mouth, this moment, this fucking world.
His voice is a snarl above me. “That’s it, halo. Worship it. You want it to be yours? Earn it.”
And I do. I suck like I’m being exorcised. Like the tape still playing in my skull will finally shut up if I just take him deep enough. I moan around his cock, hands gripping his thighs so tight I know he’ll bruise. He rocks into me once, twice, then fucks my mouth in earnest—deep, punishing strokes that make my eyes water and my cock twitch against the inside of my shorts.
I choke.
He groans.
And then I whimper—high and broken—“More…”
“Greedy fucking brat,” Rafe growls, both hands fisting in my hair now, forcing my head still while he thrusts. “Choke on it. Replace it. Come undone for me.”
I do.
My spit runs down my chin; my jaw aches; my vision blurs at the edges. But I don’t stop. I swallow every inch like it might save me, like it might anchor me, like the ragged sound of him losing control will be the only thing loud enough to drown out the ghosts still whispering in my head. And then it happens—his breath catches, hips slamming forward. “Fuck—fuck, Jules—just like that—fucking perfect—” He comes with a growl so guttural it shakesmy ribs—hot, deep, endless. I swallow all of it. I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I take it like devotion, like destruction, like the only truth that ever mattered.
He pulls out slow, panting, staring down at me like I just offered him something sacred.
I lick my lips, smile, and whisper, “Mine.”
He nods once. Like it’s already law.
My knees are bruised. My throat’s raw. My jaw aches in that perfect, ruined way that makes me want to do it all over again. The taste of him lingers—hot, sharp, mine—while he’s still breathing like I knocked something loose in his chest. His hand stays tangled in my hair.
I look up at him from the floor—still on my knees, lips swollen, spit drying on my chin—and I say it without blinking. “Let me humiliate him.”
Rafe doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches me like he’s waiting to see which version of me is speaking now—the broken boy, the addict, the ghost with a tape still playing in his head.
But I’m none of those right now. I’m the blade. So I say it again—louder, clearer, more dangerous. “Let me humiliate him.”
His brow lifts slowly. “How?”
I rise—slow, deliberate, still trembling with the aftershocks of what just happened—and press one palm flat to his chest. My heart is hammering; my breath stings on the way in. “Make me captain.”
Rafe’s eyes darken instantly, pupils swallowing the storm-gray until they’re almost black. His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump under the skin, a slow, deliberate flex of restraint.
I don’t back down. I lean in closer, close enough that my forehead nearly brushes his chin, voice dropping to a cracked, urgent whisper that still carries every ounce of the fire still burning in my veins.
“For the game,” I say. “Let me walk out there wearing it. Let me take the puck drop. Let me lead your monsters—Finn, Kai, Misha, Luca, all of them. Let me own the ice the way Ezio tried to own me, the way he tried to break me open and leave me bleeding on the boards for everyone to see.”
I don’t back down. “For the game,” I whisper. “Let me walk out there wearing it. Let me take the puck. Let me lead your monsters. Let me own the ice the way he tried to own me.”
Silence crashes into the locker room like a blade droppedpoint-first.
I stare up at him, unblinking, daring him to say no. Daring him to tell me I’m still too fragile, too cracked, too haunted to carry the weight of it. My palm stays pressed to his chest; I can feel the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his pulse kicks harder under my fingers like he’s fighting the same war inside that I am.
And Rafe?
Rafe smiles.
