Not the feral, dangerous curl of lips I’ve seen before. Not the slow, predatory thing that promises violence. This is quieter—sharper—something almost proud, almost tender, edged with the same dark amusement that lives in the back of his eyes when he watches me burn and rise again. It’s the smile of a man who’s already decided, who’s already picturing me on that ice with the C on my chest, stick in hand, staring down every ghost and every enemy who ever thought they could take me apart.
28
RAFE
The room smells like metal, dust, and melted plastic from overused wiring—an old compound screening room outfitted with newer tech no one ever bothered to calibrate properly. It hums faintly when it’s silent, a low mechanical breath that vibrates against the teeth if you sit still too long. Kai doesn’t seem to notice. He’s perched in the corner chair, arms crossed, his usual cold detachment polished sharp tonight. I’m on the bench in front of the main screen, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed forward, watching the boy we both helped break become the man neither of us can stop watching now.
Julian Reaver. Then and now. Two separate tapes. Two separate beasts.
On the left screen plays old NHL footage: Toronto Vultures, number 91, winger, rookie of the year, golden boy untouched by shadow. He skates like he was born on blades—fluid, clean, effortless—the kind of player who makes entire arenas gasp for no reason other than the sheer poetry of his body cutting through ice as if it belongs to him alone. Every move is precise, every shot a quiet prayer answered in red light. He carries that arrogant grace athletes are bred for: charm in post-game interviews, fire in breakaways, teeth when the moment demands it, but always threaded with a ribbon of perfect control. He was fast. Elegant. Unstoppable.
A god on skates.
On the right screen is last week’s footage: compound game, red team, no number. Julian now.
He skates like he’s on fire. Every movement is chaos wrapped in fury. He doesn't glide—he lunges. Doesn't dance—he hunts. He plays like the puck wronged him personally, like the boards are made of bone and need to break under him. His teeth are always clenched. His mouth always open. When he scores, it looks like violence. When he misses, it looks like war.
This version of him doesn’t care if the crowd loves him.
This one wants to make them look away.
Kai leans forward slightly, eyes narrowed, voice quiet but weighted. “You see it, don’t you?”
I nod once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
“Same boy,” he says. “But this one doesn’t want redemption.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right. Julian doesn’t want to be saved. He doesn’t play to get back what he lost. He plays like everything should burn for what was taken from him. He doesn’t chase glory anymore. He drags it, kicking and screaming, behind him.
And both of us watched it happen.
I remember the first time I saw him twitch on the floor, shaking from withdrawal, eyes glassy while his mouth ran off at the speed of fear. Kai dosed him that night; I held him. He didn’t cry—he bled, over and over, into the compound, onto the ice, into my hands.
Kai watched him crawl. I made him kneel. Now we’re both staring at something that no longer crawls or kneels. It devours.
“He’s ready,” I murmur, more to myself than to Kai. “For the game. For the title. For the captaincy.”
Kai exhales slowly through his nose. “He’s still an addict.”
I glance over. “And?”
“He’s addicted to you now.”
I don’t respond, because that, too, is true.
I don’t hear the door open, but I feel it before anything else—that subtle shift in the air, the static prickle of awareness that only ever sparks when he’s near, the slow burn that ignites under my skin and spreads outward like a fuse catching fire. Then he’s there: Julian, wearing nothing but my hoodie. No socks, no pants, no shame. His legs are bare, thighs still bruised and pink from last night’s grip marks, knees flushed red from where he dropped to the floor in front of me hours earlier. His hair is a wreck, wild and damp; his eyes molten, gleaming with something dark and unbroken; his mouth flushed and curledinto a smug little curve that has no right to be there on a boy who was sobbing in my arms less than twenty-four hours ago.
He walks like the hallway belongs to him—each step measured, unhurried, as if he knows exactly what he looks like in my hoodie, how the hem rides high on his bruised thighs, how the fabric clings to the damp heat of his skin after last night. He’s doing it on purpose. He always is.
He doesn’t speak.
He simply crosses the room with slow, deliberate strides and drops himself straight into my lap like gravity dragged him home, thighs bracketing my hips, chest brushing mine, the weight of him settling with perfect, possessive certainty. “Time for my dose,” he purrs, voice syrup-slick and low, the sound vibrating down my spine like a threat wrapped in silk—soft, dangerous, and already pulling me under.
Kai doesn’t blink, but his mouth twitches—smirking, because of course he is. This feral little creature has both of us by the throats and doesn’t even know it, doesn’t see the way we orbit him now, the way we’ve learned to breathe around his gravity.
I rest one hand on Julian’s bare thigh, fingers squeezing just once—warning or promise, he can decide which—and murmur, “Say please.”
Julian blinks at me, smiles wider, leans in until his breath brushes my lips. And then he whispers, right against my mouth, “Please, Daddy.”
