My voice cracks, too loud, enough to earn a few snorts from the half-asleep guys. I slump, breath ragged, face contorted as the whiskey coils in my chest like fire.
But it’s…nice. Heat spreading, smoothing the wires under my skin, loosening my shoulders for the first time in days.
I turn my head, sluggish, eyes on him. Damian is calm, unreadable, sipping tea like he didn’t just shatter me again.
All I can do is breathe out, low and wrecked. “Holy fuck…”
And melt into my seat.
Elias Mercer slept like a pup.
The rest of that second flight, his head kept tilting until it landed against me—shoulder, chest, arm, wherever gravity decided. He twitched sometimes, jerking awake for half a second, mumbling nonsense before sliding back under. But when he wasn’t twitching, he was muttering.
And what he muttered…
Let’s just say Mercer would deny every word if he remembered. Explicit. Breathless. His voice low, cracked with need, broken sentences that had my jaw tightening, my hands curling into fists against the armrest. He doesn’t realize what slips from him when he’s not conscious enough to hide it. He doesn’t realize how much of him is already mine.
Now it’s the morning of October 31st. Game day.
We’ve got the Haverton Phantoms tonight—our blood rivals. But first, breakfast in the hotel restaurant. A pathetic attempt at normalcy before the violence.
The boys pile around tables—Cole poking half the staff, Shane rearranging cutlery like it’s a curse-breaking ritual,Mats already halfway through his pancakes, Tyler pretending he isn’t vibrating with nerves. Viktor sits silent, looming, sipping his coffee like it’s lifeblood.
And then there’s Mercer.
His hair is a disaster. Like someone dragged their hands through it all night, left it a mess of blond curls sticking out at every angle. My mind betrays me with that image—fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his head back, making him look up at me.
I bury it fast.
He’s twenty. A kid, compared to me. Still wiry, still filling out, still got that boyish look in his eyes even when his grin is cocky. He’s reckless, untrained, too loud. But underneath that chaos is something sharp, something that could be carved into steel if guided right.
And I’ll guide him.
No matter what it takes, I’ll make a legend out of him.
The restaurant hums with the low clatter of forks and muted conversation, waitstaff weaving between tables with plates of eggs, pancakes, toast, all the things the boys think pass for fuel before a game. It’s chaos—always chaos with this team. Cole’s halfway to standing in his chair already, Mats is pretending not to hear him, and Tyler looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week, just pale nerves and twitching hands.
Elias hasn’t touched his plate.
He’s leaning into Cole, voice quick, green eyes sparking, words flying faster than bullets. The two of them chirp like it’s a competition, back and forth so fast the rest of the table keeps glancing between them like a crowd watching tennis. His eggs sit untouched, steam curling off into nothing.
“Eat,” I say.
He doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t even look my way. His fork is in his hand before he realizes it, shoveling food between jabs, still firing shots, still leaning forward like he’s trying to win some invisible scoreboard.
No pause. No hesitation. Just obedience, baked into his bones.
And not one of them misses it.
The back-and-forth goes on, sharper, louder, Elias and Cole grinning like wolves while everyone else watches. Until, of course, Tyler opens his mouth.
“You two chirp so much,” he mutters, loud enough for the table to hear, “you’d think you’re flirting.”
Silence.
Every head turns. Forks hover midair. Cole freezes with a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth. Elias stops mid-laugh, eyes wide, mouth open.
And then Cole drops the words, flat, no humor in his tone. “I’m not that stupid.”
