He pads closer, barefoot, hoodie sleeves dragging down his hands. His gaze trails over me—suit, tie, scars—like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s trying to reconcile the Captain on the ice with the man who had him on his knees begging forty-eight hours ago.
“You hate these things,” he murmurs, leaning against the doorframe. “Press stuff. Smiling, pretending. Why do you even do it?”
I turn, slow, meeting his eyes steady. “Because it’s part of the job. And my job is to own this team. Every part of it.”
His throat works. He swallows, then steps closer, reckless as always. “You own me too, don’t you?”
My jaw flexes. I don’t answer. Not with words. I just fist a hand in his curls, tilt his head back until his eyes go wide, until his lips part, until his pulse hammers under my thumb.
“Yes,” I murmur, low, final. “Especially you.”
He shivers, lips curling into a reckless grin, like he just won something. Christ.
But I release him before I ruin my suit. Before I forget the cameras waiting. Before I forget that the city doesn’t get to see this—the chain between us, the leash he’s begging me to yank tighter every night.
“Go back to bed,” I order, smoothing my tie flat. “I’ll be back after the vultures are done.”
“Yessir,” he whispers, still grinning, before he pads back toward the bedroom.
I stare at the closed door for a long beat.
Let the vultures circle. I’ll give them blood.
The Reapers’ arena smells the way it always does—cold steel, old sweat, the faint sting of sharpened blades baked into the concrete. Home ice.
But today the ice is hidden. Curtains down, cameras up, press chairs lined in rows on the floor. Bright lights burn against the black seats, and every vulture with a notepad is waiting for me to stumble.
I don’t stumble.
Boots hit the floor, my suit cutting clean lines as I stride to the table up front. Coach Harrow’s already there—cigar stub dead in a plastic cup, clipboard under his arm. He won’t interfere. He never does. He just watches like smoke with a heartbeat.
The cameras start clicking before I even sit. Mismatched eyes, scarred mouth—they eat it up. Thirteen years of blood and broken glass, and they still look at me like they don’t know if I’m a man or a monster.
Good. Let them wonder.
I sit. Adjust the mic. Stare at the crowd until their chatter dies.
The first question is predictable.“Captain Kade, the playoffs are coming fast. Do you really think your roster—especially with so many young players—has the spine to survive four rounds?”
My jaw ticks once. I lean forward, voice calm, flat, cutting through the room.
“They’ll survive because I’ll make sure they do. Doesn’t matter if they’re rookies. Once you bleed in Reapers black, you’re mine. And I don’t let what’s mine fold.”
Pens scratch. Cameras flash. A ripple of whispers.
Next vulture takes a shot.“Your rookies have been hit hard already this season. Do you think they’ll hold up against veterans with ten, fifteen years more experience?”
I smirk. “Experience doesn’t make you meaner. Doesn’t make you hungrier. My boys have bled every night since they got here. They’re still standing. That’s more than I can say for half the vets in this league.”
A few reporters shift in their seats, nervous laughter bubbling at the edges. Coach doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
Then it comes—the question they all want to ask but don’t have the guts to word yet.“And what about your new center? Elias Mercer. He’s been on the receiving end of some brutal hits, but it looks like you protect him more than the others on the ice. Any comment on that?”
The room holds its breath. Pens hover.
I lean into the mic.
“Mercer’s not just a rookie. He’s my center. He’s fast, he’s sharp, he wins me draws clean. And yes—I protect him. I protect all of them. That’s my job. But anyone who thinks they can take liberties with my center is going to meet my fists before they meet the puck.”
