He hasn’t seen what the world will do once they smell blood off it.
By the time I’m halfway back to my place, the roads are dark, my SUV’s engine humming steady under my hands. The press room stink is still clinging to me—cheap coffee, too much cologne, the sour stench of vultures.
Headlights carve through the night. My mind’s already back where it belongs—on Elias. On the grin he wore when he humiliated Wrath at the dot. On the way his throat worked when he whisperedI doover and over two nights ago like prayer.
Phone buzzes against the console. Screen lights up.
Viktor.
Of course.
The only other bastard on this roster who knows what it means to carry weight without chirping through it. If he’s calling me now, it’s not for pleasantries.
I answer. Put him on speaker. “Petrov.”
“Captain.” Russian gravel through static.
I know what this is before he says another word. The headlines are already screaming. I can hear them without seeing them:KADE CLAIMS NEW ROOKIE. PROTECTS MERCER ABOVE THE REST. FAVORITISM OR OBSESSION?
“What do they say?” I ask, turning the wheel slow, merging onto the highway.
Viktor exhales. “Everything. Clips, quotes, your face on every sports site. They call Mercer your pet. Your… project. Some say more.”
My jaw tightens. “Let them.”
Silence hums across the line for a moment, just the sound of the road beneath my tires. Then Viktor’s voice again, lower this time. “You sure about that? Kid’s not built like you. He feels too much. You throw him into that fire, he’ll burn.”
I grip the wheel tighter, leather creaking under my gloves. Elias does feel too much. That’s what makes him dangerous. That’s what makes him mine.
“He’ll burn,” I say, “and he’ll rise.”
Viktor doesn’t answer right away. I can almost picture him, stone-faced in his apartment, sharpening his skates like always, eyes unreadable.
Finally: “Then you better keep him steady. Because they’ll try to take him from you. On the ice. Off it. Doesn’t matter. They’ll smell how much he belongs to you.”
Belongs. My chest rumbles low, the word hitting harder than I want it to.
“Good,” I rasp. “Let them try.”
Silence again. Heavy. Respectful. Then Viktor mutters something sharp in Russian—too fast, too rough—and hangs up.
The SUV hums low as the city lights rise on the horizon. My jaw’s tight, my blood steady, my cock twitching just at the thought of my rookie’s green eyes when I tell him the world already knows.
Because if Elias thought kneeling at my feet was devotion—he’s about to learn what it means to kneel in front of the whole goddamn world.
By the time I roll into the garage under my building, the headlines have sharpened to knives in my mind. Doesn’t matter. Let them cut. They won’t touch what’s mine.
I kill the engine, climb out, boots echoing against concrete. The elevator hums slow, doors sliding open like a mouth waiting to swallow me. Floor numbers blink. Up. Up. My pulse steady as a drum.
The apartment door unlocks under my key, the weight of the handle heavy in my palm.
And there he is.
Elias.
My rookie. My center. My pup.
He’s sprawled across my bed like he belongs there, curls damp from a shower, drowning in one of my shirts that swallows him whole. His phone buzzes against the nightstand every thirty seconds, screen lighting up with headlines, mentions, alerts. He doesn’t even look at it anymore.
