But I know better.
He jerks when he laughs too hard. Breath hitches when he leans back against the railing. Every time he flexes his fingers, I see the twitch in his jaw.
So I pull him aside.
He startles when my hand finds his shoulder, the grin faltering for a half-second before snapping back. I sit him down on one of the hotel loungers, crouch beside him, and peel his jersey up enough to see the damage.
His ribs are a storm of bruises, dark spreading under pale skin. My fingers press careful, testing. He hisses once, but nothing gives. Not broken.
His wrists are the same—angry red marks, swelling, but nothing torn. Just bruises.
I tape them tighter, silent, steady. He watches me the whole time, eyes wide and wild, like every touch is something more than it is.
When I finish, I glance up at him. “Not broken.”
He exhales like I just handed him oxygen. The grin snaps back. “Guess you’re stuck with me, Captain.”
My lip curls into a smirk before I can stop it. Because he’s right.
I should stand. I should leave him to his chaos, let Cole or Mats or the noise of the party swallow him whole. But I don’t. I stay crouched, eyes locked on his, watching him grin like pain’s just another joke.
And then he leans closer.
Curls wild, eyes green fire, mouth split sharp. He tilts forward until I can feel his breath against my jaw, until the noise of the team fades behind him. His grin is daring, cocky, a challenge wrapped in teeth.
“Careful, sir,” he says, too soft for anyone else. “You keep touching me like that, people are gonna talk.”
My hand stills against his taped wrist. His grin widens, like he thinks he’s won.
He hasn’t.
I let the silence stretch, heavy, deliberate, my eyes burning into his.
And for the first time all night, his laugh falters.
Then I speak.
“They already know who you belong to.”
His breath catches. His grin snaps wide again, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the crack under it, the way his chest stutters, the way his pupils blow wide like I just carved the words into him.
I rise, slow and steady, towering over him again. His eyes follow me up, too bright, too desperate, too undone.
And I leave him there.
I turn, stride back toward the chaos—Cole yelling about curses, Mats stealing someone’s drink, Viktor looming silent with his beer. The noise swallows me back, the team’s laughter spilling into the night air.
Behind me, Mercer chokes on his own silence. His own chirping. His own need.
Someone drags up a speaker, bass rattling through the concrete, and suddenly the boys are howling lyrics into the night sky. Booze floods the tables—beer, whiskey, something Cole swears is “haunted punch.” Food disappears as fast as it’s dumped out: pizza boxes, fried everything, sugar like they’re fueling a war.
And then the costumes come out.
Of course Cole smuggled them here. He’s passing out masks, props, bits of fabric, fake blood packets like it’s some twisted Santa’s workshop. Mats rolls his eyes but takes a cape anyway. Shane’s drawing symbols on his cheeks with black eyeliner, muttering about warding off Haverton curses. Even Viktor has plastic devil horns shoved on his head while he glares at everyone in silence.
Mercer doesn’t hesitate.
He dives in headfirst, laughing sharp, yanking half a costume out of Cole’s bag. It’s some stitched-together mess—ripped black jersey, fake fangs still wedged in his mouth, bloodsmeared down his neck like he clawed his way out of a grave. He throws himself into it like he’s been waiting his whole life for the excuse.
