And God help me—he looks alive.
Grinning through bruises, ribs wrapped, wrists taped, chest still marked from every hit tonight. A pup wrecked and glowing, slipping into a monster’s skin like it was always meant for him.
The boys roar when he spins for them, Cole howling loudest, Tyler trying not to look impressed, Shane declaring him the “sacrifice come back from the dead.” Mercer cackles, throws himself into the chaos, dancing under the floodlights.
Cole’s in his element—loud, reckless, pouring drinks like the roof belongs to him. He grabs a plastic cup, sloshes whiskey and soda together, adds some of that neon “haunted punch” for effect, and presses it right into Mercer’s hand.
“Drink up, curls! First Reapers Halloween—gotta christen you properly.”
The others howl, banging fists against the tables, chanting his name like he’s about to down holy fire. Mercer stares at the glass, still grinning, fangs flashing under the floodlights.
But he doesn’t drink.
Not yet.
Instead—he looks at me.
His eyes bright, body vibrating, bruises carved across his ribs, wrists still taped from my hands. And still, he waits. Cup in hand, laughter hanging on his lips, he turns toward me like my answer is the only one that matters.
My chest tightens.
He’s twenty. Barely a man. Still a kid under the pads, reckless and grinning, buzzing out of his own skin. Technically, no booze for him. Technically, I should shut it down.
But his eyes stay on me.
One second. Two. Three.
I nod.
Just once.
His grin splits his face wide. He tips the cup back in a single pull, throat working, liquid gone before Cole even finishes his next jab. The boys erupt, chanting louder, clapping his back, Cole shouting something about “that’s my rookie!”
Mercer’s laugh cracks into the night sky,. His grin is blood-bright, his chest still heaving with the game under his skin.
And the whole time, he keeps glancing at me.
Like he knows who gave him permission to burn.
The drinks keep flowing, Cole’s voice rising louder with every pour. The boys howl into the night, chanting, singing off-key, dancing on the edge of the rooftop like gravitydoesn’t exist. Mercer dives in headfirst, cup in hand, grin splitting his face, curls wild in the wind.
And by his second drink—he’s gone.
Not drunk. Not sloppy. Just tipsy enough that the leash in his head slips loose. Just tipsy enough that the filters fall away, that the rookie who never shuts up stops pretending he’s only teasing.
I see it before it happens. The shift in his stance, the flush in his cheeks, the gleam in his eyes.
Then he spins on his heel.
And heads straight for me.
The crowd doesn’t matter anymore—the yelling, the laughter, Cole practically screaming about curses into the night sky. All I see is him. Elias Mercer, bruised and buzzing, chest still heaving from war on the ice, wobbling just a little from booze, walking straight toward me like he’s got a death wish.
He plants himself in front of me. Too close. Eyes bright, grin sharp, mouth reckless.
“Well, Captain,” he drawls, shameless, leaning forward just enough that I feel the heat of him. “You gonna keep staring at me all night, or you finally gonna admit you like what you see?”
The words slice the air open.
