But he can’t. Not anymore.
I keep my head down while I dress, like if I don’t look at anyone then they’ll stop staring. Doesn’t work. I canfeelthe eyes, burning holes into the back of my hoodie, sliding along my ribs like the bruises are still written in neon letters.
Sweats on, socks damp, gear bag heavy. The second I shrug into the black-and-crimson Reapers jacket—mine, official, stitched like a brand—the air shifts.
Because his hand lands at the back of my neck.
My chest jerks like he shocked me. The whole room goes tight, laughter biting through the steam and sweat.
“Bye, cuuuurls,” the vets sing, drawn out and mocking, like a funeral dirge. “See you never, rookie.”
Heat explodes across my face. I don’t dare look at them. Don’t dare look at Cole, who’s probably smirking so hard his cheeks hurt. Don’t dare open my mouth, because whatever comes out will bury me six feet deeper.
So I just…go.
His grip guides me through the locker room like I’m on a leash. I stumble once when my bag knocks against my shin, but his hand doesn’t shift—it just holds me steady, pushes me forward until the tile turns to concrete, until the cold hits my damp hair, until the parking lot yawns open.
Laughter still echoes behind us. The dirge still ringing.
Bye, curls.
My lungs burn. My throat aches with too much—shame, want, something in between.
And still, I let him steer me.
The SUV looms like a shadow in the far corner of the lot—black steel, tinted windows, purring low even before he unlocks it. He steers me right up to it, hand never leaving the back of my neck, grip locked as gravity.
When he swings the passenger door open, the cold air hits me like a slap. My bag shifts against my hip, my knees bend to climb in—
But his hand doesn’t let go.
It tightens, just enough to keep me still, right there on the threshold with one boot on the step. His body blocks out half the sun, his shoulders filling my whole sky.
And then he bends down. Low. Close enough that his breath drags hot across the shell of my ear, close enough that the whole fucking team could still see us if they bothered to look over their shoulders.
“You’re going to unlock your door for me tonight,” he murmurs. “You’re going to take me upstairs to that little apartment you’ve been hiding like I don’t already know every inch of your life. And the second that door closes, Mercer—I’m going to put you on your knees in your own goddamn living room and remind you who you belong to.”
My lungs seize. My grip on my bag strap goes white-knuckled. Heat detonates behind my eyes, down my throat, straight into my gut.
He’s never been upstairs. Not once. He’s never set foot past the shitty stairwell of my building, never stood in the kitchen where the coffee maker barely works.
And he just told me—flat out—that tonight, he will.
My mouth falls open, useless, and the only sound I manage is a broken little “fuck.”
His eyes cut down to mine. One cold, one abyss. And the smirk he lets curl across his scar looks carved out of sin.
“Get in the car, pup.”
My legs move before my brain does, hauling me up into the leather seat like the world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
The door slams shut, sealing me in, the echo still rattling in my ribs.
And I can’t breathe steady the whole drive, because all I can hear is:your knees, your apartment, your captain.
I’m trying—really fucking trying—to keep my cool. Keep my grin. Keep my mouth running just fast enough to distract myself. But then his voice cuts through the engine hum.
“Tell me about the posters.”
