“Now.”
That’s it. No room to argue. Tyler goes, stumbling toward the bench like his legs might fall off.
Me? I’m already grinning through the ache in my ribs, because I know what’s coming next. Hell. Torture. Obedience. And I’ll take every second of it.
Cole sidles up beside me, gasping for air like a dying fish, and still manages to chirp through it. “Christ, curls. You skate like that for me, I’d marry you.”
“Please,” I cough, dragging my ass toward the tunnel. “You couldn’t keep up with me on a date, Hollywood. You’d be crying before appetizers.”
Cole wheezes a laugh, helmet tipping back as he groans loud enough to echo. “Nah, I’d make it through appetizers. Dessert, though? I’d be on my knees.”
The boys laugh, groaning and muttering as we clatter down the tunnel toward the locker room. Even Viktor grunts like he might almost be amused. Tyler still looks like a condemned man.
By the time we hit the locker, sweat slick under our gear, the jabs are flying.
“Bet Cap’s gonna make us squat until we puke up lunch,” Cole moans, peeling his jersey off.
I grin, yanking at my pads. “You puked your lunch two drills ago, Hollywood. Nothing left but hair gel.”
The room howls. Cole flips me off with both hands, sweat dripping off his nose, still grinning.
And through it all—Damian doesn’t smile. Just peels off his own gear slow, deliberate, like he’s already planning how to break us all over again in the weight room.
And my stomach twists hot, because I know I’ll crawl through it if he tells me to.
The gym is hell.
Not the kind with flames and devils, though I’m pretty sure Cole would argue otherwise. This is the kind of hell built on sweat and steel—plates clanging, ropes slapping, and Damian prowling through it all like the devil himself.
“Push.” His voice slices through the echo, steady as a metronome.
Tyler’s already on his knees by the sled, coughing like his lungs crawled up his throat. Cole’s on the ropes, whipping them with all the force of a man writing his own obituary. Shane’s muttering curses from the bike, Viktor’s expressionless while squatting half his weight in iron.
And me? I’m flying.
Every nerve in my body’s screaming, but I’m still keeping up with the vets. Nearly matching them, rep for rep. My thighs are shaking, arms burning, but my grin’s sharp enough to cut steel. Because I know he’s watching. I feel those eyes track me every time I haul the bar up, every time my form slips and I correct it instantly, every time I collapse for half a second then surge back up.
Cole notices too. Of course he does.
“Jesus Christ, curls—” he gasps between rope slams. “Trying to—kill me—showing off like that?”
“Already killed you, Hollywood,” I pant, sweat dripping into my eyes as I slam the bar back down. “You’re just too dumb to notice.”
Cole groans, nearly trips over the ropes, and half the boys laugh—even through the wheezing, even through the ache.
Damian doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t even twitch. He just stalks closer, boots echoing against the mats, arms crossed while his eyes drag down me like he’s dissecting every muscle, every breath, every shred of obedience I’m bleeding out for him.
“Again,” he says.
And I do.
My chest is fire, my arms jelly, my throat raw. But I do.
Because he told me to.
Because I’ll keep going until my legs snap clean in half if it makes him look at me like that one more second.
