And I just stare up at him. This brat. This storm. This firecracker in my jacket, cheeks flushed, curls wild, and every part of him trembling with how hard he wants me. I let it sink in and let it settle, because the ring’s in my pocket and he has no idea.
Then I haul him off the chair, one arm around his waist, the other gripping his thigh to keep him from flailing. His body slides down mine, warm and reckless and vibrating with too much energy for one goddamn tunnel. “You met me seven months ago, baby,” I murmur against his ear, teeth grazing the shell just to watch him squirm. “Don’t you think it’s a little rushed?”
He gasps, offended. “I drooled over you for over eight years. Shut up!”
Behind us, someone snorts. Probably Shane. Or Cole. Or hell, all of them—they’re still here for some reason, watching this chaos unfold. I don’t even know why they haven’t left.Masochists. “You’ve got a mouth on you today, pup,” I growl, low and sharp.
Elias blinks up at me. His lips curl into a pout that should be illegal. “Always had one.”
Oh, he wants war.
“Next time you mouth off in front of everyone,” I say, loud enough for the team to hear, “I’m putting a collar on instead.”
The tunnel goes deathly still. Elias stares. Then, the little fucker smirks. “DAMIAN KADE IS THE BEST FUCK OF MY LIFE!” he yells, echoing through the entire damn hallway so loud Cole nearly eats shit. And before I can move, Elias dives a hand into my jacket, snatches the car keys right out of my pocket like he’s pulling off a heist, and bolts—laughing, sprinting down the tunnel like a gremlin in stolen luxury fabric.
My hand slips into the other pocket. The ring’s still there. I press my thumb to the velvet box and watch Elias disappear around the corner, still yelling something obscene, probably aimed at Viktor.
I’m going to make him beg so hard his knees turn blue.
Idon’t know why I did that. No—scratch that. I do. I absolutely do, because I was spiraling, feral, full of something that felt suspiciously like panic wrapped in glitter and dumped straight into a cocktail of adrenaline and pure, uncut Damian Kade.
And now I’m in the passenger seat of his car, curled into the corner with my fingers twitching and my leg bouncing, my body already bracing as I feel it coming—not the ride, not the traffic, not any of that, but the punishment. Because I didn’t just shout obscenities in public or confess a whole decade of drooling over my captain like a lovesick idiot; I stole his keys, in front of the team, right after screaming that he’s the best fuck of my life.
And he heard me. Of course he heard me.
Because now, as I watch the arena doors swing open, Damian Kade steps out like the end of the world wears custom-made, and I whimper before he’s even halfway to the car. He sees me. I see him. And I am so incredibly fucked.
He reaches the driver’s side, opens the door without a word, slides in with the calm lethality of a sniper and I backtrack.Because my mouth, God help me, is faster than my survival instincts.
“Sir…” I blurt, twisting in my seat, eyes wide. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—” Lie. Full-bodied, shame-soaked, pathetic lie.
Damian doesn’t even look at me. He plucks the keys out of my twitching hand, slides them into the ignition, and starts the engine with a slow, brutal purr.
I sit very, very still.
Breathing? Optional.
Heartbeat? Questionable.
Regrets? All of them.
Damian smirks. It’s not a nice smirk. Not a forgiving one. Not a you’re-too-pretty-to-punish kind of smirk. No, this is the smirk that comes before ruin. This is him deciding how long to make me suffer.
And then he starts driving—slowly,veryslowly—and I blink as the car creeps forward like it’s wading through molasses, engine humming low while the street drags past in exaggerated slow motion. A pigeon hops across the road and somehow still manages to beat us, and I twist in my seat to stare at the speedometer in disbelief. Four. Four miles an hour. Four.
“Are we…” I gesture vaguely at the windshield. “Are we… crawling to my death?”
He doesn’t answer. His grip on the wheel is relaxed, posture loose, like he’s out for a scenic drive on a goddamn Sunday, and he doesn’t look at me or speak or even twitch as he just drives, slow—painfully slow.
A guy jogs past us on the sidewalk and waves and I die inside. “Sir,” I whine, shifting in my seat. “This feels illegal.”
No answer.
I huff loudly, crossing my arms and uncrossing them again before slouching, fidgeting, my whole body buzzing like it’s wired too tight. “Are you gonna kill me, or kiss me, or put mein the trunk?” I blurt. “What’s the game plan here?” Damian glances over, gives me one slow, deliberate drag of his eyes up and down my seat-writhing body, then looks back to the road like nothing happened—like he isn’t absolutely fucking with me. And it’s working.
I squirm harder, frustration spilling out of me. “Do I at least get to know how many spanks I’m getting? I need to mentally prepare.” He gives me nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. The car crawls around a corner, and I watch a toddler on a scooter zip past us like he’s training for NASCAR, which makes me actually shriek. “You’re torturing me on purpose!”
Damian finally speaks. “Correct.”
