His pupils blow wide as he sits there—still twitching, still fuming, still vibrating with that particular brand of rage that earns hat tricks and handcuffs in equal measure.
I don’t look away from him until the puck drops.
And we win the shift.
They’re all screaming in my ear—crowd, refs, Bastards, hell, maybe even the devil himself—but none of it matters. Not with the puck on my blade and the net wide open. Not with Elias still benched, seething on the sidelines, his knee bouncing, mouthguard half-chewed to death between his teeth as he glares at me.
Good. Let him glare.
I drop my shoulder, cut across the ice with one clean pivot, and snap a wrister so vicious it doesn’t just fly—it sings, straight top shelf, right over the Bastards goalie’s glove. Net. Light. Fuckin horn.
The crowd goes silent, my bench explodes, and I turn, skating backward across the ice until I’m dead center of the rink and raise my stick, pointing it straight at him. At Elias.
His eyes snap to mine. He doesn’t even flinch, just stares, flushed to the tips of his ears, teeth sunk so deep into his mouthguard I swear I hear the plastic crack. His hands curl around the bench rail like he might launch himself over it and rip my jersey off mid-game.
Let him want it. Let him remember who I am.
Because yeah, pup—I benched you. And I’ll do it again. But don’t forget who taught you to skate like that. Don’t forget who you belong to.
I skate back to the bench, smirk curling at the edge of my mouth. Cole’s hooting. Shane bangs the boards. Mats yells something obscene. But I don’t care. All I care about is the look Elias gives me when I pass him—murder, want, hunger, pride—all tangled into one bratty, beautiful glare.
He’s blushing so hard his freckles vanish. And his legs are already moving. He knows he’s going back in.
Elias skates like he’s been uncaged. Blades slicing through the Bastards’ zone with lethal precision, curls bouncing, mouth moving nonstop. He doesn’t even glance at the crowd or the refs. No—he’s got one target, and it’s standing across from him at the faceoff circle, shifting from foot to foot.
Poor bastard.
Elias isn’t skating like a rookie anymore. He’s skating like a Reaper. Like a brat who got his captain’s blessing and wants the whole goddamn world to suffer for it.
He gets to the circle, plants his skates, and flashes that grin, the one that makes men snap sticks and make mistakes. “Hey,” He chirps, loud enough for the nearest Bastards to hear. “Did you ever figure out how to tie your skates without your mom’s help, or you still waiting for her to finish breastfeeding you?”
The Bastard center’s jaw tightens. His glove twitches.
Elias leans in closer. “I’ll give you a freebie, yeah? After I win this draw, maybe I’ll let you sniff my jockstrap so you remember what a real center smells like.”
The guy chokes. Actually chokes.
The puck drops and Elias wins it clean. So clean it’s disgusting. He flicks it back with that same smug little twist of his wrist he always does when he wants to show off, then spins, already hunting for the lane, already writing his name across the scoreboard in blood.
I stay back, let him run wild. Because that’s what he is right now. Not a rookie. Not my pup.
A weapon. And God help the Bastards if they think they’re walking out of this rink with their dignity intact.
He rips it out from the boards. Elbows flying, stick low, shoulder grinding against the Bastard defenseman trying to pin him. The puck squirms loose for half a second and Elias explodes. He snatches it, pivots on one knee, spins behind the net, and cuts across the crease so fast the goalie doesn’t even drop.
Crack. Back of the net.
6–2.
The little shit skates right past the Bastards bench, looks their captain dead in the eye, blows him a kiss, and doesn’t stop skating. He’s laughing by the time he gets back to our bench, wild and breathless, curls stuck to his forehead, grin sharp enough to draw blood.
Cole grabs him in a headlock mid-shift, grinning like a maniac, and I watch Elias light up the world with every stride. And then the Bastards score.
6–3.
Viktor slams the door behind him so hard the glass rattles, and the whole sound of the arena shifts—thinner, meaner, that sharp edge of spite cutting through like a blade.
The horn blows. Game over.
