Chapter 5 – The Taste of Fear

Damian didn't remember Sebastian picking him up.

One moment he was on the ice, naked and bleeding, his face pressed against the cold gray surface. The next moment, strong arms were sliding under his knees and behind his back, lifting him off the frozen concrete like he weighed nothing. Damian's head lolled against Sebastian's shoulder. He was shivering so hard his teeth were chattering, and his feet—his feet were on fire, raw and wet and stinging with every small movement.

"Stay with me," Sebastian said. His voice was close to Damian's ear, warm against the cold. "I've got you."

Damian wanted to say something clever, something cutting, something that would remind Sebastian that he was still the Iceman, still the captain, still the man who had spent three years pretending to hate him. But his jaw was shaking too hard to form words. So he just let himself be carried.

Sebastian walked off the ice, through the boards, across the concrete floor. His boots crunched on debris—broken glass, dried leaves, the bones of small animals that had gotten trapped inside the rink and couldn't find their way out. Damian closed his eyes and focused on the heat of Sebastian's body against his. It was the only warm thing in the entire building.

The coach's office was at the end of a narrow hallway, past the gutted concession stand and the equipment room with its rusted lockers. Sebastian pushed the door open with his shoulder and carried Damian inside.

It was smaller than Damian remembered. A desk, overturned, its drawers pulled out and emptied years ago. A filing cabinet, its metal sides dented and stained. A couch against the far wall—an old leather couch, cracked and faded, but still intact. Someone had been here recently. Someone had placed blankets on the couch. A pillow. A bucket of water and a roll of bandages.

Sebastian had planned this.

"Did you come here yesterday?" Damian asked. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "To set this up?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He laid Damian down on the couch, stomach first, then went to the bucket and wet a cloth. The leather was cold against Damian's bare skin, but the blanket beneath him was soft. He pulled it around his shoulders and watched Sebastian work.

The Reaper's hands were gentle as he lifted Damian's left foot. Too gentle. This was the same man who had shattered Damian's stick with a bone-crushing hit, who had whispered threats across the ice for three years, who had made a blood oath to own him. And now he was dabbing at the raw, bleeding soles of Damian's feet with a wet cloth, his touch as careful as a nurse's.

Damian watched Sebastian's face. The concentration. The way his brow furrowed as he picked out small pieces of grit from the wounds. The way his lips pressed together when Damian flinched.

"You don't have to be gentle," Damian said.

"Yes, I do."

"You're the Reaper. You're supposed to hurt me."

Sebastian looked up. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not like that."

"Then what's the point of the bet?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He finished cleaning Damian's left foot and started on the right. The water in the bucket turned pink. The cloth left red streaks on Sebastian's fingers. Damian watched him wrap the bandages around each foot—tight enough to stop the bleeding, loose enough to breathe—and felt something shift in his chest.

This wasn't the man he had hated for three years.

This was the man who had made a blood oath on his father's grave because a seventeen-year-old boy had been kind to him once. This was the man who had spent three years trying to earn the right to love someone. This was the man who was bandaging Damian's feet in an abandoned rink at two in the morning because he didn't know any other way to show he cared.

"There," Sebastian said, tying off the last bandage. "That should hold."

Damian looked at his wrapped feet. They looked like two white bundles at the end of his legs. He couldn't feel them anymore—the cold had seen to that—but he knew they would hurt like hell tomorrow.

"Thank you," Damian said.

Sebastian's head snapped up. "What?"

"I said thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. I'm the one who made you skate until your feet bled."

"You're also the one who bandaged them." Damian pushed himself up on his elbows. The blanket fell away from his shoulders, and the cold bit at his bare skin again. "I'm not saying you're not insane. I'm just saying you're not a monster."

Sebastian's face twisted. He looked away, at the overturned desk, the dented filing cabinet, the dark window that looked out onto nothing. His jaw was tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"You don't know that," Sebastian said. "You don't know what I'm capable of."

"Then show me."

Sebastian looked back at him. His eyes were dark, hungry, terrified. He moved slowly, like a man approaching a wounded animal. His hands came up to Damian's shoulders and pushed him down onto his stomach. Damian didn't resist. He lay there, cheek pressed to the leather couch, his bandaged feet hanging off the edge, his bare back exposed to the cold air.

Sebastian's weight settled over him. Not heavy. Just present. Damian felt Sebastian's breath on the back of his neck, warm and slow. Then he felt teeth.

Sebastian bit him. Hard.

Damian gasped. The pain was sharp, sudden, electric. It shot down his spine and up into his skull and settled somewhere in his chest. Sebastian's teeth sank into the curve where Damian's neck met his shoulder, and held, and didn't let go.

When Sebastian finally released him, Damian could feel the indentations of teeth on his skin. The wound was already throbbing, already promising a bruise.

"You taste like adrenaline and terror," Sebastian murmured against Damian's ear.

Damian laughed. It came out bitter, broken, nothing like his usual controlled demeanor. "That's just you. You're the adrenaline. You're the terror. You've been both for three years."

Sebastian pulled back. His hands gripped Damian's hips and flipped him over onto his back. Damian's bandaged feet knocked against the arm of the couch. His head hit the pillow. He looked up at Sebastian, who was straddling him now, dark hair falling across his forehead, chest heaving.

"Beg me to hurt you," Sebastian said.

Damian's heart stopped.

"Beg me," Sebastian repeated. His voice was low, hoarse, shaking. "I need to hear you say it. I need to know you want this. Not because of the bet. Not because you think you owe me. Because you trust me enough to ask for it."

Damian stared up at him. At the man who had spent three years pretending to hate him. At the man who had bandaged his feet with unexpected gentleness. At the man who was looking at him like he was the most precious and terrifying thing in the world.

Damian's voice cracked when he spoke.

"Please."

Sebastian's eyes widened. "Please what?"

"Please hurt me." Damian's hands came up to grip Sebastian's jersey. "Please don't be gentle. Please don't treat me like I'm made of glass. Please just—" His voice broke. "Please just make me feel something other than afraid."

Sebastian's face crumbled. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to Damian's. Their b

reath mingled in the cold air.

"I've got you," Sebastian whispered. "I've got you, Captain."