C8 Paintball wars

Date = 31 October

More than a month has gone. Time flies.

Place = San Francisco (paintball place)

What do you expect from a load of adrenaline and testosterone-filled males?

POV – Melaena

Another birthday party. Damion’s birthday.

31 October.

Of course, it’s Halloween.

I eye my reflection while braiding my hair, already bracing myself. In this group, birthdays are never just birthdays. They’re more like survival challenges with cake.

Last time — Logan’s party — all my brothers got taken out by STROH rum like dominoes. At least no one ended up in hospital. Which, in this family, counts as a win.

My phone vibrates on the dresser.

D Stalker: Mayday! Mayday! A little actor is dying! 💀

I freeze mid-braid.

I changed his caller ID weeks ago — because if I’m going to be harassed, I at least want advance warning. I stare at the screen, jaw tight, then flip the phone face down like that might smother the words.

I am not letting one deranged coward hijack my life.

He’s been at it since Logan’s party. Non-stop messages. Long ones. Unhinged ones. The kind that crawl under your skin and set up camp.

Mostly, I ignore them, but lately … he knows things. Small details. My schedule. Who I’m with. What I wear.

Like he’s always just out of sight. And it creeps me out a little.

This ‘mayday’ shit is new, though. Usually, it’s all ‘you belong to me’ and ‘we’ll be together soon’ and other vomit-worthy nonsense.

Dying?

My stomach tightens.

Enrique flashes through my mind. Would he actually hurt my brother? Would he go that far? He did say he wanted revenge.

No. No. This has to be a sick joke. A scare tactic. That’s what creeps like him do — poke until you flinch.

Still … I’ll warn Enrique. After the party. The event’s going to be locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Guards everywhere. Cameras. Access lists.

D won’t get within a mile of us tonight.

He does not get to ruin this.

“This overall is ridiculously unflattering!” Kiara barrels into my room like a one-woman hurricane, yanking at the black fabric clinging to her hips. Knocking has never been her thing.

“I look like a sexy trash bag,” she declares.

I snort, eyeing my own matching outfit. “I don’t think ‘fashion-forward’ was the brief for paintball combat.”

She glares at herself in the mirror. “At least we’re on the same team. I can’t wait to shoot somebody in the face.”

She’s been cranky all week — part PMS, part her father calling last night. He does that once a month. Then Kiara spirals for two days straight.

Her dad and uncle are serving time at Allenwood. Maximum security. Pennsylvania … roughly 2,700 miles away. They’re the only blood-related family she has left.

So yeah … shooting someone in the face sounds therapeutic.

Honestly? Same. Especially if I could shoot this D guy.

“Okay,” I say, forcing brightness, “let’s go meet the boys. I’ll grab the presents.”

Backpack on, keys in hand. Kiara opens the front door — and nearly smacks Axel in the face.

“That’s what I call timing,” he laughs, stepping back.

Axel is … unfairly attractive. Over six feet, lean muscle, rugged in that I-might-save-your-life-then-break-your-heart kind of way. Dark hair deliberately messy. Eyes that can’t decide if they’re blue or green.

Women line up for him. He never stays.

Black outfit. He’s in our team.

Monster Reaper organized a paintball war — hence the overalls — followed by a massive costume party. All for Damion’s birthday.

As if he’s so special.

“You remembered your outfits for later?” Axel asks.

I pat my backpack. “All set.”

“I just hope this doesn’t turn into a paparazzi circus,” he mutters, sliding on his sunglasses.

Even after Olympic gold and two bronzes, he dodged cameras like they were radioactive. Actually quit competitive swimming right after. That’s how much he hates the tabloids.

“I heard it’s exclusive,” Kiara spills some useless information. “One very lucky journalist gets the scoop of his life.”

“Good,” Axel says. “Maybe the birthday boy can actually enjoy himself.”

“You know he’s won five in a row, right?” I blurt. “Spain, Indonesia, Japan, Australia, Thailand. In that order.”

Both of them stare at me.

“He officially took back his title. It’s going to be a big celebration,” I continue while locking the door.

“You’re scaring me a little, Grimm-wiki,” Axel teases.

Darn. “Eh … I think I overheard it somewhere.”

Definitely not from obsessively watching every race in secret.

“You’re right. It is big,” Axel admits. “Especially after the accident last year.”

My chest tightens.

I’ll never forget that moment. He was in the middle of a terrible pile-up. The chaos. Someone dying. Watching him disappear into an ambulance, not knowing if he’d make it.

“But come on,” I chuckle, forcing levity, “Halloween birthday? Coincidence? I think not.”

They laugh.

“If that doesn’t scream devil in disguise, I don’t know what does.”

“Devil’s a little harsh,” Axel smirks.

“Devil or not,” Kiara growls, “I just want to shoot someone. And I want it to hurt.”

Axel sighs. “Can we have one event without incidents?”

I snicker. “That’s adorable. You really believe you guys can do that.”

“We don’t go looking for trouble,” he says, then hesitates. “Okay — Jackson does. But that’s his thing.”

Paintball shouts disaster — legally teaming a bunch of adrenaline-junkie small-brained men with competitive streaks against each other, while handing them a ticket to shoot each other with weapons — fake or not — is basically a recipe for chaos.

And I’m fine with that.

As long as I get to shoot the cocky biker right in his perfect, sculpted chest. Or his smug chin. Or his overeager dick.

I need the release. Because I’m wound tight with all these cropped-up frustrations I’ve been nurturing this last month.

All to do with one overbearing asshole.

The curse.

Him telling me I don’t know what I’m doing — when he’s the reason.

His love confession for some mystery girl that carved a neat little hole through my ribs.

And that stunt at the rescue center that left my brain fried and my pride bruised.

So yeah. I don’t just want to hurt him. I want it to sting.

The moment my eyes land on Enrique, it feels like a cold, bony hand clamps around my throat and squeezes. Air turns thin. Sharp. Uncooperative.

The message flashes through my mind like a warning flare.

Is it real? Is D actually coming for my brother?

Enrique is dressed in green — same as Ilkay and Logan — while Jackson is safely on our side. For now.

“Revenge is staring you in the face, girls,” Enrique drawls, flashing that BEAST smirk of his and pointing straight at Kiara and me.

I briefly wonder if there’s an ambulance on standby somewhere close. Or at least a medic with a strong stomach.

Fear, however, is not an option.

“Not if I shoot you in the balls first,” I shoot back sweetly.

Enrique just winks and pats his crotch like it’s a prized possession. “All cupped up, little witch. Courtesy of Logan’s football gear.”

Damn it.

But I should have guessed — it’s not their first rodeo. Of course, my brothers would be smart enough to armor their most valuable assets.

Teams split. Green piles into Ilkay’s truck. We load into Axel’s, windows down, laughter bouncing around the car like this is just another fun outing and not a barely controlled war zone.

We talk strategy. Stick together. Flank. Win.

Easy. Totally doable. Probably.

The paintball grounds sit deep in the woods, all abandoned-military-training-camp vibes — rotting cabins, watchtowers, dirt paths carved through trees. It looks like the kind of place where zombies would pop out at any second.

Axel parks near a log cabin marked RECEPTION in peeling red letters.

That’s when I see him.

Ren. He told me he was invited — his friend’s father is one of the team sponsors.

Green uniform. Standing on the steps. Talking to a curvy brunette in matching gear.

My stomach drops. And then my heart does a full-on Olympic sprint when recognition hits.

Chloe.

Oh. Her. So that’s the friend.

Fine. Since I can’t shoot D, I’ll settle for Chloe. That bitch is going down.

“What the fuck are those two doing here?” Jackson growls as we head toward the cabin.

He’s been in a foul mood ever since getting back from Yale a week ago. Turns out being sentenced by the President of the United States to mandatory coaching instead of jail time really messes with a guy’s zen.

Coach the Bulldogs. Between games. For a year.

All because he climbed the White House fence, knocked out a Secret Service agent, and cannonballed into the wrong fountain.

Honestly? Iconic.

Legally? Less so.

Now every time he gets back from teaching ‘rich, obnoxious jocks to pass a fucking puck’ (his words), he’s tense, touchy, and one bad look away from committing a felony.

Uptight. Grim. Or maybe he just didn’t get laid enough in Fun City.

Whatever’s eating him … I’m very, very glad he’s on our team.

“Damion had to invite her,” Logan explains. “Her dad’s one of the sponsors. And she brought the creep.” I’m guessing that would be Ren.

“Hi, boys!” Chloe purrs. Her voice sounds like a call girl on a late-night hotline in the middle of phone sex.

Not that I know anything about call girls … or hotlines … or sex. But still.

Ren suddenly pulls me into an awkward side-hug and plants a clumsy kiss on my cheek.

“Oh!” I squeak, entirely unprepared.

The reactions are immediate and spectacular.

Axel looks annoyed. Logan looks pissed. Ilkay looks like he’s in physical pain. Enrique looks nauseous. Jackson looks one breath away from homicide.

Perfect.

We haven’t been on a date since Logan’s party. Not because Ren hasn’t tried — he has — but, between classes, soccer, track, the rescue center, and living, my life is a nonstop blur. No time for dating. And honestly? I love it.

Ren, however, has started popping up unannounced between events like an unwanted side quest. It’s driving me insane.

Maybe I’m not ready for a relationship. Maybe I just don’t want this one.

Either way, I already know what I’m going to do.

I’m dumping him. My first breakup.

The second Damion strides toward us, shouting a lazy “Hey guys,” my carefully curated revenge fantasy trips, stumbles, and face-plants.

Because — damn him — he’s filled out beautifully. Broad where it matters. Lean where it counts. Every muscle looks like it was sculpted by a bored Greek god with commitment issues. And now all that perfection is zipped into a black overall.

My team. Fantastic.

There goes my plan to emotionally destroy him. Straight out the window.

Those wicked apple-green eyes lock onto me, sharp and knowing, as if he can see straight through fabric, skin, bone — right to the fact that my nipples have turned into traitors. My knees wobble. I grab Kiara like she’s a human railing.

Thankfully, my brothers are too busy chest-bumping, shoving, and congratulating him like the bunch of neanderthals they are.

“Happy birthday, asshole,” I add, hugging him once the testosterone storm settles.

Big mistake.

Electricity detonates through me — white-hot, violent, immediate — like my nervous system just got hijacked. My brain short-circuits, kick-starting my hypothalamus into gear. My hormones throw a rave. And every feminine part of me warms up like an ancient stove plate. Slow. Steady. Dangerous.

Anticipation hums.

I almost laugh at myself.

Anticipation for what exactly? Even if he decided to go down on me, I wouldn’t know what to do with him. Great big V over here.

“Thanks, my angel,” he murmurs against my ear. “Remember — we need to talk.”

The words. The voice. The breath.

All of them sends another army of shivers marching down my spine.

I clamp my legs together like I’m holding back a natural disaster and tell myself this is biology. That lust and love are not the same thing. That this is just primal nonsense. Chemicals misfiring.

Still … I’m craving something I’ve never even tasted.

Then Chloe wedges herself between us like a badly timed commercial break.

And there it is. Jealousy. Bright. Ugly. Green.

Why? I have no claim. No right. No reason.

But the fact that he’s not hers either sparks a vicious little smile I don’t bother hiding.

“Come on, darling,” she coos, lashes fluttering, lips pursed into a blood-red heart. “The game’s about to start.”

I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to make her lips bleed for real.

Damion calmly unhooks her fingers from his arm. Logan immediately steps in like a human barricade. Ilkay follows, nudging her even farther away.

She stomps and retreats to Ren.

Bless those brothers.

“Mel!”

I barely turn before Luke barrels into my legs, nearly taking me out at the knees. He clings to me, chin at my belly button, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

“You smell nice,” he says.

“Thanks, little dude. You smell like cookies.”

His eyes light up. He fishes a chocolate-chip cookie out of his pocket. “I stole — uh — borrowed these from Mom.”

He looks at Damion, bracing for judgment. Damion just smirks.

Realizing nothing bad is gonna happen to him, he holds out the biscuit to me. “You want one?”

“Nope, I’m good.” He crams it back into his pocket, mission accomplished.

Then the call comes. “People! Game’s starting!” Guy with a microphone. He must work here.

The rules are easy. When you are hit by an enemy ball, you have to leave the field immediately. The team that gets to the other’s flag first is the winner.

The green team heads out. Gear clinks. Helmets snap on. My pulse spikes.

Damion throws a belt around my waist and straps me in. He’s so tantalizingly close and so intent on what he’s doing that I lean slightly forward until my nose is in his hair.

Clean. Fresh. Citrus and something darker underneath.

He pulls the straps tight, his fingers doing a secret seductive dance against my body, brushing skin in a way that feels anything but accidental. He looks up — heated eyes, crooked smile — like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Crackerheads … there really is such a thing as a panty-wetting look.

I inhale. Exhale. Survive. Fighting the damp heat between my legs as he loads the last hopper into my belt.

While we walk to our gathering point, Damion and Jackson show me, Kiara, and Luke how everything works. We talk strategy, concluding that the guys would be the protectors, some would stay with the flag, and the rest would cover the girls while we try to get to the opponent’s flag — which is out of sight on the other side of the course.

And then the games begin.

We crawl into position. Trees. Barriers. Mud. Nooks and crannies spread over the course.

My breath is loud in my helmet. I’m wedged between Damion and Luke, Kiara and the other two behind us.

Then POP.

Jackson shoots, and a green team member swears and leaves the field.

Movement to the right. I signal and hide behind a tree. Damion opens fire.

I peek and see Ren already splattered black. He doesn’t look happy.

He looks down, and I notice a green sleeve to his right.

POP. The shot hits. Chloe shrieks and jumps up.

Got you bitch! I yell to myself, feeling ecstatic while moving around the tree.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Pain slams into my stomach and chest. Suppressive fire. The bitch is emptying her gun on me.

I barely register the impact before Damion crashes into me, shielding my body with his. Paintballs hammer into him — over and over — his body jerking with each hit.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

I can feel his body contract, but the popping sound doesn’t let up.

“Chloe, stop! You’re out!” Kiara screams.

More pops.

Then silence. Guess she ran out of ammo.

Damion rolls away, breathing hard. I cling to the tree, gasping. Not sure if it’s from pain … or from the fact that he just put himself between me and a firing psycho bitch.

Something tightens in my chest.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

I jerk.

“Ouch! Ouch! Stop!” Chloe yelps, jumping around, dropping her gun. Her overalls are covered with black paint. The shooting stops.

“Take that bitch!” Jackson wails, looking like a regular villain, weapon still aimed at Chloe.

Pop! Pop!

Two more shots land on her chest.

“Stop it!” she cries, tears in her eyes. But it wasn’t Jackson this time.

“You deserved that for shooting Mel and my brother,” Luke jumps up and down and gives Jackson a high-five. “Bitch!” he says then. Jackson winks at him. Justice is served.

Ren helps a shattered Chloe, and they walk away together, his arm protectively around her shoulders. The idea of him not even attempting to help me flutters through my mind for a second. The fact that he’s holding her is not bothering me a bit.

The game rages on. Sweat stings my eyes. Dust coats my tongue. My body aches, but the adrenaline makes it glorious.

We push forward. Closer. Closer.

Logan, who shoots Kiara from behind, is taken out by Jackson. And not in a good, friendly manner.

“Fuck you, Logan Blackburn,” Kiara swears and shoots Logan on his ass as they walk away together.

Even though this game is pitiless and even painful, shooting the other team does have a profound and strangely compelling effect of fun on me. And it seems I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Damion has this energetic light in his eyes, and I know he’s enjoying it even more than me.

Two more green team members experience our rage and leave the field. We can see the green flag a few yards from us, and we bundle together behind a wall.

“Okay, this is it. Let’s get that flag.” Axel whispers.

Luke peeks over the wall in the direction of the winning piece of cloth. I wipe the sweat rolling down my forehead like tiny little vipers with my sleeve. My parched tongue licks over my palate, where dust and spit intermingle to a muddy bitterness.

The end is in sight.

Jackson disappeared.

“I’ll cover Mel, and you stick to Luke.” Damion looks at Axel, and they salute each other.

“Luke, you’re the secret weapon.” Luke shakes his head eagerly, giving his brother a fist bump. I get up and run to the next cover, green balls splatter all around my feet. It sounds like a machine gun, and then Damion falls next to me.

“It’s Enrique, the bastard,” he grumbles with a smile. We look at the next safe spot, and he motions at Axel to be ready. I start running again, balls flying past my head. A pain shoots through my arm.

I look down. Green. I’m out.

POP! POP!

The next moment, Damion dives forward, grabbing me as we fall to the ground, his body on top of mine.

POP! POP! POPPOPPOPPOP!

Again, he takes a beating of green balls on his body — back, arms, legs, and helmet. He moans softly, cursing the lunatic who’s emptying his gun on him.

I see Damion’s mouth move, but my heartbeat pounding in my ears causes ferocious drumming inside the helmet, deafening me for a few moments. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to calm my ticker down, and when the thumping slowly stops, I can hear his voice.

“You okay?” he asks as soon as the grievous bodily harm to him stops. I nod, and then I hear Enrique laughing from behind some logs.

Douchebag!

“Enrique, you’re going to be a bloating carcass when I’m finished with you!” Damion shouts, but Enrique just laughs harder.

I smell that fresh, citrus, and woody scent I have come to associate with Damion over the years.

Homme mixed with sweat!

Somehow, it triggers my butterflies. They must be drawn to the musky smell of perspiration.

I barely register the pain from the bruised wounds on my body, since it is being drowned out by the heightened, throbbing ache between my legs.

The next moment, Enrique swears loudly, and he runs past us, jolting each time a black ball hits him. Jackson is following close behind, an arsenal of paintballs firing from his gun straight at his twin. And the look on his face tells me that he might just be enjoying it a little too much. From somewhere behind a car wreck, Ilkay is covering Enrique, dishing out a frenzy of fire toward Jackson.

“Fuck off, Jackson!” Enrique swears again, trying to hide behind an old car wreck.

“Now why would I do that?” his twin shouts back.

Damion looks at me with a heated glint in his eyes and wipes his fingers over my cheek, saying I have some dirt there. I wiggle to get free, scared by the emotions I’m feeling.

Damion helps me to my feet, holding me just a moment too long.

Too warm. Too steady. Too much.

And I realize — somewhere between paintballs flying over our heads, jealousy, and being shielded by his body — that this isn’t just a game anymore.

And I am in deep trouble.