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We head to the cabin,shoes crunching over the dead leaves. The scent of bonfire lingers in the air, slightly damp from the morning dew. The building is isolated, perfect for privacy, to get away from prying ears.

To get loud.

I’ve been waiting for this. Since the moment I took the oath. The restrictions were necessary, I get that. She had to remain a virgin for the arrangement to go through, but he’s done with her.

She’s ours.

“Jesus, DK, wait up,” Hunter mutters as he tries to catch up to me, but I barely hear him. My heart’s pounding, and my dick’s hard against my thigh. I run through the options as I climb the porch steps. Missionary? Doggy? Cowgirl? Fuck, the thought of her riding me, those pretty little pierced nipples bouncing in my face–

“Where is she?” Hunter asks, stepping in the room first.

I snap out of my fantasy, taking in the room. The bed is torn apart, sheets slung over the edge like a discarded skin. The wedding gown is heaped on the floor like she crawled out of it, her lace bra and panties pushed under the bed. The rod–the one her uncle gave the King–is lying just beside the rug.

The sight of it makes me uneasy. No one at that dinner table had been impressed by the Dean’s methods of control. It’d been creepy, territorial, and the Baroness looked like she’d seen a ghost the moment it appeared.

Hunter bends, picking it up, feeling the weight in his hand. He inspects the end. “There’s blood on here.”

Whatever happened here was thorough. Brutal. The King hadn’t just taken her virginity, he’d broken her down.

Jealousy pricks the back of my neck, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that I’ll be next.

“Hey,” Hunter says quietly, chin lifting toward the back of the room. The bathroom door’s ajar, and a single line ofgolden morning light cuts across the wood floor. I step forward, pushing the door open slowly, and see her. She's bending over the sink. Naked except for the red leather collar buckled around her throat. Her lower back and ass are a mess of dark bruises and rising welts–some angry and still forming, others already purpled. One curves all the way across the swell of her hip. The faucet’s running, water spilling over her fingers like she doesn’t even feel it.

She stares at herself in the mirror. Wide, vacant, red eyes. Hair messy and hanging down her back, her lips are dry and cracked. She looks like something wild and hunted. Like something that’s already halfway gone.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

Leaning around her, I turn off the tap. Her hands shake and I press mine over them. Cold. Damp. So small.

Hunter lingers behind me, silent. Watching.

“What happened?” I ask, brushing my fingers up her spine. Her back arches, jutting that pretty little ass out. I trace one of the welts, and she flinches. “He punished you?”

She nods, tiny and pathetic. Hunter grabs the wet washcloth in the sink and squeezes out the water. Carefully, he dabs the cloth over each welt, making her hiss with each press.

“What did you do?” I ask, trying to imagine what incited such rage. “Did you refuse him?”

This time it’s a shake of the head and she says softly, “Everything was good. Better than good. We had an amazing night. He made me feel so amazing, and I made him feel amazing, too. I know I did.”

“Then what?” Hunter asks, turning on the faucet again and rinsing off the cloth.

“Then came this morning,” her voice trembles. “He told me he didn’t want me. That he would never want me.”

“And that’s why he punished you?” I glance at Hunter’s creased forehead in the mirror.

“He punished me to control me, like every other man in my life.” She sways, just slightly, like the weight of everything is too much. “Even you.”

I catch her hips, pulling her back against me. I press my palm to her belly, my other hand cupping her breast. Her skin is so warm. I feel her breath catch. “Being controlled by a man in Forsyth is how you stay safe,” I tell her. “And what did you think? That the King would suddenly decide he was in love with you? Just because he wet his dick?”

My hand slides up, fingers reaching for the silver bars. I give them a tug and watch the pain cross her face. She’s gorgeous like this, hurt and bruised. The shattered, fragile mess he left behind. My cock thickens behind my zipper, pressed hard against her ass.

She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t push me off. Just keeps looking at herself in the mirror like she doesn’t know who that girl is anymore. Fair. The girl we dragged out of those woods, who laid on the altar last night, is no longer the same. Which is why I let her know, “He may not want you, but he gave you to us,” I say, breath hot against her neck. “He’s not the only one that can make you feel good, doll baby.”

I slide my hand lower, between her thighs. She’s warm. Wet, even. Whether it’s for me or just leftovers from him doesn’t matter. I can pretend. Her breath catches. She grabs the edge of the counter like she might collapse, but still–no protest. Her thighs clench, but not to close me out. She’s trembling, not resisting.

“I’ve been waiting for him to give the word,” I whisper. “For him to tell us that we can have you the way we want.” My fingers are already working between her folds, slow and rough.

She gasps. It’s soft.