Page 102

The ache in my chest blooms outward, confusion and heat crashing together in my ribs. I hate that they’re inside me like this, clawing through everything I thought I was.

But I don’t move.

I don’t tell them to leave.

Because deep down, part of me doesn’t want to.

Chapter 37

Seanna

Ruinstepsback,asingle calculated retreat that leaves space between us—space I immediately intend to violate.

I rise from the bed slowly, the silk sheets dragging against my skin like a lover’s whisper, my gaze locked on him like a predator testing the fence. My legs feel steady beneath me. Strong. Every muscle in my body aches, but it’s the kind of ache I’ve learned to savor. A reminder that I survived. That I’m still standing. Still me.

I take a single step forward.

Then another.

Close enough that I can hear the faint change in his breath. I lift my hand—slowly, deliberately—and press my fingertips to his chest. Testing. Teasing.

He doesn’t stop me.

My fingers trail higher, ghosting along the edge of his shoulder, then across his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. My nails graze lightly. Not enough to scratch. Just enough to sayI could.

“I’m not sure I can control my hands,” I murmur, voice dripping mock innocence. “They’ve been so… crazy lately. Reckless. Just begging for a reason to misbehave.”

Rule’s voice cuts in—calm, amused. “Should I bind them then?”

I don’t turn toward him. I let the corner of my mouth twitch up into a slow, wicked grin. “Might be the only responsible option.”

“I’ll take that as consent,” he replies—and then he’s gone, like a shadow slipping away.

I keep my focus on Ruin, still trailing my hand across his chest. “Think I should be worried?”

“No,” he says, low and certain. “But he’s going to make you behave.”

I drag my palm down his chest and flick my fingers against his belt. “That’s adorable. You still think I can be tamed.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment. Just lifts his gloved hands to the hem of my oversized shirt, slow and deliberate. Then his voice drops to that dark, dangerous place that always lands somewhere low in my stomach.

“You were always meant to be ours, little storm. So we’re just taking what’s already mine,” he murmurs. “From now on, you don’t wear something like this unless you want it taken off. So let me take care of it.”

And he strips me.

I don’t flinch. I don’t cover myself. I stand there like a fucking goddess demanding worship, head high, daring him to make it something it’s not. The shirt falls to the floor in a whisper. He crouches, fingers catching the waistband of my panties, and drags them down with reverent slowness.

I step out of them with zero hesitation, not a single nerve flinching. Because this isn’t submission. This is me giving them the storm.

He rises, then turns and moves to the armchair, lowering himself into it with languid confidence. He spreads his legs, reclines like he’s watching his favorite show come back for another brutal season.

And then Rule returns, he’s carrying two lengths of rope—soft, black, the kind that looks too elegant for what it’s about to do. He doesn’t speak. Just approaches in that calm, unhurried gait like he already owns the room. Ownsme. I arch a brow, watching him like a cat approaching a mouse that doesn’t know it’s already fucked.

He steps behind me.

The air shifts the second he’s close. My breath catches—more out of anticipation than nerves—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. I keep my chin high, my posture proud, even as he gently gathers my wrists behind my back.

The rope brushes my skin—cool and unnervingly sensual—and he starts binding my arms with deliberate grace. His movements are slow, patient. Like he’s enjoying this way too much.