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His gloved palm presses low on my belly, right above my clit, trapping me. Holding me still.

“Beg louder,” he says, voice low, even. Unmoved. “You want it that badly?Beg like it’s mine to give.”

I’m falling apart.

“Please,” I cry. “Please, Ruin—I’m begging. I need to come. Ineedit—fuck, please—”

And he gives it to me.

He slams in deep—hard, precise, merciless. Again, and again until everything inside me explodes. The orgasm rips through me like a blade, sharp and savage, every nerve igniting under the weight of his cock and his control and the brutal, overwhelming pressure between my legs.

I scream. Iconvulse.

My pussy clenches around him in wild, pulsing waves. My chest is heaving, the ropes pulling tight as I writhe. I feel him shudder, feel when he comes with a snarl. He buries himself deep, cock pulsing as he fills me—thick, hot, and endless. His hands hold me open, locked wide around my trembling thighs. My vision goes white.

And I fall.

Down, down, down.

Into the kind of ruin that tastes like worship.

And Ibelongto it.

Chapter 39

Seanna

Morningcomesslow,dragginglight across my skin like it's afraid to wake me. It feels strange to be in a room with a window after spending days in a room without.

My body aches, sore in all the ways that remind me I was used—thoroughly, savagely, obsessively—by both of them last night. I only vaguely remember the aftermath. The gentler side of monsters. The way they’d cleaned me up, massaged the knots out of my trembling legs. Rule tending to the rope-burned cuts he’d given me when he chased me through the trees like prey, his hands steady and careful now, almost reverent.

I remember warmth. Steady pressure. Their voices low, murmured things I didn’t quite catch. Fingers brushing sweat-damp hair back from my temple. The softness of a cloth between my thighs. Then nothing.

Now, the room is empty. No armchair sentinel. No masked men.

No restraints.

I blink at my wrists. No rope. No cuffs. Just the familiar sting of bruises and the dull burn of used muscles. I stretch, slow and lazy, testing the boundaries of this unexpected freedom.

Then I do what any sane person in a new house would do.

I snoop.

I kick the covers off and push upright. My legs threaten mutiny, but I ignore it. First things first: clothes. If I’m going to wander through whatever curated hellscape they’ve dumped me in now, I might as well be dressed.

Dragging myself to the tall dresser, I yank open the top drawer—only to pause.

What greets me isn’t some borrowed T-shirt or folded sweatpants.

It’sthelingerie.

Not tucked away in the gift box this time. No. It’s folded. Placed deliberately. Like it belongs here. LikeIbelong here.

The same set they left on my bed when they were still just shadows in my periphery. When I was still pretending they didn’t exist. Still pretending I wasn’t unraveling.

I scoff under my breath, fingers brushing the familiar blend of leather and lace again. Of course they brought it here. Of course they unpacked it for me. Probably laid it out with reverent hands while whispering to each other about how perfect I’ll look in it.

So just to be a contradictory bitch, I put it on.