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I pivot on bare feet, purposefully swaying my hips in the ruined lingerie as I walk back down the hall toward my bedroom. I flip him off without breaking stride, heading for the hallway with every ounce of dignity I can scrape together—which isn’t easy, considering I’m half-dressed, sticky, and very obviously wrecked by his mouth.

“Better be fresh pastries,” I call over my shoulder. “Or I’m starting a rebellion.”

“Princess,” he calls back, voice warm with threat and affection in equal measure, “youarethe rebellion.”

I don’t turn around.

I just smile to myself, wicked and satisfied, and disappear into the shadows of the hallway.

Chapter 41

Seanna

Ipushopenthedoor to what seems to bemybedroom with a lazy swing of my hand, muscles still buzzing with the aftershocks of Rule’s mouth on me.

The room is a goddamn dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you look at it.

Dark, modern, seductive. Big enough to fit half of my cabin inside it. Burgundy silk sheets still tangled at the foot of the bed like an invitation I’m pretending I don’t see. Every inch of it curated, crafted.

For me.

I blow out a slow, measured breath and make a beeline for the two doors I haven't opened yet, tucked side by side along the far wall. One has to be the bathroom. The other… no clue. Storage, maybe. Weapons closet. Secret trapdoor to hell. Knowing them? All three.

I grab the handle on the first door and swing it open.

And freeze.

It's not a closet. It'sa closet.

A walk-in the same size of the fucking wardrobe room at the organization. And it's filled. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. Clothes—mine.Or, at least, everything I would have picked for myself if I had unlimited money and no goddamn conscience. Rows of black leather jackets, sleek dark jeans, ripped shirts, moody dresses in stormy shades of gray and blood-red. Boots, combat and heeled. Statement jewelry glinting under the soft recessed lights.

And there, tucked between it all, a few familiar items.

My ratty hoodie from the cabin. My favorite worn-out jeans with the split seam at the pocket. My first black leather jacket I spent six months saving up for.

I take a stumbling step back, chest tight, a tidal wave oftoo muchrolling over me.

They didn’t just guess.

Theyknew.

They studied me so closely they could rebuild me from memory if they had to.

I slam the door shut harder than necessary and lean my forehead against it, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing a deep, slow breath into my lungs. It doesn’t help. The reality still slams into me like a freight train:

Theybuiltthis world around me.

And part of me—the most traitorous part—wants to step inside that closet, run my fingers across every hem, every leather jacket, andbelong.

I shove the thought down so hard it almost chokes me and push off the door, marching toward the second door.

The bathroom is exactly what I expect: more dark decadence. Black marble countertops, gray tiled floors that gleam under soft recessed lights, burgundy towels folded with military precision. The shower is a glass-walled monstrosity, big enough for two—or three. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and something sharper underneath. Something that smells likethem.

I cross to the counter, hands bracing the cool stone, and lift my gaze to the mirror.

And stop.

My reflection stares back at me: hair a wild mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still heavy-lidded from pleasure and exhaustion. A dark bruise is beginning to bloom low on my throat where Rule’s hand wrapped around it last night. I look wrecked. I look wild.