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“You have no idea,” he murmurs, breath hot against my neck, “what you do to me.”

I blink once—slowly—but I don't look away.

Ican’t.

He leans in closer, his mask brushing the stray strands of my hair, his chest brushing the curve of my back in a contact so light it feels almost imagined. But it isn’t. It’s real. Every atom between us charged and aching.

“You standing there…” His voice scrapes lower, rougher. “Wearing that fucking lingerie we bought for you. So still, so proud. So fucking defiant.”

His hands move. At last. Sliding up the outside of my thighs—slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin, every sharp line and soft curve.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, voice breaking like it costs him something vital. His fingers trace the curve of my hips, skating over the delicate lace that cuts into my skin. “You’reours. You’remine.”

The possessiveness in that word doesn’t scare me.

Itbrandsme.

I shudder under his touch, a helpless tremor running through me that no amount of willpower can suppress. Heat floods my skin in waves, drowning every rational thought I still have left.

“I look at you,” he breathes, “and I wonder how the fuck I ever thought I could stay away.”

His hands trail higher—up over my waist, my ribs—dragging lightly over the faint bruises and rope-burns they left etched into me like a map of ownership. His touch is achingly careful now. Tender. Worshipful.

“You were born for this,” he rasps against my skin, his breath ghosting over the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “Born to drive us insane. To bring us to our fucking knees.”

One hand cups my breast through the thin lace—fingers rolling my nipple between them with almost cruel precision—while the other slips lower. Fingertips finding the scrap of lace between my thighs and shifting it aside with devastating ease.

Two fingers press against my slick entrance—teasing, testing. I gasp, clutching the edge of the counter, knuckles bone-white against the marble to stay upright.

He watches me through the mirror. Watches every flicker of my expression, every desperate twitch of my thighs. SeeseverythingI’m trying not to give him.

He watches my face as his fingers circle—once, twice—then slip inside me with a slow, deliberate thrust.

Stretching. Curling.

My mouth falls open in a soft, broken moan I can’t swallow down fast enough.

He groans low against my neck like my sound fuels him.

"You feel it too," he rasps, his breath skating across my throat. "The way you fit around me. The way you fuckingmeltfor me without even trying."

His fingers pump slow, curling just right with every thrust, coaxing a tremor up my thighs, a helpless twitch in my hips.

And still—still he holds back.

The tension thickens. Grows almost unbearable. I can feel him waiting for something. Expecting something.

Finally—he speaks again. This time softer.

“Now that you know,” he says, almost a whisper, “that it was Bodhi behind Rule’s mask...” He pauses, like he needs to force the next words out. “Does it change anything, Seanna?”

The question lodges under my ribs like a blade, cuts me open. Lays me bare.

I open my mouth—close it again.

Because fuck, I don’t know. Becauseyes—it should change everything. Andno—it changes nothing at all.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet. Not when my chest is cracked open and my heart’s slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.