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My pulse is wild, betraying any shred of denial I have left. His hand is relentless, fingertips pressing and circling, coaxing out my buried secrets.

"Damn you," I whisper, voice barely audible as I turn my head away, cheeks burning. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" He demands gently, his voice velvet-edged steel, utterly commanding as his fingers slide purposefully lower, expertly building my pleasure. "Say it clearly, Seanna. Tell me exactly what you fantasize about."

I swallow hard, pride finally collapsing beneath his relentless, intoxicating touch. "Yes," I admit breathlessly, embarrassment fighting against the fierce arousal. "I've thought about it—being taken while asleep. Helpless. Used."

"Good fucking girl," he purrs darkly, approval thick in his voice. His fingers withdraw abruptly, leaving me cruelly bereft and trembling. I nearly sob with frustration as he rises to his feet.

"Try to behave yourself today, little storm," he murmurs, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "I’ll be thinking about that fantasy all morning."

The door clicks shut behind him, and I slump against the headboard, heart pounding, body trembling, fury and desperate arousal warring violently within me.

There’s no point pretending I’ll be able to think clearly now—not with the feel of him still clinging to my skin, and the sick, spiraling realization that a part of mewantshim to make good on every twisted promise he’s made.

Chapter 23

Seanna

Time’savindictivelittlebitch when you’re chained to a bed with nothing but your own traitorous thoughts for company. Every second stretches and warps like melted taffy—sticky, slow, and so fucking smug about it. I have no idea how long it’s been since Rule left me dripping, throbbing, and absolutely goddamn furious. Ten minutes? Ten years? I wouldn’t know the difference.

All I know is I’m done.

The silence is deafening. Not peaceful. Not meditative. Just loud in the way only silence can be—echoing every shaky breath I try to steady, amplifying every heartbeat that thuds like a countdown to some inevitable, soul-fucking unraveling.

I yank at the restraints again. Just to hear them rattle. Just to remind myself I’m stillhere, still capable of resistance, even if the chains don’t give. I’ve already counted the links on both sides—fourteen on the left, thirteen on the right. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the asymmetry. I have. And it pisses me off.

I trace the same small circle on the sheet with my toe like a deranged ballerina on a leash. It’s pathetic, but it’s movement. Any movement, at this point, feels like defiance.

I should be hunting Reyes right now. I should be on the warpath, dragging that cartel bastard out of whatever snake hole he’s hiding in and watching the light drain from his eyes as I make him pay for every name on my list.

But instead?

Instead, I’m here.

Trapped in some fucked-up five-star kidnapping fantasy while two masked lunatics take turns feeding me, edging me, and rewiring my brain like I’m their favorite science experiment with a praise kink.

And the worst part?

It’sworking.

This isn’t just kidnapping.

It’s fuckingcurated captivity.

A psychological house of mirrors where I’m not just the prisoner—I’m the obsession. The spectacle. The centerpiece.

Every moment feelsintentional. Every interaction is precision-cut to fit between my ribs and push. Ruin talks like he invented seduction—his words sweet, slow, soaked in molasses and menace. Every syllable feels like a velvet ribbon meant to wrap around my throat and tighten. And Rule? Rule is the opposite. Blunt. Practical. But under that steel edge is a dangerous warmth. The kind of heat that makes you lean closer before you realize the stove is on fire. The kind of man who could break your bones—and then carry you to bed and fuck the pain out of you.

God help me, I must have a kink for masked psychopaths.

Because despite the fact that I want to claw their eyes out, I can’t stop reacting. Can’t stopfeeling. Every time they walk into the room, the air changes. My body betrays me. And my mouth? My mouth runs hot and fast, because if I don’t spit fire, I might start begging.

I fucking hate them.

I hate that I’m still here. I hate that I’m starting to expect and anticipate the routine—food, chains, emotional whiplash, psychological chess, more chains, then more food and a fresh new round of mindfuckery.

And even worse still?