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And when I swallow, he leans in—just close enough for his voice to slide under my skin.

“We know your rage,” he murmurs. “But we also know your softness. Your silence. The parts of you that bleed in the dark where no one else looks.”

I turn my face away, jaw tight. “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Doesn’t tease.

He just says: “Someday, you’ll thank us for seeing it all.”

Then he moves the plate with the other half of the sandwich to the bedside table and takes the tray as he walks away. Like he hasn’t just cracked open a part of me I didn’t even realize was exposed.

And this time, when the door shuts behind him—I don’t just feel fury.

I feel fear.

Because maybe theyhaveread me cover to cover.

And maybe they’re not just playing a game.

Maybe they’re rewriting my story from the inside out.

Chapter 24

Seanna

Istareattheclosed door, the taste of grilled cheese on my tongue. Anger bubbles beneath my skin, restless and sharp-edged. Why the fuck would they even suggest a truce if they're not going to truly take advantage of it? This isn't a ceasefire—it's psychological warfare under the guise of fake kindness. And why the hell does this grilled cheese mean more to me than the cherry and cream cheese pastries?

Both mean they've been watching me closely—too closely—for a long damn time, but the pastries were an indulgence, a treat that I'd given myself freely in happier moments. The grilled cheese, though... it's different. It's a comfort, a crutch I've leaned on in some of my lowest, most vulnerable moments. Times when I was too worn down to be strong. Times I thought no one was watching.

But they were. Fuck, they've always been watching and I never knew.

My chest tightens, and I force down the last of the sandwich, choking on emotions I never invited, memories I never wanted dragged up. I swallow hard, furious at myself for letting this affect me, furious at them for knowing exactly which strings to pull.

It's not long before the door opens again. For a second, I can't tell which one of them it is. He isn't carrying food, but that doesn't automatically mean it’s not Rule—he’s fucked with me enough times already. Yet, something in the way he moves, the predatory calmness, the quiet assurance of his steps tells me exactly who it is.

Ruin.

Jesus. I'm starting to recognize them without even needing words.

He pauses halfway to the bed, head tilted slightly. I’m sure he is assessing me in that quiet, detached way of his.

"Need to use the bathroom?" His modulated voice is deceptively gentle.

I glare defiantly at his masked face. "If you're feeling generous enough to pretend I still have basic human rights."

He shakes his head slightly, mask unreadable but smugness clear in his tone. "Always so combative, Seanna. It’s almost endearing."

I deliberately rattle the chains binding my wrists, my eyes narrowed dangerously. "Glad my captivity amuses you."

He moves closer, each step unhurried. He unlocks my restraints with care, gloved fingers lingering against my wrists, sparking a traitorous heat beneath my rage. I yank my wrists free as soon as the cuffs open.

Standing abruptly, dizziness sweeps over me, and his hands immediately grip my waist, steadying me firmly.

"Don’t," I snap, muscles taut as I try to jerk away.

"You keep saying that," he murmurs calmly, tightening his grip in silent warning. "Yet your body always tells a different story."

I hate the heat that rises to my skin. He releases me once he's certain I'm steady, gesturing mockingly toward the sliding bathroom door.