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And I can feel it all. The twitch of him. The heat. The burn.

And even though he has pretty much destroyed me—I wantmore.

Chapter 30

Seanna

Therehastobesomething magic about their dicks.

And no, I’m not talking about the piercings—though let’s be real, the steel crosses and barbells probably qualify as dark fucking runes at this point.

No. It’s something else. Something cursed. Somethingwrong. Because every time either of them is inside me, my brain turns to soup and my spine forgets how to function. I’m not a stupid girl. I’m not weak. I lead a goddamn DEA task force. I’ve interrogated men twice my size and watched them piss themselves when I smiled. I take down predators for a living—ruthless, slick assholes who think power makes them untouchable.

And I’veneverneeded a man to fuck me.

When I have sex, it’s onmyterms. I scratch the itch, I climb on top, I get off—maybe—and then I walk away because the poor bastard is usually halfway to tears just trying to keep up. Most of them don’t even get that far.

Sohow—howthe fuck did I end up here?

In the arms of one of the two masked psychopaths who stalked me, kidnapped me, sabotaged my investigation, and derailed the takedown of Javier fucking Reyes. One of them hunted me through a forest rigged with traps and branded my body with my own blood. The other didn’t need blood to brand me—he used devotion like a weapon, fucked me with reverence so dark it felt holy, until my body couldn’t tell the difference between worship and war.

And the worst part?

I let them.

Hell—I begged for it.

The shame simmers under my skin, sticky and raw, but it doesn’t drown out the need. It doesn’t cancel the high of being taken apart with such precision that I forgot where I ended and they began. They’ve hardwired me with arousal. Rewritten my tolerance for pain. Hijacked my brain chemistry and made submission feel likerelief.

And maybe it should bother me more that I’m not screaming in rebellion right now. That I’m not biting Rule’s fucking neck as he carries me back toward the house I tried to escape from just hours ago.

But no. My traitorous, aching, blood-streaked body isnestledin his arms, curled instinctively toward his chest like it’s safe there. Like I’m not being dragged back into the lion’s den by the same beast who choked me until I shattered and then fucked me through every aftershock.

I should be plotting to murder these men slowly and creatively. I should be focused on clawing my way out of this mindfuck long enough to regroup, reload, and hunt Reyes to the ends of the fucking earth.

But instead?

I’m watching the tree canopy blur overhead while Rule’s hand supports the base of my spine like I’m made of porcelain instead of rage. My pulse is a slow, hypnotized thud. My thighs are still trembling. And despite everything—despiteeverything—I don’t try to wriggle free.

And the masks? I should care more about the masks. I should be demanding names, peeling back layers, memorizing every detail for the revenge IsworeI’d carve into their skin.

But the truth?

I’ve spent so long in the shadows myself, wearing masks the organization gave us, that theirs don’t even faze me.

Maybe that’s the real problem.

The mask is something I respect.

I’ve worn one too many times myself.

My half-skull mask hiding my face, the hood of my jacket up, a blade strapped down the inside of my thigh while I creep into places no one should know I’m in. When I’m on jobs for the Organization—ones that don’t show up in the DEA’s pretty little database—I become something else entirely. A shadow. A ghost. A storm no one sees coming.

And they know that. They’vewatchedme be that.

So maybe that’s why I haven’t been clawing at theirs more. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been trying to tear off their masks with bloody fingernails and demanding to know who they are. Because some part of me understands the power in anonymity.

Maybe that’s why I’m not fighting as much as I should.