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But the towel in his hand is soft. And I’m so goddamn tired.

So I let him.

He kneels and starts at my ankles, drying me with slow, deliberate strokes. Up my calves. Over my thighs. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t leer. Just touches me like he has every right to. Like this is penance. Or prayer.

“Why do you care?” I ask suddenly, voice brittle and sharp with accusation. “Why any of this?”

Rule stills, the towel held loosely in his hands, his body tense, every muscle suddenly rigid beneath his tactical gear. “Because we’ve watched you for a very long time, Seanna. Longer than you can imagine.”

I narrow my eyes, feeling a chill climb slowly up my spine. “How long?”

“Long enough,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost distant. “Ruin found you first, years before we even met. It’s not my place to tell his story, but he showed you to me. I was fifteen, just a fucked-up kid with too much anger and not enough purpose. And then I saw you through a video feed—footage he’d hacked into—and suddenly, you became all the purpose I needed.”

My pulse quickens, breath catching in my chest. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means we’ve watched every part of your life unfold,” he continues. “The way you fight, the way you bleed, the way you hide every vulnerability behind rage and strength. We’ve watched you pace your cabin late at night when sleep wouldn’t come. Seen you train until your knuckles bled because you’d rather hurt than break.”

“I know how long it takes you to lace your boots in the morning when you’re pissed off. I know you leave your cabin exactly two minutes early on Thursdays because you always drop by your sister's cabin to make sure she is safe. I know you grind your teeth if anyone talks over you. You clench your left fist tighter than your right when you lie. And you make grilled cheese when you’re feeling low.”

My throat tightens.

“I know,” he breathes, pressing the towel to my collarbone, “that when you wear your hair in a braid, it’s because you’re trying to look more put together than you feel. I know you buy cherry pastries when you want a treat, and I know you eat the cream cheese out of the center first. I know that the sound of a lighter flick makes you flinch. I know where every scar on your body came from.”

His voice drops even lower.

“And I know you pretend not to want to be owned. But you do. You want someone to see through every shield you wear and still choose you. You want someone to take the control away, just long enough for you to remember how to breathe.”

My heart’s slamming in my chest now.

“I care, we both care,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly, “because we’ve been inside your life longer than you realize. Not just a shadow, not just a name. We were there. Every time you thought you were being watched—you were. Every time you felt like someone had been inside your cabin—someone had. It was us.”

I swallow hard, trying to breathe.

His voice grows quieter, deeper. “And we watched you bury your friend last year—Jessica. The one who went through DEA training with you. Watched you stand by her grave in the rain, fists clenched so tight I thought your bones would break, all because Reyes’ drugs stole her from you.”

Pain lashes through me, sudden and raw, slicing open memories I’ve tried desperately to keep buried. “Stop it.”

“No,” he says firmly, standing to his full hight. “You asked, so now you get the truth. You consumed us, little storm. Ruin first, and then me. You became our obsession, our fixation—something fierce and unstoppable. We’ve watched you burn through life, leaving destruction in your wake, and instead of turning away, we found ourselves wanting to step closer. Wanting to feel the heat firsthand, knowing full well it might destroy us.”

I’m breathing harder now, chest heaving as something dark and tangled coils tightly within me. “Why do you both call me that?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend but steady.

His head tilts slightly, considering me. The stillness in him is more unnerving than any movement could ever be. "Little storm?" he repeats, as though savoring the words.

I nod, my heart aching beneath the weight of everything he’s revealing. He steps closer. My heart slams violently against my ribs, but I refuse to flinch.

"Because," he murmurs, voice silk and smoke, "you’ve swept through our lives like thunder and lightning. Unpredictable. Fierce. Impossible to control."

He circles me slowly, and I shiver despite myself. I sense him behind me, his presence brushing my skin like an invisible force. The heat radiating from him, the whisper of his mask against my hair, intensifies my awareness of how dangerously close he is.

"But storms are also beautiful," he continues softly. "Terrifyingly so. They are untamed power, captivating chaos."

A shudder rakes through me—not fear, but something else, something darker and deeper. His gloved fingers trace the curve of my shoulder, barely touching, sending electricity jolting through every nerve.

"So we watched you," he says. "We waited. We saw you set your sights on Reyes. Tried to predict your moves. But deep down, we knew storms can’t truly be tamed. They can only be admired—or feared."

I turn my head slightly, desperate to catch a glimpse beyond his mask. “And you?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you admire the storm, or fear it?”

He pauses for a moment, his proximity suffocating, his touch tantalizingly withheld. "Both," he admits, the single word wrapping around me like velvet bindings. "And perhaps that’s exactly why you’re irresistible. Taking you was like capturing lightning in a bottle—thrilling, impossible, bound to burn us if we aren’t careful."