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My gaze sweeps across the room, sharp and assessing. Gray walls, dark enough to be soothing yet oppressive, adorned with minimalist art that feels too carefully chosen—black and white scenes hinting at stormy skies and shadowed forests. Dark, sleek furniture in shades of gray and black sits polished and impeccable, every angle deliberate, every surface spotless.

My heart stutters when I see the black velvet armchair tucked in the corner. Empty for now, but I know better. He’ll be sitting there soon enough, watching.

Every detail of this room screams control, possession, and intimate knowledge of exactly who I am beneath all my armor. It’s meticulous. Crafted. Designed to pull at threads I didn’t even know were unraveling until now.

I shove away the discomfort that coils through my chest, refusing to acknowledge the creeping heat beneath the anger. Their twisted truths and hidden identities still linger in my thoughts, taunting me. They’ve stolen more than my freedom; they’ve seeped into my blood, rewired my fucking soul, and left me craving things I despise myself for.

And then my eyes catch on the nightstand beside me.

On the vase filled with black roses.

My jaw tightens, eyes narrowing dangerously. The flowers are stunning—flawless ebony blooms spilling artfully over the rim.

Lucky for those masked bastards they’re not here, because the heavy crystal vase holding those roses would look perfect shattered against their skulls.

The door is closed, and I assume locked. I’m alone, but I’m not stupid enough to believe they aren’t watching.

They’re always watching.

Time passes.

Slow. Uneventful. Suffocating.

Eventually, the tension threading my spine loosens. The rage doesn't leave, not fully, but it simmers low and quiet, like embers waiting for dry kindling. My head lolls back against the velvet headboard, and I let my eyes close, just for a second. Just to rest. Just to breathe.

Sleep drags me back under like a riptide.

I don’t dream.

Or maybe I do—dark things that curl like smoke, soft touches and sharp edges, masked shadows whispering things I’m too afraid to want.

But when I jolt awake, there’s no more pretending.

They’re here.

One of them sits in the black velvet armchair, legs spread, gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin like he’s been there all along, watching me sleep like I’m some fascinating, dangerous thing under glass.

The other leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose but unreadable. His mask gleams faintly in the low light, his silhouette cut from shadow. Casual. Lethal.

My body stiffens instantly.

I blink hard, heart thundering once before slamming itself into a wall of rage. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I snap, voice hoarse. “You ever consider knocking before you decide to creep-watch me like a pair of serial killers?"

Neither of them moves.

I scan them both, my pulse pounding behind my eyes. Rule is the same—cool, steady—but Ruin? There’s a stillness to him that unnerves me more than anything. He doesn’t even twitch. Like he’s carved out of something colder than bone. And yet... I swear I can feel the heat of his attention pinning me to the mattress.

Ruin is the one who speaks. Calm. Measured. Like I didn’t just accuse him of being a psychopath with a voyeurism kink. Which, let's face it, I’m pretty certain he is at this point.

“That was very stupid of you.”

I glare at him. “You’ll have to be more specific. I do a lot of stupid shit these days. Mostly because ofyou two.”

“You shouldn’t have told Hydessa,” he clarifies. His tone isn’t angry. It’s colder than that—flat, controlled, and edged with something dangerous beneath the surface.

I scoff, yanking against the cuffs even though I know it’s pointless. “Yeah? Well, it wasstupid of youto take me in the first place.”

He doesn’t show any reaction. Just sits there in that throne-like chair like judgment incarnate. Watching. Measuring.