Page 63 of Horror and Chill

The smirk that curves his mouth makes my stomach flip, and a well-known tingle hits my clit, damn traitor that it is.

“You liked being used like a fuck toy,” he says. “Don’t lie. And is asking you out on a date really your style, Agatha? Honestly, would you have gone on a date with allthreeof us? Your student’s uncles?”

My throat goes tight. I want to spit yes, just to spite him, but the truth burns hotter. “You’re not wrong,” I mutter.

He pushes off the wall, takes two slow steps closer. “You don’t strike me as the dating type. You’re the fuck-them-and-leave-them type.”

“You’re still not wrong.”

He stops by the bed. His shadow falls across me.

“What do you want from me? And don’t say everything,” I snap. “Don’t give me some bullshit line or riddle. I want real words. How do I get out of here?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Agree to forever.”

I bark out a laugh. “Okay, not happening. How do I get out of these restraints?”

“Make us trust you not to run.”

The leather cuffs press harder into my skin as I jerk against them. “Then tell me what you want from me! No bullshit, no lines, no fucking poetry. What the fuck do you expect me to do?”

His eyes glint like he’s been waiting for me to ask that. “We want you to rule over us. To want us even though we’re murderers. To crave us even though we can hurt you. We want to right the wrongs done to you in the past, with you by our side.” He leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Better if you hold the knife.”

I gasp before I can stop myself.

He smiles like it’s everything he hoped for. “Think about it,” he murmurs, and then he turns, leaving me strapped to the bed, seething.

I stare at the door long after it shuts. My chest is a knot of heat and rage and something worse—want.

Can I do what they want? Should I?

And what shade of fucked up does it make me that I’m even considering it?

“Dammit,” I whisper against the empty room, dragging air in through my teeth. I try again, twisting, rolling my body, testing how much space I have. Not much. They knew what they were doing when they strapped me here.

I stare up at the ceiling and start calculating. Could I dislocate my thumb? Could I rip my skin raw enough to slip free? Could I fake stillness long enough to make them believe I’ve given in, then take my chance when the door opens again?

I close my eyes and picture them. Corwin—reckless, unhinged, the one who would push me just to see if I’d break. Then Garron, he’d hold me down until I stopped fighting, not cruel, just inevitable. And Evander… the one who watches too close, who says too little. He makes me feel seen in ways I don’t want, like he knows the shape of every scar without needing to look.

The thought makes my stomach turn, but heat pools low anyway. I hate it. I hate them for making me feel this twisted.

They said forever. They said rule. They said bleed. And I can’t tell if the shiver running through me is fear or hunger.

Can I do what they want? Could I really stand beside men who murder and call it devotion? Could I rule anything when my wrists are raw and bound above my head?

The cuffs creak as I twist again, teeth clenched. I refuse to break for them. But the worst part?

Some fucked-up part of me wonders if I already have.

That thought is poison, but it slides through me, anyway.

I force my breathing to slow. One, two, three. I count until the thudding in my chest starts to soften. If I’m going to survive this, I have to think, not panic.

I look around the room, cataloguing every detail. Wood-paneled walls. A dresser scarred with scratches. Heavy curtains pulled over the windows. Cabin furniture, plain and solid. A lamp in the corner that casts too much yellow light. I don’t know whose vacation place this is, but it doesn’t matter. It’s mine now, at least for as long as they keep me here.

I start planning like I always do.

The cuffs: leather, thick, locked. Not breaking those without tools. The bedframe: metal, bolted into the wall. No way to wiggle it loose. My body: restrained, aching, alive. My mind: frantic, furious, calculating.