Page 12

T he shower water pounds against my back, the heat scalding my skin. Steam thickens the air as I brace my hands against the tile, head bowed. It’s been two days since her night in the basement—two days, and she hasn’t eaten, hasn’t left the bedroom.

Both nights, she woke me up with piercing screams echoing through the house. It took me a moment to realize she was still asleep the first time it happened. The scream was on my security monitor, and it was her, sleeping in bed, the nightmare playing out. Last night was the same. The same harrowing scream. The same look of terror twisting her face. Screaming Mommy at the top of her lungs repeatedly. I almost went in—almost. But I stayed in my room, watching through the monitor. Eventually, she settled, the nightmare passing.

Daylight hasn’t been any different. I’ve watched her through the cameras, her movements slow—if she even moves at all. A brief trip to the bathroom. Back to bed. Ignoring her calls and messages has become routine—it’s almost laughable. She’ll have to come out eventually.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the night I made her come with the knife. How fucking tight and wet she was. The sounds she made and the way her body trembled. The image is burned into my brain, making me crazy—obsessed. No amount of jerking off is taking the edge off. It’s fucking pathetic.

I slide my hand down my torso and wrap my rock-hard shaft. Images of her writhing under me flash through my mind, her moans echoing in my head. I stroke myself, my hand pumping up and down, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through me.

The image of her on her knees, her mouth wrapped around my cock, flashes through my mind. I groan and fist my hand in her hair, her blue eyes wide. I slam into her throat, and she gags, tears streaming down her face.

“You like that, little siren?”

She moans, nodding her head. I pull out and thrust into her again, my cock hitting the back of her throat. She sucks and licks, taking me deeper and deeper. My hand strokes faster and faster.

“Oh, fuck,” I grunt, leaning against the tile, the pressure building inside me.

She’s sucking me hard, her tongue swirling around the head of my cock. Drool drips down her chin, and her cheeks are hollowed.

“Take my cock like a good girl.” My grip on her hair tightens as I fuck her mouth, my cock slamming in and out of her.

I’m so close; my breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” I grunt, and my balls tighten, the heat coiling inside me.

Cum spurts into the air, dripping down the shower wall. The orgasm is intense, pleasure radiating through me in waves. I pump myself, milking every drop of cum from my throbbing cock.

I turn the water off and step out, grabbing a towel. I wipe the condensation off the mirror and stare at myself.

I should just fuck her—get it out of my system. Rip her apart and be done. But a taste won’t be enough. I want all of her. Every inch. Every breath. Her body, her surrender—her fucking soul.

Then I’ll break her.

Three days.

I haven’t moved from this bed.

My stomach is empty, my throat dry, and my head throbbing.

My nieces have a ballet recital today. I promised them I’d be there. My phone’s blowing up with texts and Spencer’s missed calls, but I’m ignoring it all.

The constant buzz is driving me up the wall.

Everyone else’s lives are moving on, and mine’s come to a screeching halt.

Trapped. Stuck. A prisoner in my own nightmare.

Sure, this room is enormous and the bed’s soft and plush, but it’s not mine. It’s not the home I busted my ass for or the life I’ve been fighting to build.

This house feels foreign, the furniture unfamiliar, and the silence suffocating. I’ve never felt so hopeless and helpless. Not since the day my mom died. Now, I’m stuck in a loop of nightmares, unable to sleep, eat, or do a damn thing.

I hate this feeling. I hate being trapped.

The curtains are drawn, but the sun’s sneaking through, and it’s stabbing my eyes with its brightness. Kane’s curled up at the foot of the bed, his big head resting on his paws.

He’s the only thing that feels real right now. When I heard him whining and scratching at the door the first night, I let him in. Now, he’s my nightly buddy.

I need to get out of this hellhole. I’m not some pathetic victim.

With a determined shove, I drag myself out of bed and shuffle to the shower. The heat feels good, soothing away some of the stiffness.

After my shower, I wrap a towel around myself and face the mirror. My hair’s a mess, my skin pale, and bruises from the basement blossom across my skin. There’s a nasty cut on my arm from where the concrete scraped me.

This isn’t who I am. I refuse to be a victim, not to him, not to anyone.

Axel Hawthorne will not break me.

I blow-dry my hair and brush it until it falls around my shoulders like it used to—smooth, voluminous. I take my time with my makeup, layering on concealer, blush, and mascara like war paint. I need to look perfect, to claw back a sliver of my old self.

When I’m done, I slip into beige wide-leg trousers and a cropped silk blouse that shows off my toned abs and accentuates the curve of my hips.

Then I strut to the closet and grab a pair of gold strappy heels. This outfit is perfect and exactly what I need to boost my confidence. The bruises are hidden, and I look like the Rory Valentine I remember—minus the disgusting metal collar locked around my neck.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway. Kane trailing at my heels. I head downstairs, exploring my prison.

Weak light filters through the windows, but it does nothing to soften the shadows stretching across the floor. At the back window, I pause. A pool glitters under the sun, framed by a wall of dense forest.

Walking through the house, the wealth is impossible to ignore—exquisite paintings, polished sculptures. But it all feels so cold and empty, like a showroom rather than a home. This place might be beautiful, but it’s a fucking mausoleum. Just like the man who brought me here.

On the main level, my phone buzzes with another flurry of texts from Spencer. I assure him I’ll be there and ignore the rest of his messages. Kane trots beside me, tail wagging, as I navigate the maze of this gilded prison.

I finally stumble into the kitchen: sleek, modern, and excessively shiny. White cabinets, black granite counters, stainless steel appliances—every gadget imaginable. There’s a massive center island, multiple refrigerators stocked with every conceivable food and drink, and a grand fireplace that dominates one wall. The dining table could easily host a small army.

“Mrs. Hawthorne.” A woman’s voice startles me. She’s older, with short black hair and warm brown eyes. “I’m Rosa. Can I get you something to eat?”

“Please call me Rory.” Mrs. Hawthorne? Not in this lifetime.

I notice her Italian accent and, with a hint of my rusty Italian, ask where she’s from in Italy.

“ Di che parte d’Italia sei? ”

Rosa’s eyes widen, then brighten with a smile that reaches her eyes. She pulls me into a warm hug and reveals her family is from Milan. We exchange stories while she gives me the grand tour of the kitchen.

My mother adored Italy. She had a villa in Venice and spoke fluent Italian. I spent every summer there as a kid, soaking up the language and culture. Rosa seems delighted to chat with me, and her company is a welcome distraction.

She’s been with the Hawthornes for years and knows their history inside and out. I’m not interested in Axe’s story, but the rest of the family? That piques my curiosity.

“You speak Italian?” A deep voice startles me, and I turn to find Griffen standing in the doorway. I’d noticed him at the wedding—could’ve sworn I was seeing double. He and Axe are like mirror images, though Axe is bulkier and has more tattoos. “Well, that’s unexpected. I’m Griffen, Axel’s cousin.” He winks, and I can’t help but smile.

Rosa mutters something about him being the messy Hawthorne in Italian, and I stifle a laugh.

“Rory,” I introduce myself, sizing him up.

He’s got that laid-back vibe I didn’t expect—tousled brown hair, a scruffy face, and casual black T-shirt and joggers that show off his muscular body.

Another Hawthorne? Meh. But Griffen looks more approachable than Axe.

“So, what other surprises are you hiding?” His playful grin is almost contagious as Rosa slips out, leaving us alone.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” I reply with a shrug, playing along with his teasing.

He hums, his eyes lingering on my exposed stomach. “I think I’d like that.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re not so bad for a Hawthorne,” I tease. “Do you live here?”

“I do. Crashing in one of the guest rooms between missions. It’s convenient.” His easy charm catches me off guard, his humor slipping in where I don’t expect it. Compared to his cousin, Griffen’s a goddamn breath of fresh air.

I glance at the clock, frustration creeping in.

His brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

“Just didn’t realize the time,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m late for a family event. Do you know where my car keys are?”

“Axe has them,” he says, amused. I scowl at the thought. He laughs, shaking his head. “His room is on the third floor, last set of doors on the left. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, heading toward the stairs. I face two massive double doors at the end of the long hallway.

With a deep breath, I knock. My stomach tightens, and I swallow hard.

“Axe!” I call out. There’s movement inside, but no response. “I’m late. Can you tell me where my car keys are?”

The door swings open, revealing Axe’s chiseled chest with the Sovereign brand on his pec and multiple tattoos. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless.

His muscles ripple as he crosses his arms, his tan skin a stark contrast to the dark ink. I try not to stare, but his hard abs and the V-cut of his muscles are hard to ignore. I have to fight the infuriating urge to gawk and the desire to punch him in the face simultaneously.

“What?”

“Car. Keys.” I grit my teeth, irritated by his attitude. “I’m late.”

Leaning against the doorframe, his eyes sweep over my body, lingering a little too long on my midsection. His blatant eye-fucking makes me want to slap him.

“Nice outfit.” His eyes finally meet mine. I glare in response. “Where are we going?” he asks nonchalantly.

“ We aren’t going anywhere,” I snap. “I am. You’re not invited.”

“Is that so?” He closes the space between us. He’s too close, his breath grazing my face. He wants me to flinch, to cower—but he’s not getting that from me. “Either I go, or you’re not leaving.”

“Fine,” I mutter, knowing it’s pointless to argue.

“I’ll drive,” he says, stepping back. “But you’ll have to earn it.”

My jaw clenches, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “How?”

His eyes lock onto mine, the tension thick.

“Walk to the end of the hallway and crawl to me. Then we can go.”

“Crawl?” I sputter in disbelief.

“Crawl like a good little pet.”

Rage and humiliation surge through me. I’m about to tell him to fuck off when the realization hits me. He’s like every other Sovereign. Power-hungry. Controlling. Obsessed with his own importance. And that can be manipulated.

You can manipulate their every move if you make them feel in control. That’s what the Sirens do. It’s what my clients pay for. Their every fantasy and desire fulfilled. I’m damn good at my job, and he has no idea. I make people believe whatever they want, and this asshole is no exception. I can make him believe anything.

I can play the part—the submissive, obedient sex doll. I can be whatever he needs me to be. I can lie, deceive, and make him think he’s in control. But he isn’t. I am.

Playing a role is what I do best.

Without another word, I strut to the end of the hallway, throwing a glance over my shoulder to meet his stare. His expression is a mix of challenge and anticipation.

I unzip my pants agonizingly slow before letting them fall to the floor. I step out, giving them a little nudge to kick them aside. His eyes never leave me, and a small smirk tugs at my lips as I catch the tightening of his jaw.

Next, I lift the bottom of my blouse, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. Left only in my heels, panties, and bra, I run my hands over my body with practiced seduction, letting them linger on my breasts.

His gaze follows every movement, and I can almost feel his breath quicken.

This is a game, and I’m not just playing—I’m winning.

I have to suppress a smile at his growing erection. Next, I teasingly dip my hand into the waistband of my panties and slowly slide them down my hips, letting them pool around my feet.

His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and his eyes—dark, hungry—are a dead giveaway. He’s doing a shit job of hiding it. Axe’s the type who always gets what he wants, and right now, he’s desperate for me.

With a practiced flick, I unfasten my bra. Standing naked in front of him, I can almost taste the shift in power. His jaw is clenched, his fists curled.

I drop to all fours, maintaining eye contact as I begin crawling slowly down the hallway. My hips sway with each movement, my breasts bouncing with them. I’ve played this game before—seducing men I can’t stand, wearing a smile that hides everything I want to scream. This is no different. I’ll pretend his touch isn’t repulsive. Pretend this doesn’t feel so damn wrong.

As I draw closer, my skin flushes with heat, my heart racing at the intensity of his stare. When I finally reach him, I kneel and tilt my head back, locking our eyes with a sly smile.

His eyes widen when I bite my lip, his breath ragged. The mix of shock and desire on his face is thrilling.

I reach out, my hand trailing slowly up his thighs, feeling the muscle tense under my touch. The heat of his skin radiates through my fingers. Suddenly, he grabs the back of my hair and yanks me up, his control slipping even further.

My breasts press against his naked chest, and his other hand wraps around my waist, his fingers digging into my skin.

“What are you doing, little siren?”

I flash him a sly grin, letting my finger drift across his muscular chest, tracing the intricate lines of his tattoos.

“Just earning my ride,” I purr, feeling his grip on my hair tighten in response. Sliding my hand down his abs, I follow the V-line of his muscles, feeling them twitch under my touch. He groans—low, primal, and just what I was hoping for.

But before I can push further, his hand clamps around my wrist, stopping me. “You told me to crawl,” I say, fluttering my lashes innocently.

His nostrils flare, his grip bruising now.

Oh, is the mighty Reaper slipping?

“Get dressed.” The order snaps out, sharp and angry, as he shoves me away. I stagger back, and he turns, stalking into his room.

My smile is short-lived, knowing I just crawled naked, for Axel Hawthorne. But seeing the shock on his face and my body’s effect on him was worth it.

Axe’s BMW roars down the highway, sleek and fast. He’s dressed in black jeans and a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his muscles, showing off a body that I grudgingly admit looks good.

But admiring him is a waste of energy. He’s a fucking asshole.

“So,” he breaks the silence, “where are we going?”

“A ballet recital.”

“A ballet recital?” The amusement in his voice annoys me. His biceps flex as he grips the wheel, tattoos stretching over his muscles.

He threw me in a damn dungeon and made me crawl to him, but here I am, distracted by his muscles.

I glance in the mirror and catch sight of the metal collar. I don’t want to face my family today. Questions, stares, whispers about Axe and me—I’d rather avoid all of it. I could hide the collar with a turtleneck or scarf, but it’s June and scorching outside. The bruises are mostly hidden, but the collar is impossible to ignore.

“What?” He glances at me, clearly enjoying my irritation.

“I want this stupid collar off.”

“No. You’re mine. It stays on.”

“Do you throw all the women you kidnap into basements?” I glare at him. “Or am I special?”

“Rory,” he growls, his grip on the wheel tightening, “if you were anyone else, you’d be dead. I don’t fuck around. Don’t test me. And if you ask about that collar again, you’ll wish you were back in the basement. You’re mine. End of story. Get used to it.”

“You can’t keep me collared like an animal.”

“I can. And I will.”

His threat doesn’t scare me, but I keep quiet, not wanting to provoke him further. The last thing I need is another fight. The only thing that matters right now is spending time with my nieces.

When we finally roll up to the venue, I spot Spencer immediately. The dance academy’s foyer is crowded with parents and kids weaving through the space.

“Auntie Rory!” A shrill, high-pitched squeal slices through the noise.

My nieces come charging toward me, their pink tutus bouncing with every step. They throw themselves into my arms, and I hug them tightly, pressing my face into their soft hair.

“Oh, girls,” I murmur, squeezing them as if they’re the only thing keeping me sane. “My little ballerinas.”

“You came!” they exclaim in unison, their excitement bubbling over.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

Spencer walks over, his eyes drilling into Axe with barely contained hostility. He pulls me into a hug, his dark blue eyes clouded with concern.

“Are you okay?” he whispers in my ear.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. His knowing look says he doesn’t buy it. How do you explain that your new husband locked you in a basement on your wedding night?

“Sweetheart,” Dad says, walking over and pulling me into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re here.” His hug is so tight, it’s like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.