Page 16

The heat of the shower has long since faded, leaving only the lingering scent of soap and steam in the air. My skin is still damp, my muscles pleasantly sore, my body carrying the delicious ache of their possession.

Gabe reaches around me to grab a towel, the brief press of his chest against my back sending a lazy ripple of awareness through me.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you dried off.”

They wrap me in towels, hands efficient but careful. The attention makes my throat tight. I’ve never felt so… taken care of. Cherished.

I let myself lean into it.

“What now?” My voice is still rough from crying out their names.

Hank’s fingers skim the red bloom of a mark on my shoulder—Gabe’s mark. His eyes darken as he traces the bruise. “Now, we feed you properly, since breakfast was a disaster.”

“My fault,” I admit, lips curling. “I distracted the chef.”

Gabe laughs, low and warm, the sound igniting something deep in my chest .

“Worth it.”

In the bedroom, Hank pulls open a drawer and tosses me a shirt. His. The cotton is soft, well-worn, saturated with his scent.

“This should do for now.”

I catch it, the fabric bunching in my fingers. “Pants?”

“Not necessary,” Gabe replies without missing a beat, already stepping into his jeans. His smirk is lethal.

“We have plans for you today,” he continues, “and none of them involve clothes.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s… ambitious.”

“We’re very motivated,” Hank says smoothly, pulling on his own shirt. His gaze rakes over me—assessing, claiming. “But first, food. You need your strength.”

I slip the shirt over my head, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. I reach for my discarded panties, but before I can even lift them?—

Hank catches my wrist.

“No.”

My pulse skips. “No?”

“No panties,” Gabe clarifies from behind me. His palm slides under the hem of the shirt to cup the curve of my ass.

“We want you accessible all day.”

A thrill shoots through me.

I should probably examine that reaction more closely.

Later.

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, letting the lace slip from my fingers.

The possessive gleam in their eyes tells me that was the correct answer.

In the kitchen, Gabe handles food preparation with considerably more skill than Hank’s breakfast attempt—though, to be fair, that’s not a high bar to clear. I perch on a stool, watching as he moves around the space with a confidence that immediately raises suspicion. My phone buzzes on the counter, but I ignore it, narrowing my eyes at the scene unfolding in front of me.

“Hold up.” I fold my arms, glancing at Hank, who’s leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Gabe like he’s expecting an impending disaster. “Why is Gabe cooking?”

Hank snorts. “He’s not cooking. He’s making sandwiches.”

I arch a brow. “And that’s different, how?”

Hank gestures toward Gabe with a lazy wave of his hand. “Cooking implies heat, and he’s not allowed to touch anything that involves flames, burners, or hot oil after the incident.”

Gabe doesn’t pause, slapping mustard onto a slice of bread with unnecessary force. “It was a small grease fire.”

Hank turns to me, deadpan. “Small like a forest fire is small if you compare it to the sun.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “So, Gabe’s permanently banned from anything requiring heat?”

“Damn right he is,” Hank confirms. “The man boiled water once, and somehow—somehow—we needed a new microwave.”

“That was one time,” Gabe mutters, stacking slices of turkey onto the bread with the kind of intensity that suggests he’s ignoring us on purpose.

“And yet, it was enough,” Hank fires back, shaking his head. “Which is why I do all the cooking.”

I gesture to the half-assembled sandwiches. “Except, apparently, when it’s lunch.”

“Brunch, and that’s not cooking,” Hank says again, like this is a legal defense. “That’s assembling.”

Gabe finally turns, expression flat. “You want sandwiches or not?”

I glance at Hank. “What if I want my bread toasted?”

“He’s banned from toaster ovens as well.”

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Keep at it and there will be no sandwiches for either of you.”

Hank and I exchange a look, then speak at the same time.

“I’ll take turkey.”

“Extra mayo for me.”

Gabe exhales sharply, muttering something about ungrateful assholes before turning back to the counter. But I catch how his mouth twitches, like maybe—just maybe—he’s fighting a smile.

My phone buzzes again.

Dad .

“Ugh.” I decline the call and watch Gabe work, but my father is relentless. The screen barely goes dark before it lights up again, his name flashing insistently.

“You gonna answer that?” Hank asks, not looking up from where he leans against the counter, arms crossed.

I exhale sharply. “My dad probably wants to yell at me because I didn’t come home last night.”

A sharp pang slices through my chest.

He has every reason to be worried.

After meeting Gabe and Hank for coffee yesterday, I dismissed my security detail—technically, Hank did—and went home with two men. Now, I’ve spent the night tangled between them, my body thoroughly used, my mind still hazy with the kind of satisfaction that lingers under the skin.

Not exactly the kind of behavior my father raised me for.

The phone buzzes again. Annoyed, I reach to decline the call once more, but Hank’s voice cuts through the space, low and firm.

“Answer the phone, luv.”

I pause, frowning. “I’m not interested in talking to him.”

“Nevertheless, you’ll answer.”

Something shifts in the air—an unmistakable weight behind his words. His tone is different now, deeper, edged with something sharp, something unyielding.

I hesitate. “My dad can be?—”

“Not nearly as strict as me.” Hank straightens, uncrosses his arms, and closes the space between us with slow, measured steps. Heat radiates from him, power and authority rolling off him in waves. His gaze is unwavering, pinning me in place. “Your father deserves your respect, luv. Don’t ignore his calls.”

My pulse flutters, my breath catching.

“I don’t?—”

“Not a request,” he interrupts smoothly, tilting his head slightly.

The unspoken promise lingers beneath the words, thick and potent. A warning. A line drawn.

Heat pools low in my belly, a reaction as much to his dominance as to the unrelenting command in his voice.

I swallow, fingers tightening around my phone. “And if I don’t?”

His lips curve, slow and deliberate. “Then we’ll have a different conversation. One you’ll enjoy far less than an uncomfortable conversation with your father.”

A shiver rolls through me, anticipation twisting into something sharper, something I don’t quite know how to name.

I know what this is. I’ve played the game before—men who liked the act of dominance, who whispered warnings they never enforced. For them, punishment was a prop, just another step in the performance, a way to make my pulse race before we tumbled into bed.

But this… this isn’t a game.

Hank isn’t testing me. He’s not baiting me, coaxing me into compliance just for the thrill of it. His command isn’t a suggestion—it’s a fact. And the most startling part? It doesn’t feel strange that I want to obey.

I’ve never needed the follow-through before. Never cared whether the man on the other side of the threat actually meant it. But now?

Now, the idea that Hank—Gabe, too—wouldn’t hesitate to make me answer for my disobedience doesn’t just send a rush of heat through me.

It makes me crave it.

Not the punishment itself—but what is obedience without consequence? What weight does surrender carry if there’s no risk in refusal?

Something about them—both of them—makes this feel right in a way it never has before. That makes surrender feel like power instead of weakness.

I sigh, swipe to answer, and lift the phone to my ear.