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The world returns to me in fragments—the cool air against my overheated skin, the distant crash of waves through open windows, the pleasant ache radiating through muscles pushed beyond their limits. My legs tremble, unwilling to support my weight after being held in submission for so long. Hank’s arm slips around my waist, his strength becoming my foundation.

“Easy, luv,” he whispers, his breath warm against my temple.

His gentleness now is a stark contradiction to the man who dominated me minutes before—like watching a storm transform into a summer breeze. Gabe appears at my other side, his fingertips grazing my elbow with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.

They guide me toward the adjoining bathroom where steam curls like phantom fingers from the oversized shower, fogging the mirror until our reflections become mere suggestions of forms. The heated tile beneath my bare feet sends a shiver up my spine, pleasure and pain indistinguishable after what we’ve shared.

“It’s our turn to take care of you.” Hank’s voice carries the same authority as when he commanded my pleasure but is softer at the edges. His calloused fingers work through tangled strands of my hair, each gentle tug a reminder of how roughly he’d gripped it earlier.

Gabe reaches to adjust the shower controls, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin as he tests the spray with his palm.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to us. The word hangs in the steamy air, an unintentional summary of the night.

They guide me under the spray—not leading, not pushing, but supporting as water cascades over us. My skin prickles with renewed sensitivity as droplets trace paths down my body like countless tiny fingers.

I stand suspended between them, Hank’s chest against my back, Gabe facing me, their bodies creating a sanctuary of flesh and warmth.

Gabe’s hands move, working soap into a lather across my collarbones, down the curve of my breasts, and across my stomach. He pays special attention to the places marked by his earlier passion—a reddened patch at my hip where his fingers dug in, the marks that remember the kiss of his crop.

His touches are an apology.

A reverence.

A promise.

“Close your eyes,” Hank instructs as his fingers work shampoo into my scalp.

I obey without thought, my body’s automatic response to his voice both thrilling and terrifying. The firm pressure of his fingertips draws a moan from deep in my chest, the sound echoing against the shower tiles.

The simple pleasure of being touched without demand untethers something within me—something that stayed rigid and controlled even during the height of passion.

“You’re trembling again,” Gabe observes, his voice barely audible above the water.

I open my eyes to find him watching me, water clinging to his eyelashes, his expression unguarded in a way I rarely witness.

He kneels before me, hands sliding down my legs. The position of supplication from a man who commanded my submission minutes ago creates a confusing swirl of emotion behind my ribs.

“It’s not cold,” I manage to whisper.

A half-smile curves his mouth. “I know.”

Hank’s lips find the junction of my neck and shoulder, not biting now but simply pressing, as if sealing something into my skin. His fingers work through my hair, rinsing away suds as Gabe’s hands complete their journey, touching me everywhere with clinical gentleness.

“Turn,” Hank directs, and I rotate in their arms like a dancer following choreography I haven’t consciously learned.

This ritual is profoundly intimate—perhaps more revealing than what we shared in Gabe’s bedroom.

Sex is a kind of performance—even in surrender. It’s something I embrace—wholeheartedly.

With Hank and Gabe, I step into a space I never knew I craved—the perfect, willing submissive. I let them take control and do things that might, in any other context, raise eyebrows or spark questions. But with them, in the heat of it, it all feels right .

Heightens the experience.

Deepens it.

They blur the line between pain and pleasure, control and chaos, dominance and desire—fear and freedom. And I love walking that razor-thin edge.

But this—this is different.

This isn’t about performance, or surrender, or the thrill of being taken to the edge.

This is being seen.

Being tended.

Being valued—not for how well I submit or how loud I beg, but simply for being me.

Not their submissive.

Not their plaything.

Just Ally.

They treat me like I’m precious. Not because I pleased them but because I matter .

They claimed me. Used me. Now, they’re restoring me, putting me back piece by piece with the same hands that took me apart.

When the water finally stops, they wrap me in a towel large enough to disappear inside. The fabric is soft against my sensitized skin. Their hands move in tandem, patting me dry with unexpected tenderness. My body hums with a quieter pleasure—a deep, resonant satisfaction of being cherished rather than the sharp, brilliant ecstasy of climax.

Gabe’s massive four-poster bed with its ropes, restraints, and chains remains behind us, abandoned until we need it again. Instead, Hank leads me toward his room. His fingers lace loosely with mine, leading even now.

Gabe follows, the pad of his footsteps creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

“Get in bed.” Hank’s teeth graze my earlobe, his voice a low rumble that travels down my spine like electricity finding ground.

His tone bears no question, no room for debate—the words emerge simple and absolute. His eyes hold mine, pupils still dilated with the remnants of desire, waiting for compliance rather than asking for it.

Gabe’s hand trails down the curve of my spine, a single point of warmth against my cooling skin. His touch reinforces Hank’s command without words, the pressure of his fingertips an echo of the authority both men wield so effortlessly.

I move toward the bed, their matched breathing behind me a reminder that while the tempest has passed, I remain surrounded by power carefully leashed—and that the choice to unleash it again will never be mine.

I slide between the cool sheets, the fabric soothing against my overheated skin, and watch them join me from either side.

Hank settles to my right, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, while Gabe claims the space to my left, his gaze already on me—soft but burning.

No expectations. No demands. Just closeness.

Connection .

Adoration.

The kisses begin soft—whispers against my skin. Hank’s lips at my shoulder. Gabe’s at my temple. Their hands follow, fingers trailing paths over every inch of me—not taking, just… giving.

Worshipping.

This isn’t possession.

It’s devotion.

Gabe’s mouth finds the hollow of my throat, lips warm and open. His hand glides lower, over my belly, between my thighs—gentle, skilled, coaxing pleasure rather than chasing it.

Hank’s hand moves to my breast, calloused thumb brushing over my nipple, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss so tender, so achingly careful, it nearly undoes me.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Every touch, every stroke of tongue and hand, is a vow— you’re safe, you’re ours, let go.

Their mouths trade places—Gabe kissing me, his fingers still working me with maddening patience; Hank trailing kisses lower, his hand joining Gabe’s as they pleasure me, center me.

They don’t take.

They don’t rush.

This is mine.

Pressure coils low and tight, molten and inexorable, winding me toward the edge with every stroke, every breathless whisper. My body arches, seeking more, needing more—until the tension snaps, pleasure detonating through me in pulsing waves.

I shatter around their hands, their mouths, their presence—my cries torn from someplace deep and honest.

It’s not release.

It’s surrender.

When it’s over, I’m breathless, boneless, floating in the aftermath.

Hank gathers me against his chest. Gabe curls around my back. Their hands never stop moving—stroking, soothing, claiming.

Not with force.

But with love.

Time melts away like candle wax. My body hums with satisfied exhaustion as I nestle between their warm bodies, my soft curves fitting perfectly against their hard angles.

Hank’s arm drapes across my waist, heavy and possessive. Against my neck, Gabe’s breath creates a metronome of warm, steady puffs. My muscles uncoil, my mind drifting toward that sweet precipice between wakefulness and dreams.

Safe. I’m safe here.

The thought floats through my consciousness like a feather on still water. My fingertips lazily trace the sheet’s silken texture.

Then—a tiny shift.

The fabric beneath my fingertips roughens. My breath catches.

No. Not now. Not after…

I press closer to Hank’s chest, seeking his heartbeat, but a dissonant seed has been planted. My treacherous brain begins its slow rebellion against the security of the present.

The texture shifts again. Coarse. Scratchy. Like canvas. Like…

No.

Not now.

Not after that.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The darkness should help, should soothe—but it doesn’t.

Behind closed lids, my sense of safety unravels.

Flickering lights.

A metal chair scraping across concrete.

My fingers twitch.

The scent of sweat and fear rises.

Something heavy presses down on my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s memory or my lungs refusing to cooperate.

My pulse quickens.

The mattress beneath me hardens, the plush pillow thinning until my cheek presses against something rough and unyielding.

Concrete.

Cold and damp against my skin.

I try to focus on Gabe’s breathing, but the sound distorts. His skin’s clean, spiced scent—my anchor to the present—dissolves, replaced by something acrid and sour.

Unwashed bodies.

Stale sweat.

Urine-soaked corners.

My nostrils flare. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.

It’s not real. It’s not real.

But my body doesn’t believe my mind. My muscles contract, drawing me into myself as if preparing for a blow. A tiny whimper escapes my throat, but neither man stirs—they’re too deeply asleep to notice the war raging within me.

The darkness behind my eyelids transforms, not gradually now but with the sudden violence of a slammed door. I’m no longer lying between two men who cherish me. I’m huddled against a wall, wrists raw from metal cuffs, mouth stuffed with fabric that tastes of motor oil and someone else’s fear.

I know what comes next.

It’s always the same, and it’s relentless.

Slow, measured footsteps approach from the corridor.

The deliberate pace of someone who has nowhere to be, someone who owns not just this moment but all my future moments.

Boots on concrete.

Each step amplified in the hollow space, each click a countdown to when my life as I knew it would end.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My rational mind screams that I’m safe, that I’m years and miles from that place, that I’ve been rescued—twice now. But my body remembers. My cells remember. The sweat beading at my temples isn’t from passion now but from primal terror.

Sleep drags me under like an undertow, powerful and merciless. I try to cling to consciousness, to the weight of Hank’s arm, to Gabe’s breath against my skin, but they’re phantoms now, insubstantial against the crushing reality of memory.

The nightmare swallows me whole.

Hands bound.

Mouth gagged.

Heart pounding so hard I fear it might burst .

And always, those boots approaching, unhurried and inevitable.

My lungs seize mid-breath as if an invisible vise has clamped around my ribcage. Hank’s bedroom dissolves like watercolor, its colors bleeding away to reveal what lies beneath.

The darkness thickens, no longer the gentle absence of light but something alive and predatory pressing against my exposed skin.

No. No. No.

Cold metal bites into my wrists with familiar cruelty. I twist against the restraints, skin already raw and weeping from hours—days?—of futile struggle.

They’re too strong, designed for men twice my size, not a five-foot-four physicist whose greatest physical exertion is climbing library ladders.

A murmur of voices seeps through the paper-thin concrete walls. Guttural syllables I can’t decipher, spoken with the casual indifference of men discussing livestock. Then laughter—sharp, sudden, like glass breaking—sends ice crystals through my veins.

“… americana … precio premium …”

My Spanish is rudimentary at best, but some words transcend language barriers.

Premium price.

Good condition.

Undamaged merchandise.

The cell compresses around me, air thinning until each shallow breath burns. I try to scream, to rage, to bargain—anything to assert my humanity against their spreadsheet assessment of my value.

My throat constricts, producing only a whimper that bounces off uncaring walls and returns to mock my helplessness.

Metal hinges protest as the door swings open. The sudden intrusion of dirty yellow light blinds me momentarily, transforming the figure in the doorway into a massive silhouette.

No features visible, just the hulking outline of a man who holds absolute power over my existence.

I can’t see his eyes, but I feel them—crawling over every inch of exposed skin, calculating return on investment, measuring how much damage I can withstand before diminishing my market value.

Sweat beads across my skin despite the bone-deep chill, droplets tracking down my temples, between my breasts, and along my spine. The sharp tang of my fear mingles with the ambient miasma of mildew, stale cigarettes, and the lingering ghost of previous occupants’ terror. My stomach lurches as he steps into the cell, the feeble light catching something metallic in his hand.

Not a gun. A gun would be merciful—quick, decisive.

This is something designed for a slower purpose—a cattle prod modified for human application. The sight of it sends my pulse hammering so violently that I can taste the copper of my own heartbeat.

“American,” he says, my nationality twisted by his thick accent into something unrecognizable, something dirty. His lips curl back from yellowed teeth. “You will break and learn your place.”

The words barely register before my body initiates its own response, muscles contracting into tight coils, preparing for the pain that memory insists is only moments away. The room begins to spin, time folding in on itself, past and present merging into a single, concentrated point of pure animal terror.

Hank and Gabe can protect me from Malfor. They can protect me from assassins, from threats both seen and unseen. They can even protect me from the demons that stalk the waking world.

But they cannot protect me from this—this nightmare that lives inside my mind, coiled at the base of my brain stem, waiting for the vulnerability of sleep to strike.

Hank and Gabe can’t protect me from this.

Not when my nightmares have texture?—

The bite of restraints against bone, the precise sting of calculated cruelty, the suffocating press of helplessness as hands that don’t care what breaks inside of me take what they want.

The scream, when it comes, erupts from somewhere primal, somewhere beyond conscious thought. It tears through my vocal cords, raw and jagged, shredding the fragile veil between nightmare and reality.

My body convulses, back arching off the mattress as if electricity— or something worse—courses through me. I fight restraints that no longer exist and flee from hands that can no longer reach me.

Strong fingers close around my shoulders, my arms—firm, insistent. In the haze between worlds, these hands aren’t salvation but new threats. I lash out, nails seeking soft tissue, legs kicking wildly against phantom attackers.

“Ally.”

My name penetrates the fog, a lifeline thrown across churning waters. Not just my name—the way it’s spoken. Sharp, authoritative, yet underlaid with something my captors never possessed: concern.

“You’re having a nightmare.”