Page 22

Chapter 21

Seanna

I wake slowly, the edges of sleep peeling back like scabs over a wound—stinging and raw. The restraints dig gently into my wrists and ankles, soft enough to avoid bruising, but firm enough that there’s no mistaking the intent behind them.

Same bed. Same silent room. Same fucking sense of being watched.

Because one of them is there—again.

Seated in the same damn armchair tucked into the shadows like he owns the air I breathe. Still as a statue, the low golden light casting sharp lines across the mask covering his face. Just… watching.

I blink hard, jaw tight. “What, is this your new kink? Watching me sleep like a creep in a thriller film?”

No response. Not right away. Just the faint tilt of his head. The shift in his shoulders. Unbothered.

I scoff and let my voice go syrupy-sweet and venom-laced. “Hell, if you’re going to be a total freak about it, you may as well crawl in and do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

His modulated voice breaks the silence like warm molasses over a knife. Smooth. Sweet. And still so wrong.

“Don’t tempt me with things you might regret, little storm.”

Ruin .

The rhythm of the voice is too languid to be Rule’s. There’s a softness to him—honey dipped in something darker. A man who will lull you with charm while planning exactly how he wants to ruin you.

I narrow my eyes, voice dry. “So what’s the plan now? Keep me tied up until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits there, fingertips steepled like he’s contemplating God. Or death. Or me.

“I’ve got a job,” I say flatly, meeting the mask head-on. “One that’s going to start asking questions if I don’t show.”

He finally speaks again, and the calm in his voice makes me want to scream. “Your case was put on hold. After Cruz and his men ended up very, very dead. Reyes is untouchable again, and you? You’re benched.”

A silence coils between us, sharp and heavy.

“You enjoyed that,” I mutter, fury building behind my eyes. “All those men—slaughtered in the name of your little message to me.”

Ruin stands slowly, like liquid uncoiling into a weapon. “That was Rule,” he says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. “You didn’t do what was asked. You didn’t follow his rules. He told you that you would regret going to that meeting.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “One guy took out a club full of cartel soldiers? Right. Sure. Sounds legit.”

He chuckles. “You don’t have to believe it. But you really should be careful how far you push us. You’re clever, Seanna. But even clever things break.”

He steps toward the bed, slow and deliberate, his boots silent against the floorboards. I can feel the shift in air pressure as he approaches—like the room holds its breath for him.

“If you behave,” he says, voice low, “if you learn how to be good for us, then we’ll let you off your leash. Give you more freedom.”

I narrow my eyes. “Right. That’s what this is about, huh? Breaking me down. Making me less of a threat. Less violent. More manageable.”

He stops at the end of the bed, head tilting in that unnervingly calm way of his.

“No,” he says simply. “It’s the opposite.”

My breath catches.

“We don’t want to change you,” he continues, voice like velvet over iron. “Your rage. Your darkness. That hunger to dismantle the world? It’s one of the best things about you.”

He leans in slightly, his tone dipping into something quieter. Sharper.

“Your soul matches ours, Seanna. In ways you haven’t even begun to understand.”

I let out a derisive snort. “You really think you have souls?”

“As much as you do.” His answer is instant. Unshaken. “And make no mistake—whatever scraps of soul exist between us? They belong to each other. So I’m going to need you to not try to kill either of us for trying to protect you.”

The words settle like smoke in the space between us, thick and cloying. I should be recoiling, spitting venom, demanding space—but all I can do is stare, the air stretching taut around my ribs.

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard from a psychopath.”

He simply shrugs. “Truth rarely sounds pretty.”

I let the silence hang, dragging a breath through clenched teeth as the fury starts to rise again, giving me something solid to hold on to.

I glare, unmoved. “So you don’t give a fuck if I want to murder half the world, but suddenly you’re concerned I might want to kill you ?”

His chuckle is smooth and infuriating. “A little murder in your eyes is fine. Fun even. But we need your hands to stay off the weapons. Just for now.”

“Great,” I snarl. “And what if I just want to piss in peace? Can the hostage at least have bathroom privileges?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs. Softly at first. Then deeper. Richer.

“I was wondering when you’d bring that up,” he says, stepping to the side of the bed. “But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

I raise a brow. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Nope.” He crosses his arms. “Ask. Sweetly.”

I stare him down, teeth gritted. “Can I please be allowed to go to the fucking toilet before I decorate this mattress?”

He hums in mock consideration, then steps even closer. One gloved finger trails along my jaw, tapping my bottom lip twice.

“You can do better than that, darling.”

I exhale through my nose. Pride shatters like glass in my throat.

“Please,” I grind out, trying to force the anger and hatred not to be as transparent in my voice, making it smoother. “May I be allowed to relieve myself like a proper, well-behaved captive?”

He nods, seemingly satisfied. “Much better.”

He moves slowly, unlocking the ankle restraints with care—like I’m something fragile he might accidentally shatter. One wrist next, and before I can think about trying anything, his hand wraps tight around mine. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind .

The strength in his grip is terrifying. Calm. Unshakable.

Then, with his body angled slightly over mine, he leans across and unfastens the final restraint, freeing me. But I don’t move. My muscles are too taut, my breath too shallow.

He pulls me upright gently, helping me sit and then stand. His body towers over mine—taller, broader—and he lets the moment hang there, like he’s daring me to try something.

I don’t.

He turns, walking to the opposite wall and a door I didn’t see before. A click sounds, then the door slides open, revealing a hidden bathroom tucked into the corner of the room. Rich, dark marble gleams under recessed lighting. There’s a sleek rainfall shower. A deep soaking tub. And, thank fuck, a toilet.

All of it windowless. Of course.

I narrow my eyes at him as I walk into the room. “You really went all out for your hostage suite.”

He chuckles softly. “Only the best for our Darling.”

I shoot him a glare and point to the door. “Out.”

He chuckles softly behind the mask and backs out, sliding the door shut behind him.

I move fast. Relieve myself. Scrub my hands. Then I start searching the place like my life depends on it.

Which it might.

The shelves are fully stocked. Some products are mine—stolen from my home. Others are new, unopened, but all my favorite brands. The kind of attention to detail that makes my blood boil.

But one jar catches my eye—heavy glass, expensive, thick. I grab it and test the weight in my hand. Solid. That’ll do.

I slide the door open, expecting him to be right outside.

He’s not.

Instead, he’s back by the bed, his back turned slightly as he smooths out the sheets like he’s preparing a fucking hotel room.

Perfect.

I throw the jar with all the force I have. It cuts through the air in a clean arc.

And he catches it .

Without completely turning. Without flinching.

The fucker catches it mid-air like it was a feather instead of a weapon.

He tosses it once, twice in his hand, then places it carefully on the nightstand.

I charge him, hoping brute force and rage will be enough.

I’m fast. I’m fueled by adrenaline. But he’s faster.

He spins and grabs me mid-run, lifting and slamming me onto the bed with terrifying force. The breath explodes from my lungs. My hands reach for his mask, nails digging—but he catches both wrists, pressing them down against the mattress.

I snarl, thrashing beneath him. He doesn’t move. Not an inch.

Worse—he laughs . Low. Amused. Dark.

“Still so full of fire,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “It’s no wonder we can’t stay away from you.”

I try to buck my hips up, to throw him off. All I succeed in doing is making us grind together.

And that’s when I feel it.

Heavy. Thick.

He’s hard.

My defiance—my fight—it’s turning him on .

His breath brushes my cheek as he lowers his head.

His body is a cage around mine—solid arms bracketing my head, thighs pressing into mine, heat radiating off him like a second skin. I writhe beneath him, equal parts fury and something far more dangerous threading through my veins.

“You’re enjoying this,” I hiss, my voice ragged.

He dips closer. I can’t see his eyes behind the mask, but I can feel them— feel them devouring me like they already own every breath I take.

“Aren’t you?”

I bare my teeth in something that’s not even close to a smile. “Oh, totally. Nothing gets me wetter than being manhandled by a masked lunatic. I’d rather bleed out .”

He laughs—low, indulgent, and far too pleased. “Let’s revisit this blood kink later, little storm. We haven’t even gotten to the good parts.”

I lunge again, trying to twist free. But he doesn’t budge. With little effort, he shifts my wrists so that both are pinned beneath one of his hands, pressed hard against the mattress above my head. The leather of his glove digs lightly into my skin, reminding me how easy it is for him to hold me there.

His free hand trails down my arm, until it reaches my chest. He presses his palm flat just above the swell of my breasts, the contact scorching through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“You keep fighting,” he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around a dagger. “But your body—your breath—it betrays you.”

“I hate you,” I spit, jerking beneath him.

“Good.” His gloved fingers slide lower, teasing the edge of my shirt. “Hate keeps things interesting.”

His hand grazes the curve of my breast before slipping under my shirt—glove against skin. I jerk, not from fear, but from how good it feels. God, I hate that it feels good.

His head dips closer, voice low, coaxing. “Rule told me how you responded when he had you like this. All teeth and fury… until your hips started chasing his. You fought him too—until your moans started drowning out your threats.”

I freeze. Rage and humiliation crackle down my spine like a live wire.

“He said it turned you on,” Ruin continues smoothly, as though discussing the weather. “That even while you were snarling, your thighs were trembling. Your breath caught every time he touched you.”

He leans down, and I feel the warmth of his words slip across my skin. “You can keep fighting us if you want. But your body already knows it belongs to us. It’s your mind that needs to catch up.”

I inhale sharply, chest rising against his.

“Stop trying to deny what you crave,” he adds, voice like poison dipped in a glass of honey. “Because eventually, we’ll make you beg for it.”

And then he shifts.

Not away— deeper .

His thigh slips between mine, pinning me open, grinding into the heat that’s already begun to pulse traitorously between my legs. My breath stutters.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, soft but firm. “And I will.”

I glare up at him, lips curled in defiance. “Go to hell.”

He leans in, voice brushing the shell of my ear. “That’s not a no , little storm.”

I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.

So why the hell am I soaking through my panties?

And then his mask presses to my throat, like he wants to press his lips there to where my pulse thunders beneath the surface. Just a whisper of heat and breath against skin, but I go still beneath it.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, voice dipped in that honeyed warning. “Say it.”

I don’t.

Not because I want this.

But because I don’t know what I want anymore.

He laughs again. Darker this time. He shifts, the thick length of his cock grinding harder against my thigh through the layers between us. It’s punishment and promise in one movement, and my breath shudders out in response.

“I could fuck you right here,” he says. “Right now. And you’d hate yourself for loving it.”

His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my panties, slow and deliberate. He drags them in just a single stroke against my slit. Testing. Savoring.

“You’d scream for me, little storm,” he whispers, breath grazing the shell of my ear. “Not for mercy. For more .”

And the worst part?

He’s not wrong.

My body is melting beneath his grip. Burning alive.

It reacts before my brain can catch up—arching, aching, alive under him. And then—just like that—he withdraws, sliding off me in one fluid movement, leaving behind a vacuum of heat and tension.

I sit up too quickly, blood pounding in my ears, fury burning hotter than ever.

He reaches for where the restraints hang and lifts the wrist cuff he’d released earlier. “You’re not ready yet,” he says simply, like he’s explaining something to a child. “You think you are, but your temper still owns you.”

“I’m not staying here,” I snap, yanking my arm out of reach.

He catches it easily anyway and secures the cuff back around my wrist. Then the other. Not harsh. Not fast. But with finality.

When he steps back, I notice something different.

The chains have been adjusted. A little longer. A little more slack in the links connecting to the headboard. Just enough that I could shift and move freely within the bed—but not enough to make it anywhere beyond that.

My ankles are left free.

“How generous,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.

He tilts his head, the movement slow and unreadable. “Consider it an incentive,” he says smoothly. “You behave, we reward. Simple. You’ve earned a little slack—whether you meant to or not.”

Satisfied I’m secured once more, he nods once.

“Rule will be back shortly,” he tells me. “With food.”

I say nothing.

I don’t thank him. I don’t curse him.

I just lay back slowly, eyes locked on him, watching as he leaves again and closes the door behind him.

The soft click echoes louder than it should.

I stare at the ceiling, wrists aching slightly from the tension, my legs now free. It’s not enough to run. Just enough to remind me I can move.

I don’t know if it’s mercy. Or a mind game. I don’t know why it feels like both.

And I hate that I’m starting to wonder which one I want it to be.