Page 23

Chapter 22

Seanna

The oppressive silence shatters when the door swings open again, and my hands clench in irritation as Rule strides casually into the room. Despite the begrudging slack Ruin granted in the chains binding my wrists to the wrought-iron headboard—enough to sit cross-legged and properly glare at my captor—I remain pissed off.

"Wow, room service in a kidnapping?" I mock sweetly, watching him approach with a coffee cup and a paper bag. "How considerate."

Rule chuckles, low and infuriatingly amused. "Consider it a peace offering. We both know how desperately you cling to your caffeine addiction."

I snort, giving the chains a pointed rattle. "Peace offering? You spelled manipulation wrong."

He waves the coffee just within my reach, clearly enjoying my irritation. "Here you go."

Rolling my eyes, I snatch the cup and take a sip, immediately grimacing at the cold liquid. "Seriously? Cold coffee? Are budget cuts hitting kidnappers now too? You can’t afford heating?"

He laughs, annoyingly smug. "Did you honestly think we'd trust you with something hot? Give us some credit."

"Oh, don't worry," I snap back, slamming the cup onto the bedside table. "The lack of credit is entirely deliberate."

My attention flickers involuntarily toward the paper bag, and despite my blazing irritation, the familiar scent already has my mouth watering. Cherry cream cheese pastries, my favorite— damn him straight to hell.

"Thought I'd tempt you into having a civil conversation," Rule says, deliberately pulling one pastry from the bag and holding it just beyond my immediate reach.

"Bribery is beneath even you," I sneer, though my stomach tightens traitorously. I could hold out, we are trained for situations like this. I could go days without food, refusing every inch they grant out of bitterness, but there is a level of manipulation to this that my training doesn’t account for.

"Yet you’re clearly tempted," he counters smugly, placing the pastry onto a napkin and sliding it only a fraction toward me yet still out of reach. "Here’s the deal. Agree to a temporary truce until after your sister’s next call—and the pastries are yours."

My eyes narrow sharply, suspicion and temptation warring inside me. "My sister isn't calling until tomorrow."

"Precisely," he confirms smoothly. "One day. One peaceful day. No fighting, no biting remarks—well, fewer biting remarks—and you get these little indulgences."

"Maybe I don’t feel like making a deal," I taunt, arching an eyebrow challengingly.

"In that case," Rule replies casually, picking up the pastry again and moving as if to leave, "perhaps I'll just go make you porridge instead. And I’m sure I can change the future meals to things you like as much as porridge. We know them all."

My lip curls in disgust at the thought, pride clashing with cravings. "Fine," I relent grudgingly. "But once that call comes through, all bets are off."

"Understood," he murmurs, setting the pastry down again and settling onto the end of the bed. "So, are we actually capable of having a conversation, or should I brace for impact?"

I bite back a furious retort, instead focusing pointedly on the pastry, taking a bite that immediately melts on my tongue. A traitorous moan slips past my lips before I can contain it, and I notice Rule shifting subtly. Flustered, I glare at him defensively. "Don't get any ideas. It's just a pastry."

"Clearly," he replies, voice calm but somehow more amused.

I watch him carefully, silently daring him to speak first. The quiet stretches uncomfortably between us as I slowly take bites of the pastry, the taste flooding my senses. Dammit, these things are heavenly . When the first pastry is gone he hands me the other. Rule's silence is starting to grate on me, so naturally, I break it first.

"So, is this the part where we braid each other's hair and gossip? Because I forgot my glittery nail polish," I drawl sarcastically, licking a stray cherry glaze off my thumb.

Rule shifts again, the creak of the bed frame a satisfying reminder that my sass is at least hitting some kind of nerve.

"Careful, little storm. Keep it up and I'll think you're starting to like our quality time."

I scoff loudly, leaning forward just enough for the chains to clink pointedly. "You're mistaking my tolerance for enjoyment. Don't flatter yourself."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, voice calm, infuriatingly unbothered. "Let's try a topic that won't incite violence. How long have you had a weakness for cherries?"

I narrow my eyes suspiciously, irritation warring with honesty. "Longer than I've had a weakness for putting assholes like you behind bars."

"Ah," he remarks, voice dripping with smug amusement. "A lifelong indulgence then."

"You're skating dangerously close to losing the pastry privilege," I warn sharply, trying to stifle the venom in my voice just enough to uphold our temporary truce.

Rule seems completely undeterred, chuckling softly. "Relax. Consider this me learning about the woman beneath the DEA badge and murderous glare."

I laugh sharply, humorlessly. "Please. You kidnapped me. Forgive me if I don't feel like exchanging life stories."

There's silence for a moment, tension hanging heavily in the air before he speaks again. "Fair enough. But perhaps we can at least agree that conversations don't always have to end with threats?"

"Careful," I retort, taking another bite of pastry. "You're talking to someone who's made threats an art form. But for the sake of pastry, I'll humor you. What exactly did you expect—Stockholm syndrome in under 48 hours?"

He gives a short laugh, deep and annoyingly pleasant. "Even I’m not that ambitious. But cooperation, maybe? Even temporary civility could go a long way."

Another bite, another delicious wave hitting my tastebuds, and I let slip another entirely involuntary moan— fuck, these pastries are too good . The bedframe creaks again, and I barely resist smirking.

"It's just pastry, remember?" he remarks casually, repeating my earlier line with a hint of teasing.

I swallow hard, eyes narrowing. "The truce covers biting comments, but not outright mocking."

He chuckles again, relaxed despite my icy tone. "Duly noted."

We sit in silence a moment longer, my pastry rapidly disappearing, much to my dismay. Finally, I give a sigh of resignation. "Fine, civil topic it is. How do you even know about these pastries? Did you stalk my bakery, too?"

Rule's voice softens just enough to sound genuinely thoughtful. "We pay attention, little storm. You're worth studying."

The sincerity in his tone startles me slightly, making me pause. I cover it quickly with another bite, but curiosity wins out. "Why me? What exactly makes me 'worth studying'?"

"You really can't see it?" he counters quietly, leaning slightly forward. "You walk through chaos like you own it. You're fearless, angry, uncontainable. It's intoxicating ."

I blink, temporarily caught off guard, then recover quickly. "That almost sounded like admiration. Dangerous territory, Rule."

"Maybe," he admits calmly. "But danger is half the appeal, wouldn't you say?"

I huff softly, shifting in my chains, deliberately not answering. Instead, I savor the final bite of pastry. "I guess we'll see."

"Indeed we will," he murmurs, his voice heavy with arrogant confidence as he settles back onto the bed, dangerously close.

I roll my eyes, deliberately dragging my tongue slowly across my fingers, savoring the last of the cherry glaze. My gaze locked onto his masked face, daring him to react. Before I can even finish my intentional tease, Rule moves faster than I anticipated, lunging forward aggressively to grab my wrists. He presses them together, securing them both in one of his, his grip tight and unyielding.

My breath hitches as his rough, gloved thumb forcefully drags along my slick fingertip, sending a spike of heat straight down my spine. He leans into me, close enough that his tactical mask brushes my cheekbone, cool and unnervingly intimate.

"You keep tongue-fucking those fingers, little storm, and I'm going to start wondering if you're begging me to put something else in your mouth," he rasps, voice dripping with dark promise.

My heart pounds traitorously at his blunt, heated words, but I force myself to sneer. "Careful, Rule. Your desperation is showing. Who knew a pastry could unravel you so quickly?"

His hand tightens around my wrists, pressing them roughly back against the headboard, chains clinking softly as tension coils tighter between us. "Desperate?" he growls softly, amusement threaded with danger. "You're the one moaning like you're about to climax over a pastry. Keep it up, and I'll make sure your next moan is my name."

"Bold assumption," I retort breathlessly, narrowing my eyes even as my pulse betrays me. "But I've had better offers."

He chuckles darkly, leaning in even closer, his mask grazing the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. "Lie to yourself all you want, Seanna. Your body tells the truth."

I laugh bitterly, trying and failing to pull away from his grip. "You're still delusional I see."

"And you're a terrible liar," he counters, his free hand sliding down to my thigh, the leather of his glove scorching hot against my skin. "Or did you really think I couldn't see how much you enjoyed teasing me?"

My voice shakes slightly as I fight to maintain control. "Maybe I just enjoy seeing you squirm."

"Interesting choice of words," he murmurs, voice impossibly deep, almost hypnotic. His hand drifts higher, dangerously close to where my body is already traitorously responding. "Because squirming is exactly what you're going to be doing soon if you keep pushing."

I swallow hard, fighting the heat rising to my cheeks, the ache building between my thighs. "You talk a big game, Rule. But so far, all you've given me is cold coffee and pastries."

His low, wicked laughter vibrates against my throat. "Oh, darling, if you're craving something hotter, all you have to do is beg ."

"I'd rather bite ," I snarl, though my breath betrays how much his touch is affecting me.

"I'm counting on it," he responds smoothly, drawing back just enough to look into my face through his dark lenses. His thumb brushes deliberately over my inner thigh, dragging dangerously close to where I desperately want him and absolutely shouldn't. "Though you might find I bite back even harder."

My head spins, but pride keeps me defiant. "Big talk for a man hiding behind a mask."

"You want the mask off, Seanna?" he taunts, voice dripping with smug dominance. "Earn it."

"And here I thought kidnapping was your twisted form of foreplay," I fire back, trying and failing to steady my racing heart.

He chuckles, his hand slowly sliding higher again, this time pressing between my thighs, his leather-clad fingers firm and bold through the fabric of my panties.

"Oh, darling, you haven't even begun to see twisted yet," he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark intent as he presses harder, dragging a soft, involuntary gasp from my throat.

My pulse surges, heart hammering as I struggle to hold onto my defiance. "You're bluffing," I breathe, my voice betraying the tremor I’m fighting so hard to hide.

He leans even closer, the cold of his mask ghosting across my jaw as his fingers slowly, maddeningly circle the spot that's rapidly becoming my undoing. "Am I?" he rasps, voice low, arrogant. "Or maybe I’ve already figured you out, little storm. Maybe I know exactly what fantasies keep you awake at night."

My cheeks burn with furious embarrassment even as my hips shift instinctively against his touch. "You don't know shit about what I want," I bite out, desperately grasping onto anger as a lifeline.

"Oh no?" He increases the pressure just enough to have me inhaling sharply, pulse stuttering traitorously. "Then tell me—what is it that gets you off when you’re alone in the dark, hmm? What depraved little fantasies make you squirm? What were you thinking during those pretty little shows you put on for us?"

"Go fuck yourself," I hiss, though the words come out breathless and weak, sounding more like a plea than a protest.

He laughs softly, clearly enjoying my struggle. "Not a bad suggestion, but I'd rather fuck you . Better yet, I'd rather you admit what you secretly crave."

My defiance surges, but his teasing fingers steal my breath, robbing me of any coherent retort. His touch slows to a torturous pace, lingering right on the brink of pleasure, keeping me aching and desperate. He leans forward again, the cool mask brushing against the hot sensitive skin under my jaw as he takes a deep breath, smelling me.

"Maybe it's something forbidden," he whispers against my throat, gloved fingertips pressing insistently, coaxing my hips to roll involuntarily against him. "Something dark and twisted—like waking up already being fucked, helpless and trapped beneath someone powerful enough to take exactly what he wants. Maybe that’s what had you turned on when I woke you the other night. Why you keep pushing us into this predicament right here..."

My breath catches audibly, betraying me completely, heat flushing my skin from head to toe. Fuck .

He chuckles triumphantly, stroking more deliberately, confident in his control. "There it is," he murmurs wickedly, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Tell me I'm wrong, Seanna. Tell me you haven't imagined being taken, fucked while you're asleep—waking up with someone already deep inside you, taking you hard, using you exactly as he pleases."

I close my eyes, mortification and desire twisting violently inside me. "Stop," I manage weakly, even though every nerve ending in my traitorous body begs for more.

"Stop?" he echoes mockingly, his tone sugary sweet, his fingers slowing to a torturously teasing pace again, leaving me dangerously close to breaking. "But you're practically begging for it. So tell me the truth—have you ever touched yourself to that fantasy? Imagined surrendering all control, waking up with my cock already inside you, fucking you awake until you’re screaming?"

My pulse is wild, betraying any shred of denial I have left. His hand is relentless, fingertips pressing and circling, coaxing out my buried secrets.

"Damn you," I whisper, voice barely audible as I turn my head away, cheeks burning. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" He demands gently, his voice velvet-edged steel, utterly commanding as his fingers slide purposefully lower, expertly building my pleasure. "Say it clearly, Seanna. Tell me exactly what you fantasize about."

I swallow hard, pride finally collapsing beneath his relentless, intoxicating touch. "Yes," I admit breathlessly, embarrassment fighting against the fierce arousal. "I've thought about it—being taken while asleep. Helpless. Used."

"Good fucking girl," he purrs darkly, approval thick in his voice. His fingers withdraw abruptly, leaving me cruelly bereft and trembling. I nearly sob with frustration as he rises to his feet.

"Try to behave yourself today, little storm," he murmurs, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "I’ll be thinking about that fantasy all morning."

The door clicks shut behind him, and I slump against the headboard, heart pounding, body trembling, fury and desperate arousal warring violently within me.

There’s no point pretending I’ll be able to think clearly now—not with the feel of him still clinging to my skin, and the sick, spiraling realization that a part of me wants him to make good on every twisted promise he’s made.