Page 24

Chapter 23

Seanna

Time’s a vindictive little bitch when you’re chained to a bed with nothing but your own traitorous thoughts for company. Every second stretches and warps like melted taffy—sticky, slow, and so fucking smug about it. I have no idea how long it’s been since Rule left me dripping, throbbing, and absolutely goddamn furious. Ten minutes? Ten years? I wouldn’t know the difference.

All I know is I’m done.

The silence is deafening. Not peaceful. Not meditative. Just loud in the way only silence can be—echoing every shaky breath I try to steady, amplifying every heartbeat that thuds like a countdown to some inevitable, soul-fucking unraveling.

I yank at the restraints again. Just to hear them rattle. Just to remind myself I’m still here , still capable of resistance, even if the chains don’t give. I’ve already counted the links on both sides—fourteen on the left, thirteen on the right. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the asymmetry. I have. And it pisses me off.

I trace the same small circle on the sheet with my toe like a deranged ballerina on a leash. It’s pathetic, but it’s movement. Any movement, at this point, feels like defiance.

I should be hunting Reyes right now. I should be on the warpath, dragging that cartel bastard out of whatever snake hole he’s hiding in and watching the light drain from his eyes as I make him pay for every name on my list.

But instead?

Instead, I’m here.

Trapped in some fucked-up five-star kidnapping fantasy while two masked lunatics take turns feeding me, edging me, and rewiring my brain like I’m their favorite science experiment with a praise kink.

And the worst part?

It’s working .

This isn’t just kidnapping.

It’s fucking curated captivity .

A psychological house of mirrors where I’m not just the prisoner—I’m the obsession. The spectacle. The centerpiece.

Every moment feels intentional . Every interaction is precision-cut to fit between my ribs and push. Ruin talks like he invented seduction—his words sweet, slow, soaked in molasses and menace. Every syllable feels like a velvet ribbon meant to wrap around my throat and tighten. And Rule? Rule is the opposite. Blunt. Practical. But under that steel edge is a dangerous warmth. The kind of heat that makes you lean closer before you realize the stove is on fire. The kind of man who could break your bones—and then carry you to bed and fuck the pain out of you.

God help me, I must have a kink for masked psychopaths.

Because despite the fact that I want to claw their eyes out, I can’t stop reacting. Can’t stop feeling . Every time they walk into the room, the air changes. My body betrays me. And my mouth? My mouth runs hot and fast, because if I don’t spit fire, I might start begging.

I fucking hate them.

I hate that I’m still here. I hate that I’m starting to expect and anticipate the routine—food, chains, emotional whiplash, psychological chess, more chains, then more food and a fresh new round of mindfuckery.

And even worse still?

I hate that a small, twisted part of me is waiting for it.

For them .

Waiting to hear that door click open. Waiting to see who walks in. Waiting for the next touch, the next taunt, the next round of whatever-the-fuck-this-is. Like some pathetic little lamb, licking her wounds and hoping her wolves come back hungry.

A sick, shadowy part of me wants to know what happens next—not so I can escape, but because I need to know. What will they do? What will they say? Will it be Ruin whispering sins in my ear like scripture? Or Rule, rough and deliberate, dragging truths out of me I don’t even want to admit to myself?

What does that say about me?

No. I already know what it says. It says maybe I’m just as fucked-up as they are. That maybe all the rage and fire I’ve used to keep the world at bay… wasn’t armor. Maybe it was bait. And now that I’ve lost every ounce of control, every scrap of power, I’m cracking . Not broken. Not yet. But the fractures are spiderwebbing under the surface, and I can feel every single one with every breath I take.

I glance at the door again. I don’t mean to. It’s a reflex now. A nervous tic. I’ve started watching it the way animals watch the sky before a storm.

Because I know what comes when it opens.

Everything shifts .

The air thickens. My blood kicks up. My body betrays me in the worst, most humiliating ways—every single goddamn time.

I’ve been edged, fed, restrained, and taunted like some pampered pet who can’t decide if she wants to bite or beg. And now I’m alone in this silence, hyper-aware of every place my skin aches. Every throb of need they left me with. Every heartbeat that ticks by without answers or freedom or even the dignity of choice.

I yank the chains again. Harder. Not to escape. Just to feel the resistance. To remind myself I’m still in this body. Still pissed. Still dangerous.

The sound is sharp. Final. The chains don’t budge.

“Fucking bastards,” I mutter to no one. To everyone. To the hidden cameras I know are here. Behind the walls. In the vents. Maybe in the goddamn headboard. Who knows with these psychos?

It’s another hour—maybe more—before the door creaks open again.

I don’t flinch. Don’t bother to look up right away. I’m too busy pretending not to give a shit. Too busy trying not to count the thrum of my pulse or the way my thighs instinctively tense in anticipation. But then I catch the scent.

Grilled cheese.

And not just any grilled cheese. My grilled cheese. Cheap white bread, slathered in butter, crisped to golden perfection. Gooey, melty cheddar and mozzarella—exactly the way I’ve made it a thousand times when the world was too heavy and I needed something warm and comforting.

I tense.

My head snaps toward the door like I’m possessed.

One of them steps inside—tactical gear, black mask, gloved hands. Unreadable lenses hiding eyes I swear see straight through me. It could be either of them.

But I know.

Only one of them seems to have made feeding me into a personal kink.

“Rule,” I say flatly, voice like rust scraping over gravel. I narrow my eyes, not bothering to hide the suspicion burning behind them. “You’re really committed to the domestic captor aesthetic, huh?”

He doesn’t confirm it. Just steps inside with that same calm, commanding presence and sets the tray down on the bedside table like we’re about to have a fucking picnic in hell.

But what’s on that tray? That’s not just food. That’s a calculated weapon. A direct assault on whatever scraps of resistance I’ve got left.

Grilled. Fucking. Cheese.

The one thing that always hits right when everything else is falling apart. The kind of food you don’t just eat—you cling to. A warm, gooey reminder that something can still be simple. Still be good.

Hot. Perfect. Crisped golden on both sides. The smell alone is enough to wreck me—real butter, melting cheese, toasted white bread, just the way I’ve always made it. My mouth waters before I can stop it.

I snap.

“You shouldn’t know this,” I bite out. My chest aches, my throat closes up, and I hate how exposed I suddenly feel. “You shouldn’t know this is my favorite.”

He turns his head, just enough to tilt the mask. “We know everything.”

The words shouldn’t feel like a caress. But they do.

I grit my teeth so hard it makes my temples throb. My jaw pulses with the effort not to scream. “This isn’t kindness,” I growl, every syllable a knife. “It’s manipulation dressed up in melted cheese.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just lifts half the sandwich, the cheese stretching between the slices in slow, sinful strands. “Does it matter,” he says calmly, “if it tastes like both?”

I don’t answer.

But my stomach does. Loudly. Betrayal: level unlocked.

“Open,” he says softly, holding the sandwich just close enough to tempt, not touch.

I stay still. Frozen. Mouth clamped shut. Eyes narrowed.

“You can starve if you want,” he continues, voice low and impossibly even. “But you did agree to a truce. And you’ll still be here. Still be ours. Still be chained and dripping and angry. And you’ll still want the next bite even more.”

My pride flares, white-hot and violent. Screaming at me to slap the food away. To spit in his face and curse every last thread of control he thinks he has.

But my mouth opens anyway.

And the first bite hits like a fucking memory.

Warmth. Cheese. Bread. Butter.

I chew.

And I hate how good it is.

Hate the way my eyes threaten to flutter shut. Hate the way my body forgets for one stupid second that I’m chained to a bed and not curled up on my couch with a blanket and bad TV.

He watches every flicker of emotion on my face like it’s his favorite show.

“You were crying the first time you made this,” he says quietly, like it’s a secret he’s only just decided to share. “Your hands were shaking. You burned one side. But you made another.”

My blood runs cold.

“How—” I choke out.

He lifts the sandwich to my mouth again, not answering.

I shake my head. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“We watch,” he says simply. “We remember everything.”

Rage claws up through my throat, hot and useless. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he says, voice too soft. “We’re devoted .”

And fuck me, there’s something in the way he says it that makes my chest hurt.

Another bite. I should resist. But my body doesn’t listen anymore.

I hate him just a little more for knowing this version of me. The quiet one. The sad one. The one no one else gets to see.

He feeds me the last bite like it’s a ritual, like he’s proving something I can’t quite name.

And when I swallow, he leans in—just close enough for his voice to slide under my skin.

“We know your rage,” he murmurs. “But we also know your softness. Your silence. The parts of you that bleed in the dark where no one else looks.”

I turn my face away, jaw tight. “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Doesn’t tease.

He just says: “Someday, you’ll thank us for seeing it all.”

Then he moves the plate with the other half of the sandwich to the bedside table and takes the tray as he walks away. Like he hasn’t just cracked open a part of me I didn’t even realize was exposed.

And this time, when the door shuts behind him—I don’t just feel fury.

I feel fear.

Because maybe they have read me cover to cover.

And maybe they’re not just playing a game.

Maybe they’re rewriting my story from the inside out.