Page 25

Chapter 24

Seanna

I stare at the closed door, the taste of grilled cheese on my tongue. Anger bubbles beneath my skin, restless and sharp-edged. Why the fuck would they even suggest a truce if they're not going to truly take advantage of it? This isn't a ceasefire—it's psychological warfare under the guise of fake kindness. And why the hell does this grilled cheese mean more to me than the cherry and cream cheese pastries?

Both mean they've been watching me closely—too closely—for a long damn time, but the pastries were an indulgence, a treat that I'd given myself freely in happier moments. The grilled cheese, though... it's different. It's a comfort, a crutch I've leaned on in some of my lowest, most vulnerable moments. Times when I was too worn down to be strong. Times I thought no one was watching.

But they were. Fuck, they've always been watching and I never knew.

My chest tightens, and I force down the last of the sandwich, choking on emotions I never invited, memories I never wanted dragged up. I swallow hard, furious at myself for letting this affect me, furious at them for knowing exactly which strings to pull.

It's not long before the door opens again. For a second, I can't tell which one of them it is. He isn't carrying food, but that doesn't automatically mean it’s not Rule—he’s fucked with me enough times already. Yet, something in the way he moves, the predatory calmness, the quiet assurance of his steps tells me exactly who it is.

Ruin .

Jesus. I'm starting to recognize them without even needing words.

He pauses halfway to the bed, head tilted slightly. I’m sure he is assessing me in that quiet, detached way of his.

"Need to use the bathroom?" His modulated voice is deceptively gentle.

I glare defiantly at his masked face. "If you're feeling generous enough to pretend I still have basic human rights."

He shakes his head slightly, mask unreadable but smugness clear in his tone. "Always so combative, Seanna. It’s almost endearing."

I deliberately rattle the chains binding my wrists, my eyes narrowed dangerously. "Glad my captivity amuses you."

He moves closer, each step unhurried. He unlocks my restraints with care, gloved fingers lingering against my wrists, sparking a traitorous heat beneath my rage. I yank my wrists free as soon as the cuffs open.

Standing abruptly, dizziness sweeps over me, and his hands immediately grip my waist, steadying me firmly.

"Don’t," I snap, muscles taut as I try to jerk away.

"You keep saying that," he murmurs calmly, tightening his grip in silent warning. "Yet your body always tells a different story."

I hate the heat that rises to my skin. He releases me once he's certain I'm steady, gesturing mockingly toward the sliding bathroom door.

"Make it quick," he instructs, authority sharp beneath the velvet.

Fuming, I step through and slam the sliding door behind me. Fuck quick—I’ll take my sweet ass time. After using the toilet, I strip, stepping into the large shower. I luxuriate in the hot water, slowly washing my hair and savoring every rebellious moment.

Eventually, reluctantly, I step out and wrap a towel around my body. I use another to dry my hair. It’s only then I realize I have no fresh clothes to change into.

" Fuck ," I mutter, taking a deep breath and stepping back into the bedroom.

Ruin is lounging arrogantly on the bed, at ease—the asshole. Frustration spikes sharply through me, my jaw aches from clenching it as I stop a few feet from him, fists settling on my hips.

"Where the fuck did you put my clothes?" I demand sharply, glaring.

He hums, amusement darkening his tone. "Maybe I prefer you just like this."

His words slip beneath my skin, sparking an unwanted flush of heat. Gritting my teeth I growl, hating how easily he affects me.

"Careful," he continues, voice like silk-wrapped steel. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might unwrap you myself."

"Fuck you," I snap, eyes narrowing.

He chuckles, dark and rich, the sound scraping over my nerves deliciously. "I think you'd prefer it if I did exactly that. Admit it—you're craving my hands on you."

I scoff, folding my arms tightly to hide how much his words affect me. "Dream on. You’re not half as irresistible as you think."

"And you're not nearly as convincing," he counters smoothly, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "I've seen the way your body trembles when I'm near, Seanna. You can deny it all you want, but we both know the truth."

My pulse kicks up hard, desire battling with rage.

He's wrong. He has to be.

Except… he’s not.

Because I am trembling. Because my thighs are clenching. Because my skin feels too tight and too hot and too desperate for something I don’t want to name.

God, I hate him. I hate how I can smell him, that leather and spice. I hate that I keep replaying the scrape of both of their modulated voices in my head like a song I never asked for.

And most of all—I hate that I want to know what they would do if I let either of them touch me again.

No. If I asked .

The thought alone makes me burn.

I shift slightly, the towel loosening around my body, clinging to my damp skin like a fucking tease. My nipples harden beneath it, the air brushing them like the faintest whisper of his gloves.

This isn't about weakness.

It’s about control.

And if I’m going to be consumed—then fuck it. I’m going to choose the flames.

"Do you ever shut up?" I growl, but the words lack bite.

"Only when my mouth is otherwise occupied," he says, voice thick with promise.

The ache in my core pulses harder.

Frustration spikes again—raw and restless and clawing from the inside out. And suddenly, I can’t breathe through the pressure.

I rip the towel off and let it fall to the floor.

" Satisfied now ? " I snap, voice ragged.

And it’s instant .

He's in front of me, his towering presence sucking the air from the room. I stand my ground, but I feel every inch of my nakedness.

"Very," he murmurs. I can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging down my body like a claim.

His gloved fingertips graze my bare shoulder, light and unhurried—just enough to make me shiver.

"Are you ready to beg yet, little storm?"

A sharp breath escapes me. My body answers before I do, heat flooding between my thighs, skin prickling with need.

"Fuck it," I whisper savagely, reaching for him on pure impulse, my fingers craving friction, punishment, something .

But he captures my wrists instantly, controlling them like he was waiting for the moment I'd break.

"Ah, ah," he tsks softly, mockery rich in his tone. "Do I need to bind your wrists again?"

I glare furiously, chest heaving in a mixture of rage and arousal so thick it threatens to choke me. I want to scream. I want to tear his mask off and bite down on his fucking throat.

But I also want him to shove me to the floor and ruin me.

He leans in, his voice a sinful breath against my ear.

"Begging is done on your knees, darling."

My knees buckle. It's involuntary—infuriating. But the burn of surrender isn’t weakness. It’s relief .

I drop, slowly, deliberately, glaring up at him with my chin tilted defiantly. My pulse is a war drum. My thighs are shaking.

But I refuse to look away.

He towers above me like a god made of leather and shadow, watching as if he owns every thought behind my eyes.

Then—only then—he releases my wrists and reaches for his belt.

Every movement is precise. Unhurried. Controlled.

It’s a test.

And I don’t dare look away.

"Wow," I rasp, forcing a bitter smirk onto my lips, even as arousal claws at my spine. "Is this your idea of foreplay?"

His laugh is a low, indulgent roll of thunder. "Oh, darling," he murmurs, "you haven't even begun to see what I’m capable of."

My smart remark dies the second his hand slips into his waistband and he pulls his cock free.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He’s already hard—thick and veiny. But it’s not just the size that stops me cold.

It’s what’s on it.

My mouth drops open. My brain stalls.

“What the fuck is that ?” I blurt.

His laugh this time is dark and amused, like I just played right into his hands.

“That,” he purrs, stroking himself lazily, “is a magic cross.”

And he’s not lying.

Two steel bar piercings cross vertically and horizontally through the head of his cock. Silver balls gleam at the ends, forming an actual fucking cross made of metal and sin.

But that’s not the part that really unhinges me.

It’s the ink.

Bold. Black. Twisting along the shaft in unapologetic, brutal font.

Darling .

I blink. Once. Twice. My voice is sandpaper as I choke out, “You tattooed my name on your dick?”

He strokes himself lazily, like this is just another morning. Like this is normal. “Of course I did,” he says, calm and sure. “It belongs to you.”

The words hit like a blade slipped under my ribs.

Not because they’re sweet. Not because he says it so matter of fact like there is no disputing them. But because I want them to be true .

Because the worst part—the part I want to tear out of myself with my bare hands—is how my body reacts to them.

A fresh flush rolls over my skin, heat pooling low, my breath hitching even as my spine stiffens in rebellion. I don’t want this. I shouldn’t want this. But want is clawing up my throat anyway.

Ruin shifts closer, his cock heavy and thick in his hand, the tip inches from my mouth. Then he grips my hair—hard. A firm fist at the roots, yanking my head back just enough to assert his control.

“Don’t bite,” he says, low and dangerous. “Or you’ll regret it.”

I glare up at him, mouth twisted in a defiant smirk even as his grip burns against my scalp. “Not as much as you would,” I rasp, voice rough and raw and almost shaking. Not from fear. From the thrill of it. From how fucking unhinged this moment is.

Because this should disgust me. This should humiliate me. This should make me scream and kick and fight my way out of this twisted web he and Rule have spun around me.

But it doesn’t.

It electrifies me.

There’s something feral growing in my chest. Something that feeds on defiance and devours shame. Something that whispers: If this is the game, then I’m not losing. I’m taking the board with me.

So I stop pretending. Just for a second.

My hands rise and I slide them up the backs of his thighs. The fabric of his pants is coarse under my palms, the muscle beneath unyielding. I let my nails drag slightly, enough to make him feel it. Enough to show him that if I’m doing this, it’s not submission.

It’s war.

I hook my hands around his thighs and drag him forward, steady and strong, until the head of his cock brushes my lips. My breath hitches against the cool steel of the piercings, my mouth parted.

He tightens his grip in my hair, his other hand twitching slightly at his side. Waiting. Watching.

But I don't give in right away. I let the moment hang .

Let him feel the burn of anticipation that he usually forces onto me.

My tongue darts out, slow, dragging across the underside of the head and over one of the piercings.

“You want me to beg?” I whisper, voice hoarse and laced with grit. “You better fucking earn it.”

His groan is barely audible—but it’s there.

And right now?

I’ll take that as a victory.