Page 28

Chapter 27

Seanna

Consciousness pulls me from dreams that feel more like nightmares. I lie perfectly still for a moment, my instincts prickling, expecting the familiar shadowy presence of Ruin waiting silently in that damned armchair, watching me like his personal twisted form of entertainment.

But as my eyes finally open, the chair sits empty. Strange.

A sharp, sudden cramp sears through my lower abdomen, and I hiss through clenched teeth, annoyed. By my estimate it's right on time, like clockwork. Because clearly, being abducted wasn't inconvenient enough, my uterus decided to join the party. At least the pain is familiar, predictable—it'll fade soon enough.

How could I have been so careless? Letting Ruin slip beneath my defenses, caving to their masked dominance, their arrogant control—it's unacceptable. I’m supposed to be fighting tooth and nail, not succumbing to their twisted fucking games.

Anger sharpening my senses as I sit up, rubbing my temples, only then noticing an unfamiliar weight pressing coolly against my throat. My fingers jerk up to investigate, discovering a thick, smooth chain secured by a small padlock. There's no latch, no weak link. Perfect. Another twisted accessory courtesy of my masked captors. I tug at it futilely, frustration simmering.

It's only then that I realize I'm not chained to the bed.

Suspicion floods through me instantly, slicing sharp and cold through lingering remnants of sleep. I swing my legs from the bed, searching quickly for clothes. I find some of my own—of course—neatly folded inside the large mahogany dresser. Meticulous bastards.

Jerking the clothes on as quickly as I can, I silently curse myself. I should've spent every second of my time here plotting an escape instead of playing into their warped little scenario.

Tentatively, I approach the door, gripping the handle with cautious anticipation. It turns effortlessly beneath my palm, swinging silently open into an empty hallway. My heart pounds harder, suspicion tightening my chest. This is too easy, too clean. Like stepping willingly into a trap.

Whatever house we are in isn't small, but I'm sure as fuck not sticking around to play hide-and-seek with my masked abductors. Screw that. All I need is an exit.

My search is brief, driven by desperation. Finally, an unlocked back door opens into darkness that surprises me—I hadn't even realized what time it could be, locked in a windowless room for what felt like days. Judging by the faint, greyish light beginning to creep at the edges of the horizon, it must be sometime in the early morning.

Freedom beckons.

Every instinct screams this is exactly what they want, but I'm too stubborn to ignore the opportunity.

Breaking into a sprint, I rush toward the thick tree line, the sound of my own breath echoing sharply in my ears. It's not until I'm engulfed in shadows that I glance back, suspicion still gnawing viciously at my spine. The house is silent, beautiful, and cruelly calm, yet the unmistakable sensation of being watched prickles coldly along my skin.

Of course I'm being watched. This is their twisted fucking game, after all.

Gritting my teeth, I plunge deeper into the forest, branches scraping mercilessly against my clothes. Direction doesn't matter—distance does. Every hurried step carries me further from the cage they've meticulously crafted for me.

But then, training kicks in.

I force myself to stop.

Crouching low, I steady my breath, dragging in slow, deep lungfuls of air through my nose, letting my body recalibrate. The chill of the early morning air brushes against my skin, but I shove it aside. I focus.

The forest hums around me. Crickets, birds, the rustle of leaves overhead. Life, undisturbed. Somewhere in the distance, I can just make out the faint murmur of water—a stream or river maybe. Could be useful.

I strain harder, tuning out the natural sounds, letting silence stretch over me like armor.

There. Low. Too calculated to be the forest. Beneath everything else—movement.

Not an animal.

Not nature.

Something deliberate.

I'm being hunted.

Because of course I fucking am.

This was never going to be a real opportunity to escape.

It was just another fucking game.

I bolt, heart hammering, ducking through dense brush and weaving between trees thick with shadow. My bare feet thud softly against damp earth, and still, every instinct screams that each step is a countdown. The forest is wild. Untamed.

I feel the wire hit my shin, too thin to see until it’s too late. It doesn't trip me—it snaps and something shifts above me. A sudden rustle, then a downpour of dry leaves and forest debris rains down, noisy enough to give away my position. Not intended to harm. Just sound and exposure. Enough to rattle me. Enough to alert them.

Fucking brilliant.

I take off again, moving quickly through trees and underbrush, my pulse hammering in my ears. I hadn’t been thinking about traps—I’d been thinking about distance. I was thinking about speed. But they’re smarter than that.

A sharp jerk yanks my leg backward mid-stride. I crash to my knees, barely catching myself. Another wire. Thin and low to the ground, tied between two trees. Enough to trip hard— enough to slow me down. To delay. Humiliate.

I scramble up, breath hissing out between my teeth.

The forest is rigged.

“Come on, Seanna. You can do better than that.”

The voice is distorted but unmistakable in its tone—confident, crisp, commanding.

I barely make it ten more feet before a branch I duck under triggers something above—rope netting drops from the canopy like a snare. I twist and dive out of the way just in time, heart racing.

Fucking hell. They’ve built a primal playground.

I veer left, keeping my pace controlled. I find broken branches angled unnaturally, forming a funnel path that leads downhill. A clear route. Too clear. I double back instead, using the underbrush to obscure my movement.

The same voice speaks again, closer this time. “You’re making me work harder than I planned. I respect that.”

I push forward harder, doubling my efforts to disappear. I climb into a tree and wait—counting every breath, every creak of bark, the sweat sliding down my back.

Hearing a sound further away I drop from the tree and land in a crouch, ignoring the sharp sting in my ankle. I tear through the trees again in the opposite direction, weaving through brush, leaping over fallen logs.

Then pain flares.

I stop and hide in a thick patch of shrubs as a cramp doubles me over with a vicious intensity. I drop down to one knee, dragging air into my lungs like it’s made of glass, my arm wrapped around my middle. Fucking timing. Fucking body. I breathe through the pain, forcing my muscles to unclench.

"Run faster, darling. You’re prettier when you sweat."

My breath stutters. That voice—smooth but sharp, too precise, and too close.

I lunge forward again, weaving through brambles and low-hanging branches. I leave false trails, kick mud in patterns that don’t track straight, double back through my own footprints. It’s textbook.

And it doesn’t matter.

He’s better.

“Sloppy,” the voice comes again.

Every turn I take, he’s just behind it. Every time I think I’ve bought myself a second of distance, I hear that voice again. Cool. Infuriatingly calm.

Definitely Rule.

I press on, pushing past low branches and thick moss-draped roots. I haven’t heard any voice but the one taunting me. No sweet teasing. No coaxing. No purr like velvet over knives.

Where’s Ruin?

Is he just being silent? Stalking in the dark like a ghost, savoring the hunt?

Or is it only Rule out here?

The thought unsettles me in ways I don’t want to admit.

Another burst of motion—a snap of foliage. I pivot hard, and something smacks into my chest—a harmless but weighted sandbag dangling from a tree. It knocks me back just enough to cost me precious momentum, but it doesn’t stop me.

Another trap.

Another fucking reminder that I'm being toyed with.

“Almost had you there.”

My stomach twists. Not in fear.

In fury.

Then another cramp hits—not as bad but I still stumble, falling to one knee. I breathe through it, teeth clenched.

“Fuck,” I hiss, dragging myself upright again.

Once this is over, I'm going to hunt Reyes down and cut him into pieces simply for existing. For being the excuse behind this whole psychotic shitshow.

This isn’t protection.

This is possession .

And if I get the chance, I’m going stabby on these bastards first.

Well... maybe I’ll leave Ruin’s magic cock intact. For a little while.

I move again, slower now. Strategic. My eyes scan everything—shadows, soil, subtle shifts in the ground that scream of artificial tampering. I spot one just in time. A snare, half-buried beneath leaves.

I sidestep it and keep going, ducking under a net rigged between two trees. Silent alarms, I bet. Traps designed to let them know where I am. Or maybe just to fuck with me.

Branches snap behind me—closer now. The tension is electric, the air charged. I twist and bolt downhill, slipping through a narrow rocky pass that forces me sideways. A rope snaps around my ankle mid-stride, yanking me upward with brutal force. I slam into the air, wind knocked clean from my lungs.

I hang there, upside down, blood rushing to my head, vision blurring.

“Really?” I mutter to myself, fury boiling. “A fucking snare trap?!”

Footsteps approach slowly. Steady. Calculated.

Rule.

Not rushing. Not panicked.

Because he knows.

He’s already won.

And I am going to make him bleed for it.

He steps into view like he owns the forest. Black tactical gear. Mask. Glasses. That whole untouchable, unreadable, arrogant silhouette.

“You’re fucking good,” he says, voice steady. “But not good enough.”

I glare down at him from my upside-down vantage point. “Fuck you.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering me like I’m both specimen and prize. “You say that like it’s not inevitable.”

I snarl, fingers scrambling for the knot at my ankle. My body’s already sore, blood thundering in my ears. I twist, swing, reach for the tree bark, something—anything—to give me leverage. He doesn’t stop me.

“Go ahead,” he sighs. “Let’s see what you’ve got left.”

Oh, I’ll show him exactly what I’ve got. Starting with the sharp edge of my rage.

My fingers claw at the knot with frantic determination, and my body swings slightly with every desperate yank. The rope creaks. Bark scrapes my arms. My vision is going hazy now, heat and blood pressure warring under my skin, but I don’t stop. I won’t . I’m not going to hang here like his trophy.

I see the glint of the blade too late. And then— snap .

The rope gives.

I crash down, the impact knocking every molecule of air from my lungs. Pain explodes in my side as I hit the forest floor hard, rolling once, twice, before I force my body upright.

I stagger to my feet, gasping, legs trembling but obeying. I don’t wait. I launch . Fury and instinct crackle through me like lightning, and I fly at him, fists already clenched, jaw tight with pain and hate and fire.

Rule doesn’t flinch.

He waits .

I swing.

He blocks it, easily.

I aim a kick.

He deflects, the movement sharp and clean—but I see the smallest shift in his stance. I made him move. I’ll take it.

"Now that’s the spirit," he says, and there’s a quiet, dangerous sort of satisfaction in his voice. “That’s the little storm I’m used to. The one that’d fight her own shadow just to prove she could.”

I push through the exhaustion dragging at my limbs. Every breath hurts. Every muscle screams. But I shove it down. I throw everything I have at him—punches, kicks, feints. I fight . Not for freedom, not anymore. For spite. For the satisfaction of knowing that I made him work for it.

He taunts me between blocks and dodges, his voice laced with amusement, like he’s watching his favorite gladiator bleed for him.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says as I swing again. “Tired.”

I miss—overextend—and he grabs my wrist, twisting it hard enough to make me cry out. I twist, using the momentum to throw an elbow toward his face.

But he’s faster.

He ducks and shoves me back. I hit the ground with a thud, skidding on damp leaves, arms up already, bracing for more.

And he gives me more.

He’s on me before I can fully rise, straddling my hips, knees pinning mine, weight anchoring me like a vice. His knife flashes silver in the low light as he presses the flat of the blade to my throat—cold and unflinching. His other hand grabs my wrists, slamming them into the soft earth above my head and pinning them there.

Breathless, I glare up at him, chest heaving. My heartbeat pounds so violently I swear he can feel it through the grip on my wrists.

I should be fighting harder.

I should be spitting blood and curses and venom.

Instead, my thighs clench involuntarily.

Again.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

My body doesn’t seem to know the difference between threat and thrill anymore—not when it comes to them.

And Rule? I’m sure he fucking knows it.

He probably fucking feeds off it.

He hums low, and the sound vibrates through my body like a dark promise. The blade shifts, pressing deeper against the sensitive skin of my throat. Not cutting, just threatening. A whisper of danger, sharp and intimate.

My breath hitches.

His head cocks slightly, like he’s savoring it.

“I’ll scream,” I grit out, voice strained but defiant. “I’ll scream loud enough the whole fucking forest will hear.”

He leans in closer, and the blade follows—still flush to my skin, making every inhale feel like it could be the last.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Scream for me.”

My lips part, fury and humiliation mixing in my throat like acid.

“But if you’re going to make noise,” he continues, calm and deliberate, “don’t lie about what it’s really for.”

I freeze.

“Don’t pretend it’s fear when I know you’re soaked through your goddamn underwear,” he says, voice like a scalpel—precise, cutting, true. “You want to scream?”

The knife shifts again, lower now, trailing with purpose down the center of my chest, barely grazing cloth, just enough to make me tense beneath him.

“Go on, little storm, scream for me,” he breathes, close enough I feel the heat of it. “ Beg for me.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

He’s waiting.

Poised.

Ready to rip the truth from my throat one way or another.

And the worst part?

My silence isn’t denial.

It’s shame tangled in want, and fury wrapped in the kind of arousal that should never fucking exist—but does.

God help me, it does .