Page 31

Chapter 30

Seanna

There has to be something magic about their dicks.

And no, I’m not talking about the piercings—though let’s be real, the steel crosses and barbells probably qualify as dark fucking runes at this point.

No. It’s something else. Something cursed. Something wrong . Because every time either of them is inside me, my brain turns to soup and my spine forgets how to function. I’m not a stupid girl. I’m not weak. I lead a goddamn DEA task force. I’ve interrogated men twice my size and watched them piss themselves when I smiled. I take down predators for a living—ruthless, slick assholes who think power makes them untouchable.

And I’ve never needed a man to fuck me.

When I have sex, it’s on my terms. I scratch the itch, I climb on top, I get off—maybe—and then I walk away because the poor bastard is usually halfway to tears just trying to keep up. Most of them don’t even get that far.

So how — how the fuck did I end up here?

In the arms of one of the two masked psychopaths who stalked me, kidnapped me, sabotaged my investigation, and derailed the takedown of Javier fucking Reyes. One of them hunted me through a forest rigged with traps and branded my body with my own blood. The other didn’t need blood to brand me—he used devotion like a weapon, fucked me with reverence so dark it felt holy, until my body couldn’t tell the difference between worship and war.

And the worst part?

I let them.

Hell—I begged for it.

The shame simmers under my skin, sticky and raw, but it doesn’t drown out the need. It doesn’t cancel the high of being taken apart with such precision that I forgot where I ended and they began. They’ve hardwired me with arousal. Rewritten my tolerance for pain. Hijacked my brain chemistry and made submission feel like relief .

And maybe it should bother me more that I’m not screaming in rebellion right now. That I’m not biting Rule’s fucking neck as he carries me back toward the house I tried to escape from just hours ago.

But no. My traitorous, aching, blood-streaked body is nestled in his arms, curled instinctively toward his chest like it’s safe there. Like I’m not being dragged back into the lion’s den by the same beast who choked me until I shattered and then fucked me through every aftershock.

I should be plotting to murder these men slowly and creatively. I should be focused on clawing my way out of this mindfuck long enough to regroup, reload, and hunt Reyes to the ends of the fucking earth.

But instead?

I’m watching the tree canopy blur overhead while Rule’s hand supports the base of my spine like I’m made of porcelain instead of rage. My pulse is a slow, hypnotized thud. My thighs are still trembling. And despite everything—despite everything —I don’t try to wriggle free.

And the masks? I should care more about the masks. I should be demanding names, peeling back layers, memorizing every detail for the revenge I swore I’d carve into their skin.

But the truth?

I’ve spent so long in the shadows myself, wearing masks the organization gave us, that theirs don’t even faze me.

Maybe that’s the real problem.

The mask is something I respect.

I’ve worn one too many times myself.

My half-skull mask hiding my face, the hood of my jacket up, a blade strapped down the inside of my thigh while I creep into places no one should know I’m in. When I’m on jobs for the Organization—ones that don’t show up in the DEA’s pretty little database—I become something else entirely. A shadow. A ghost. A storm no one sees coming.

And they know that. They’ve watched me be that.

So maybe that’s why I haven’t been clawing at theirs more. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been trying to tear off their masks with bloody fingernails and demanding to know who they are. Because some part of me understands the power in anonymity.

Maybe that’s why I’m not fighting as much as I should.

To see what’s underneath. To demand names or identities or truths.

Because they already know me .

They’ve said it. Whispered it. Proven it in every cruel, calculated move they’ve made.

I know they’ve watched me for years. Know they’ve memorized the way I walk, the way I fight, the way I run my tongue over my teeth when I’m debating between cutting a man’s Achilles or just dropping him with a bullet.

But who the fuck are they ?

Are they part of my everyday life?

People I see at work? On the street? At the goddamn café down the block where I used to get those cherry pastries they somehow knew I loved?

Or are they just ghosts—observers with obsession issues and a god complex—who’ve watched me from a distance for far too long?

They say they want Reyes in the ground. That I was going to get myself killed. So they had to interfere.

But why?

Why did it matter to them?

How did they even know he was targeting me? That I was getting close enough to be a threat?

And why risk blowing my entire case— my entire life —just to get in the way?

I should be thinking clearer than this. Plotting my next move. Getting answers. Setting fires.

But all I can do is stare ahead numbly as Rule carries me into the house like I’m something breakable. Like he hasn’t already fucked the fight out of me on the forest floor. Like he didn’t stretch me open and destroy me— twice.

Because of course the bastard hadn’t been satisfied with just one round. No. He’d stayed inside me, still hard, still there , his magic cock dragging slow and deep like he was etching himself into my fucking soul. He didn’t rush. Didn’t pull out. Just rocked into me with that same unbearable control until the asshole got a second wind and fucked me again. Right there in the dirt, while I was still shivering from the first round.

And now?

Now he’s carrying me through the house like I weigh nothing. Like I’m not still leaking his cum down my thigh. As though I’m not splattered with dried blood and humiliation and goddamn need .

The sun’s up now. Full and bright and mocking.

I don’t know what time it is anymore, but I know it’s long past dawn. I know I should feel shame. Fury. Something sharp enough to cut through the haze still thick in my veins.

But all I feel is hollow.

No— raw.

Because everything hurts. My thighs. My wrists. My pride. And still, my body remembers every second of it.

Rule carries me straight back to the room they’ve kept me in and heads directly into the bathroom attached to it.

It’s too pristine. Sleek, polished, dark marble that gleams like it’s mocking me. Now I’m going to be bleeding all over those pretty surfaces.

Rule sets me down on the counter like I’m something precious. As though I won’t immediately try to slit his throat if I ever get my hands free and a knife in them.

He doesn’t speak. Just steadies me with one firm gloved hand on my thigh, the other ghosting along my waist as he makes sure I don’t fall.

As if I could fall more than I already have.

Once he’s sure I’m not about to topple over, he unties my wrists before turning his back to me and moves toward the shower. As if this is normal and all just part of the fucking routine now.

And maybe it is.

Maybe that’s what terrifies me most.

That even after everything—after blood and blades and forest soil smeared across my back while he fucked me until I forgot how to breathe—part of me wants him to come back.

Part of me wants him to touch me again. Wants both of them to touch me.

Part of me wants to see what happens next.

And that ?

That’s the part I don’t know how to kill.

The shower hisses to life, steam beginning to curl into the air as Rule turns the handle. The sound is almost soothing—enough to lull me into some false sense of calm after being completely and thoroughly wrecked in a goddamn forest.

But it doesn’t last.

Because a moment later, the shrill ring of a phone cuts through the air like a bullet.

My spine snaps straight.

Rule freezes. His head turns slightly toward the sound, his whole body coiling with instant alertness. Then, slowly, he turns the water back off. The sudden silence makes the ringing feel even louder, sharper, more intrusive.

He steps back toward me with deliberate calm, reaching into one of his deep pockets. I see the glint of a familiar screen as he pulls it out.

My phone.

The fucker has my phone.

The ringtone grows louder now it’s not buried in his pocket, while he is gripping it in his gloved fist like a goddamn leash. His thumb ghosts over the edge of the screen, but he doesn’t look at it. He looks at me.

Tilts his head.

Like a predator debating whether to play with its prey or sink its teeth in.

Then he speaks—low, steady, dangerous.

“Be a good girl, Seanna,” he murmurs. “And remember our agreement.”

That tone—it’s not a suggestion. It’s a fucking threat wrapped in velvet. My stomach twists. The fucking truce. I hadn’t even thought about it when I ran earlier.

He extends the phone to me slowly, deliberately, like a test.

I don’t hesitate. I take it with shaking fingers, my pulse a thunderstorm beneath my skin. The screen lights up with Hydessa’s name.

My throat tightens.

Rule doesn’t step away.

Instead, he plants both fists on the counter to either side of me, caging me in without even touching me. His body towers over mine, every inch of him heat and pressure and power. I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I accept the call.

It clicks through, and I don’t even get a full second before her voice comes through—soft, tentative, familiar.

“If I hide…” Hydessa whispers.

I swallow the lump in my throat. My lips move on autopilot, voice low, cracked, but steady.

“Then I’ll seek…” I whisper back.

God, just hearing her voice almost breaks something in me.

Her sigh on the line is like a warm breeze, brushing against the jagged edges of my nerves.

“You okay?” she asks.

The question cuts. I want to say no. Want to scream I’m chained in hell and I don’t know who I am anymore and everything’s on fire inside me and I think I might like it —but my mouth won’t cooperate.

I stare up at Rule’s mask, his breath just barely audible above me, his arms braced like he owns this fucking space.

I swallow hard, forcing something that might pass for a laugh out of my throat.. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

My voice sounds almost normal. Almost .

But I don’t answer her question.

And neither does she.

Typical.

We sit in silence, this heavy, awful silence full of everything we aren’t saying.

Then I break it.

“Please make sure you’re being careful,” I say, the words a brittle whisper. “Look after yourself first. What you’re doing there comes second, remember?”

My voice cracks a little at the end.

And Rule’s breath flares against my skin.

The silence on the other end turns heavy. I know what Hydessa’s thinking. She knows me. She knows I don’t say things like that. I’m the one who charges in head-first, tells her to run toward the fire, to not waste time worrying.

But now I’m here, wrapped in invisible barbed wire, and all I want is for her to be safe.

She doesn’t press. Not yet. But I can hear it. The tension tightening her voice, the inhale before the question—

I beat her to it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting her off before she can dig. “I have to go. I love you.”

There’s a beat.

“I love you too,” she says, and then the line goes dead.

Silence falls again.

The screen goes black.

And I just sit there.

My hair a mess, the faint streaks of blood still smeared on my thighs, the necklace locked around my neck, and not sure what the fuck I’m doing anymore.

Rule straightens slowly, gaze still fixed on me through those unreadable lenses.

The phone slides from my fingers to the counter, and I feel like I’ve been gutted.

Because I didn’t say the code words.

I could’ve.

But I didn’t .

And I’m not sure if it’s because I couldn’t find the right moment—

Or because part of me didn’t want out.

Rule leans down just slightly, his breath ghosting the shell of my ear.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

And I swear to God, if I weren’t still trembling from everything he had done to me—I’d punch him in the fucking throat.