Page 33

Chapter 32

Ruin

She didn’t eat.

Not the lunch. Not the dinner.

I wasn’t home when Rule tried—had my own mess to deal with on the outside—but when I finally stepped through the door, he was waiting in the hall like he’d aged ten years in my absence. His voice was low and careful when he told me like he thought I’d be pissed.

I wasn’t.

Not really.

He said she just stared at the tray, then turned her back and wrapped herself tighter in one of those oversized shirts she always wears when she’s trying to convince herself she’s safe. Like fabric and defiance are armor enough. Like comfort can’t be turned into a weapon if you know how to wield it right.

He’s lucky she didn’t throw the plate in his face.

I think she wanted to.

I could hear it in his voice—how much it wounded him. He hides it, but I know him. I know what it does to him when she won’t even look at him. He can handle violence. Fury. Screaming.

But silence?

Silence is a blade between his ribs.

He can deal with knives and bullets and blood, but he can’t stomach her silence.

Still, it won’t last.

Her rage burns hot and fast—wildfire that consumes everything in its path. But fire doesn’t last forever. Not even hers. It’ll smolder. It’ll shrink down to embers. And then it’ll shift. It always does. Because that’s what makes her dangerous.

Rule left after that to take care of his own errands, but really I think he needed a moment's distance.

So, I wait until she’s asleep before I go in.

It’s almost a ritual now—the way I sit in this armchair, silent, breathing her in from across the room. The way I watch the lines of her body beneath the sheets. The way I catalogue the small things. The twitch in her thigh. The way she curls her fingers near her face. The slow, even rhythm of her breath.

I watch her like she’s something sacred.

Like she’s mine.

Because she is.

Her lips are parted. Her lashes tremble with whatever images dance behind her eyes. I wonder if she dreams of us. I hope she does. I hope she wakes up soaked in it, dazed and desperate, craving what only we can give.

She looks fragile like this.

She isn’t. But fuck, it’s a good illusion.

I want to touch her. I want to crawl into that bed and stretch her open again, press my mouth to the bruises we left and make her cry out my name in a tone that isn’t rage but surrender.

The truce between her and Rule is already ash. The moment he told her who he was—Kingston Reyes—the fragile line holding her tolerance in place snapped. I knew it would. I heard when she screamed like she wanted to rip the Reyes name straight out of his throat. And I get it. I do. That rage? That explosion? It was beautiful.

And I can’t even blame her for it. I saw it coming the second Rule started slipping deeper into his obsession for her. But I understand why he did it.

Because I couldn’t have held that secret much longer either.

But it doesn’t bode well.

Not for when she finds out the rest.

I’ve spent years watching her through screens, through stolen surveillance, through audio files that I played on repeat until I could recite every inflection in her voice like a psalm. I memorized the rhythm of her footsteps before I ever heard them in person. I know her better than she knows herself.

And now?

Now she’s here. Warm. Breathing. Close enough to touch.

I don’t want to go back to distance. I don’t want to return to cold monitors and silent worship. I want this. Her. All of it.

The part of me that still pretends to be a good man—that thin layer of restraint I only wear when I have to—it’s screaming at me to go slow. To give her time. Space. A chance to adjust.

But the rest of me?

The part that’s been starved for her?

That part wants to devour her.

How will she react when she finds out the rest? When she learns how deep this goes? When she finally understands who I am underneath the mask… and how long I’ve loved her?

Because make no mistake.

I do love her.

Not the sweet, forgiving kind. Not the kind that builds houses or reads poetry.

No. Mine is the kind of love that chains itself to her soul and whispers in the dark.

The kind that watches her sleep like a goddamn altar and takes pictures. That breathes in the scent of her skin, counts every eyelash, and imagines the sounds she’ll make when she finally lets herself be ours, fully and without fear.

And now that she’s here?

I don’t ever want to let her go.

Even if she hates me for it. Even if she tries to run again.

Because obsession this deep doesn’t fade.

And whether she knows it yet or not—Seanna Darling belongs to us.

She always has.

She paired her oversized shirt with a pair of panties, as though that could form some sort of shield between her and me.

It can’t.

Her defiance is beautiful, but futile.

I rise from the armchair in the corner, every step toward her a deliberate surrender to obsession. Even if she hates us right now, she can’t erase what she told us. What she admitted in that thick moment of weakness, when words filled with need spilled from her lips like confession.

She told us her fantasy. She confessed it like it would never come back to bite her. Like admitting it out loud didn’t make it real.

To be taken. In sleep. No pretense. No permission.

And now? Now she’s asleep in one of those shirts like a lamb in its own soft wool, dreaming she’s safe.

She isn’t.

The sheets are low, the shirt barely covering her thighs. I drag it down gently, revealing the pale curves of her hips, the band of her panties thin against her skin. I spread her thighs and kneel between them, sliding the panties aside. Not off. Just enough to bare her. Just enough to remind her body it belongs to me before her mind even wakes.

My cock is already hard. Has been since I stepped in the room. Since I saw her curled up like a gift she doesn’t remember wrapping. The two steel barbells piercing the head throb with every beat of my pulse, a subtle weight and pressure I’ve learned to savor. I grip myself, line up, and push in.

The piercings drag across her entrance, the sensation sharp and perfect, her slick heat clutching around me like a fist. She doesn’t wake. Not yet.

She sighs in her sleep, body instinctively parting for me. Like she knows, like her body knows, even in her sleep.

I move in her, slow and steady, dragging my cock out just enough to feel the barbells catch and pull before sinking back in with a groan. Again. And again. A handful of careful, measured thrusts—each one a claim, each one coaxing her body deeper into instinct before consciousness catches up. The steel piercings press against her walls in all the right places, making my restraint fray at the edges. I fuck her slowly, deeply, the barbells tugging just enough to drive me insane. Every drag out makes her walls twitch. Every push back in forces them deeper.

She's so tight around me, her body still mostly slack with sleep even as I move inside her. Each thrust is a revelation, a dark promise. My obsessive thoughts spiral as I fuck into her slowly, savoring every clench of her walls. She has no idea what we've done. That she is completely unprotected now, ripe and ready.

The knowledge makes me throb harder inside her, a primal surge of possessive need. I want to fill her up, paint her insides with my cum until it takes root. Until she's swollen with my child. The fantasy consumes me as I roll my hips, burying myself as deep as I can go.

My thrusts become slightly harder, more deliberate. Each push drives me deeper, the steel piercings dragging against her most sensitive spots. Her body responds instinctively, even in sleep—muscles clenching, hips shifting subtly to take me deeper.

A soft moan escapes her lips and she begins to stir, consciousness seeping back in. Her brow furrows in sleepy confusion, body tensing slightly beneath mine.

Her breath starts to shift. The rhythm changes. Her fingers twitch.

She wakes as a cry of pleasure leaves her beautiful lips, with me buried deep inside her.

Her body tenses as consciousness floods back, her muscles instinctively clenching around me. The moment she realizes she's being fucked, a soft protest rises in her throat.

"Rule?" she mumbles, confusion and lingering anger threading through her voice. "What are you—"

"Try again, darling," I purr, my voice low and dangerous.

She goes completely still. Recognition floods her eyes as she realizes it's me inside her. The anger shifts, transforms—becomes something darker, more primal.

"Ruin," she breathes, and it sounds like a curse and a prayer.

Her hips roll against me, no longer resisting. "Don't stop," she whispers, voice raw. "Fuck me. Please. Make me forget it all, just for a moment."

I growl, something feral and possessive breaking loose inside me. It doesn’t want to be gentle. It fills me with pure, unrestrained need.

I grip her hips and start to move—harder. Faster. Each thrust a violent claim, the steel piercings dragging against her most sensitive spots. She arches beneath me, crying out as I fuck her with a ruthlessness she's never seen from me.

I brace a hand above her head and keep the other locked around her thigh, pinning it up so I can thrust deeper, harder, pounding her into the mattress with the force of everything I’ve held back for too fucking long.

She doesn’t ask for tenderness. She doesn’t beg me to slow. She doesn’t flinch or cry.

She takes it.

Takes me.

And fuck, I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than the way her body surrenders even as her eyes burn like they want to murder me. She’s still pissed. Still furious about Rule’s reveal. But right now? That fury is all tangled up in lust, all mixed into the haze of me slamming into her, dragging the sound of my name from her throat like it’s been trapped there all along.

“More,” she gasps, nails clawing at the sheets as I drive my hips forward with brutal precision. “Fuck—don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

I don't.

Because I know what she needs.

Not comfort. Not apologies. She needs to be wrecked. She needs the truth rewritten on her skin.

And I do it with every filthy, obsessive thrust.

One of her hands rises, reaching blindly for my face, but I don’t let her unmask me. I catch her wrist, pin it to the mattress.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “You’re not ready.”

Not ready for what I look like. For who I am underneath the armor and devotion and years of watching her life unfold like prophecy.

I roll my hips deeper, harder, making her breath hitch. I feel her start to shake beneath me, that telltale tension tightening her, her orgasm building fast and feral. Her pussy clamps down on me with each thrust, fluttering tight, and the sound she makes when I thrust in again—fuck, it’s divine.

I lean down, my mask brushing against the sweat-slick curve of her cheek, the lenses of my tactical glasses close enough to reflect her wrecked expression as I bury my cock deeper than she’s ever taken me before.

Her moan is ragged, broken, perfect.

I keep fucking her like that—unrelenting. My full weight behind every thrust, the piercings rubbing across every nerve ending inside her. I feel her break apart again and again beneath me. Her cunt tightens around me like she’s trying to trap me inside, and maybe that’s what I want too—because I’m not going anywhere.

I want her bred and fucked open. I want her soaked in us, wrecked and shaking and so thoroughly claimed by us that the thought of anyone else makes her sick.

I pull out just long enough to flip her onto her stomach, drag her hips back, and slam into her again. She screams into the pillow and it’s not from pain—it’s from release.

Because no one fucks her like this but us.

No one worships and destroys her in the same breath like we do.

The wet sound of my cock fucking into her echoes through the room as I lose myself in the rhythm of her. She’s soaked and pulsing, her body greedy for every inch I give her.

And when her third orgasm crashes through her, her whole body seizing, I press in and stay there—cock throbbing deep, stretching her wide, grinding down as I groan and spill deeply inside her.

She gasps at the heat. At the depth.

And I hold there. Buried to the hilt.

I don’t speak. I just breathe.

Heavy and ragged against her skin as she trembles underneath me.

Because this moment means everything.

And I don’t care if she hates us tomorrow.

Because tonight, her body told the truth.

That it belongs to us.