Page 35

Chapter 34

Seanna

The armchair is empty again.

And I don’t fucking trust it.

Last time it was empty, I thought—stupidly—that maybe they’d let up. Maybe the obsession had quieted. Maybe I wasn’t being watched every second like some lab rat in heat. And then I opened that door and ran, thinking I could outpace them.

Only to be hunted through their goddamn trap-rigged forest by Rule like prey.

So no. I’m not buying it. For whatever reason the chair is empty. It’s probably just bait.

I stare at it, muscles tense, every inch of me humming with unease. My mind won’t shut the fuck up. Not after everything they’ve told me. Not after everything I’ve felt.

Their confessions claw under my skin and build a nest. The kind you can’t burn out. The kind that eats you from the inside.

I’m not this person, or at least, I wasn’t. I was rage and vengeance. I was the woman who built her career on gutting predators and walking out clean. And now?

Now my gut twists when I think about what might be behind their masks, about wanting them to crawl between my legs while I sleep. I dream about their hands and wake up soaking wet, caught between hatred and hunger.

My obsession used to be taking Reyes down. It was my everything. But now?

Now I’m obsessed with them .

And I hate it.

Fuck, I should still be fighting this. I should be attacking the next asshole who walks through the door, seizing a vehicle, and getting the hell out of here, not thinking about the twisted thrill of another primal chase through their fucked-up playground. But their confessions have wormed beneath my defenses, gnawed at my resolve, and left me uncertain of everything I thought I knew about myself.

But instead, I’m still here sitting in this goddamn cage. I keep thinking about their hands. Their voices. The truth buried under all that armor. The confessions that carved deeper than any blade ever could.

I'm not this fucking woman. I’m unraveling. Piece by piece. And I don’t know how to stop it.

The door opens without warning—of course it does—and Rule walks in with a tray of scrambled eggs and a mug. He sets it down gently, then steps back—calm, back to the cool, controlled persona from before. Yesterday’s raw vulnerability might as well have never happened.

Suspicion gnaws at me, but I eat, grateful for the quiet reprieve even though it won't last long. I pick at the food slowly, eyes flicking toward the mug. It’s hot but not boiling when I finally take a sip—fresh coffee. That pisses me off more than if it had been cold. He didn’t just bring me food. He made sure it would be good. And of course, he watches.

Rule crosses his arms, voice smooth like steel wrapped in silk. "Still haven’t decided whether to stab me or fuck me again, have you?"

I don't even blink. "Not mutually exclusive."

He huffs a low breath through his mask—amused, maybe. “I figured if I brought hot coffee, I might not get stabbed today.”

I arch a brow and take a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. “Bribery and sarcasm. Impressive. Trying a new strategy?”

He leans against the wall like he’s settling in. “I’ve got layers. You just keep peeling them off with your claws.”

I snort. “Cute. Bet you practiced that one.”

“Only in my head,” he says, tone shifting—sharper now, more pointed. “Must have been absolute torture—no constant flow of coffee for days. Surprised you're still functional.”

I arch a brow, lifting the mug again with deliberate slowness. “You have no idea how close to death you've been keeping me.”

He hums. “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

I set the mug down harder than necessary, the ceramic hitting the table sharply. “Trust me, if coffee withdrawal was my biggest problem, I'd consider myself lucky.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer with ease. “That's the thing about torture—it’s all about perspective.”

I rise from the bed, closing the distance between us, refusing to back down. “You’re one twisted bastard, you know that?”

He leans forward just enough to make my heart skip, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “That's why we get along so well.”

I growl. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“You don’t want me quiet, little storm. You want me honest. You just hate that you’re starting to believe me,” he says as he steps back.

I narrow my eyes. “Careful. You’re mistaking my tolerance for trust.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. “No. I’m counting on the fact that you know the difference.”

Before I can respond, he calmly turns away, collects the tray from the table, and leaves without another word.

The quiet doesn’t last.

Maybe an hour passes. Maybe less. I lose track of time staring at the walls like they’re supposed to give me answers. My pulse has finally settled into something approaching normal and my coffee is long gone.

Then the door opens.

Rule steps inside, but there’s something different about his posture—like he’s braced for impact. My phone is in his outstretched hand. Ringing.

Every nerve in my body goes still.

The last time I saw my phone was right before he dropped the bomb. Kingston fucking Reyes. That name has been ringing in my head like a curse ever since. Anger flares like a whipcrack—instant, burning.

But I don’t move.

Not until he reaches me and places it in my hand, slow and precise, like he knows it might explode.

I don’t thank him.

I don’t speak.

My eyes lock on the device. The screen is glowing. Hydessa.

I stare at that screen for exactly one breath. Then I answer.

“Hey, sis,” I say softly, injecting warmth I don’t feel. The words taste wrong. They’re not ours. They’re never ours.

And I know she hears it immediately.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. A beat of silence I feel in my bones.

Then Hydessa responds, voice low and careful. “Hey, sis.”

I don’t look at Rule. I don’t give him anything. I just keep my gaze fixed on the far wall, I focus on Hydessa, as though that’s safer than acknowledging the six-foot fucking asshole standing beside me.

“How’s the investigation going?” I ask, forcing cheer into my tone. I sound upbeat. Relaxed. Like I’m not currently sending out a silent scream.

“We got the bad guys,” she says gently. “We always get them, remember?”

I force a hum of agreement, even though it cuts like a blade. I shift my weight on the bed, one leg folded under me, the phone pressed just a little closer to my ear, like proximity might make this less unbearable.

“I’m glad,” I whisper. My fingers tighten around the phone. “I have to go, sis.”

I hear her inhale. Sharp. My chest aches.

“I love you, Seanna,” she says quickly, voice cracking right through the center of me.

“Love you too,” I whisper back—and I end the call before I can fall apart.

***

Rule

She hands me back the phone with that fake-ass smile she’s perfected so well—lips curled like everything’s fine, like I didn’t just witness the subtle tremble in her fingers or the stiffness in her shoulders.

But I see through it.

She can’t lie to me, not really. I’ve watched her too long, studied every twitch in her jaw, every micro-expression she thinks she hides behind those sharp eyes. That smile doesn’t fool me, not for a fucking second.

I hum low in my throat and slide the phone back into the pocket of my utility pants, letting the silence stretch just long enough to needle her nerves.

Then I move.

She growls the second I grab her arm and I don’t bother explaining as I secure it back into the shackle bolted to the bed frame. She snarls and tries to claw at my face, her nails aiming for the gap beneath my mask. It’s a fast swipe, well-placed. But I’m faster, snatching the hand midair and securing it to the bed frame too. The cuffs snap shut with a familiar metallic bite. It’s not tight enough to cut off circulation. Just tight enough to remind her she’s not calling the shots.

I don’t flinch. Just stand at the edge of her fury and let it burn.

“I’m not stupid,” I say simply. Cool. Detached. Unbothered.

Her glare could burn holes in walls.

“Don’t worry, Seanna,” I murmur. “You’ll be punished for that.”

She screams. Loud. Raw. Frustration and fury all twisted together into something sharp enough to flay.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I turn, stepping through the door. Shutting it behind me with a soft click.

Her voice keeps going. Screams trailing after me down the dim hallway like smoke from a fire I’m pretending not to smell. But I don’t stop. I don’t slow. I know she’ll burn herself out eventually.

She always does.

My boots echo down the narrow corridor, steady despite the chaos behind me. I pass the stairs, duck into the main room—dark wood, colder air, reinforced everything—and finally breathe.

Then I reach up and peel the mask from my face.

The air hits cooler now. It always does after wearing it too long.

I pull my burner phone from my pocket and pull up the contact I need. It’s practically the only name this phone knows.

He answers on the first ring. Doesn’t speak, just hums.

Someone’s near him.

“We have to move again,” I say. “Her sister knows. This location is now compromised.”

He responds with a darker hum. One I know too well.

Then his voice, quieter than mine and twice as deadly.

“Make it happen.”

The line clicks off, and I don’t waste a second.

Her phone is still warm in my pocket when I pull it out again. The screen is blank now—silent, innocent—but I know better. Hydessa knows. Which means others might soon, too. It’s compromised. Contaminated. A liability.

I snap it in half.

The screen cracks with a satisfying crunch. Then I pry out the SIM, crush it under my boot, and toss the remains into the fireplace. One flick of my lighter and it’s gone. No signal. No trail. No chance.

Then I move.

Every step is clockwork—methodical, precise. I clean the house top to bottom, scrubbing surfaces, wiping prints, burning anything with a trace of us. The dishes. The linens. Even the fucking doorknobs. It all gets cleaned and erased.

Anything we can’t take or clean? Torched.

By the time I’m done, this place looks like we were never here. A ghost house. A blank slate.

Ruin’s equipment is next—his high-end surveillance gear, servers, laptops, signal jammers. It all goes into two reinforced cases, which I load carefully into the back of the SUV. I double-check it, then lock it all down tight.

One task left.

I head back down the hallway—slow, controlled. Her room is quiet now, but I don’t trust it. Not with her. Quiet with her could mean she's sharpening something.

When I open the door, she’s sitting on the bed, arms still cuffed. Her legs are pulled tight to her chest like she’s waiting. Like she knew I’d come.

And she’s ready .

The second I step into range, she kicks. Hard. Right at my ribs.

I block it, but it still lands with enough force to remind me how fucking lethal she is even chained.

“Feisty,” I mutter, catching her ankle, twisting and pulling to send her backward against the mattress.

She snarls, scrambling, swinging her other foot out, this time she goes for my face.

Her entire body is fighting now, a last stand.

I’m sure this sudden resurgence of anger is about that name. That fucking name that I hate. Kingston Reyes. It’s like poison. I knew it would burn.

It’s why I don’t use that name.

I didn’t choose it. That bastard did. That alone makes it toxic. I prefer the one I picked for myself.

Ruin’s the same. He picked his own name, but not out of spite. He just wanted to disappear.

He went so far as to wipe us from every system that matters. Altered documents. Faked images. Scrambled facial recognition.

Our birth names? Dead and buried to anyone not family. The world doesn’t get them. It gets what we became.

I move fast.

I drop my weight onto the bed, pinning her legs with my body. Her fists thrash, teeth bared, hair wild around her face like some mythic creature in chains. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Ours.

“Enough,” I growl, yanking the small black canister from my pocket.

She sees it too late.

I press the nozzle under her nose and fire a burst of vapor.

She thrashes once more—violently. Then again. Then slower.

Her breathing hitches. Her limbs falter.

And then she slumps.

Her head lolls slightly to the side, lips parted, lashes fluttering as the sedative pulls her under.

I sit there for a beat, letting my own pulse come down. Then I release the restraints from her wrists. Her skin is warm, sweat-damp from the struggle, her breath slow and even.

With haste, I grab all the final things we need.

Clothes. Toiletries. The few items we brought from her cabin I shove into a bag. When everything’s packed, I scoop her up into my arms. She fits there too well.

Her oversized shirt clings to her skin. Her bare legs dangle slightly, one arm curled against my chest as though even in unconsciousness she hasn’t fully let go.

I carry her out of the house and to the SUV and lay her carefully across the back seat, strapping her in gently. My gloved hand brushes a lock of hair from her cheek before I close the door.

Then I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and drive.