Page 38

Chapter 37

Seanna

Ruin steps back, a single calculated retreat that leaves space between us—space I immediately intend to violate.

I rise from the bed slowly, the silk sheets dragging against my skin like a lover’s whisper, my gaze locked on him like a predator testing the fence. My legs feel steady beneath me. Strong. Every muscle in my body aches, but it’s the kind of ache I’ve learned to savor. A reminder that I survived. That I’m still standing. Still me.

I take a single step forward.

Then another.

Close enough that I can hear the faint change in his breath. I lift my hand—slowly, deliberately—and press my fingertips to his chest. Testing. Teasing.

He doesn’t stop me.

My fingers trail higher, ghosting along the edge of his shoulder, then across his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. My nails graze lightly. Not enough to scratch. Just enough to say I could .

“I’m not sure I can control my hands,” I murmur, voice dripping mock innocence. “They’ve been so… crazy lately. Reckless. Just begging for a reason to misbehave.”

Rule’s voice cuts in—calm, amused. “Should I bind them then?”

I don’t turn toward him. I let the corner of my mouth twitch up into a slow, wicked grin. “Might be the only responsible option.”

“I’ll take that as consent,” he replies—and then he’s gone, like a shadow slipping away.

I keep my focus on Ruin, still trailing my hand across his chest. “Think I should be worried?”

“No,” he says, low and certain. “But he’s going to make you behave.”

I drag my palm down his chest and flick my fingers against his belt. “That’s adorable. You still think I can be tamed.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment. Just lifts his gloved hands to the hem of my oversized shirt, slow and deliberate. Then his voice drops to that dark, dangerous place that always lands somewhere low in my stomach.

“You were always meant to be ours, little storm. So we’re just taking what’s already mine,” he murmurs. “From now on, you don’t wear something like this unless you want it taken off. So let me take care of it.”

And he strips me.

I don’t flinch. I don’t cover myself. I stand there like a fucking goddess demanding worship, head high, daring him to make it something it’s not. The shirt falls to the floor in a whisper. He crouches, fingers catching the waistband of my panties, and drags them down with reverent slowness.

I step out of them with zero hesitation, not a single nerve flinching. Because this isn’t submission. This is me giving them the storm.

He rises, then turns and moves to the armchair, lowering himself into it with languid confidence. He spreads his legs, reclines like he’s watching his favorite show come back for another brutal season.

And then Rule returns, he’s carrying two lengths of rope—soft, black, the kind that looks too elegant for what it’s about to do. He doesn’t speak. Just approaches in that calm, unhurried gait like he already owns the room. Owns me . I arch a brow, watching him like a cat approaching a mouse that doesn’t know it’s already fucked.

He steps behind me.

The air shifts the second he’s close. My breath catches—more out of anticipation than nerves—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. I keep my chin high, my posture proud, even as he gently gathers my wrists behind my back.

The rope brushes my skin—cool and unnervingly sensual—and he starts binding my arms with deliberate grace. His movements are slow, patient. Like he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Careful,” I murmur, smirking. “Start tying me up too pretty and I might start thinking you’re in love.”

“I am,” Rule says softly, and fuck him for saying it like a damn fact.

His fingers tighten the first knot. Firm. Sure. My wrists are locked behind me, but I don’t feel caged. I feel… present. Focused. Hyper-aware of every place the rope touches, of the way he works me like a canvas he’s been dying to paint.

He moves higher, looping up my arms and then across my shoulders and chest, sculpting the rope over my breasts with the kind of attention that should be illegal. The rope presses in—snug, never harsh. It forces me to stand taller. Straighter. Like my body isn’t mine anymore, but some rare fucking artifact he’s decided to display.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Rule murmurs, his voice like velvet. “I knew you would.”

The praise slips over my skin like a warm palm, low and smooth and maddeningly effective. My breath hitches—just once. It’s not fear. It’s the heat uncoiling slow and thick inside me, pooling lower with every pass of that rope, every brush of his knuckles against bare skin as he pulls, tugs, knots.

He loops again around the swell of my breasts, binding them tight enough to make them sit high and proud, the rope sinking into the soft flesh. A soft gasp escapes before I can swallow it. I tilt my chin higher in response, pretending like the way my nipples harden under the ropes isn’t a betrayal.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Rule slides his hand between the tensioned ropes and my chest, his fingers brushing just beneath one aching peak, barely grazing it—just enough to make me tremble. Enough to make my thighs twitch together.

“You’re so responsive,” he says softly, reverently, like I’m some finely-tuned instrument he’s tuning by touch alone. “It’s beautiful.”

Behind him, Ruin is watching everything like he’s fucking starving. I glance toward him and see him sprawled in the armchair, one gloved hand casually wrapped around the thick length of his cock. He strokes slowly, like he’s savoring the tension between us as much as I am.

The sight shoots a bolt of heat straight through me.

Possessive, obsessive, unrelenting bastard—and even though I can’t see his face the way he looks at me, it makes me feel like I’m prey and sanctuary and everything he’s ever wanted. Makes my knees threaten to buckle.

Rule keeps working. The rope moves down my torso in elegant, winding paths. It coils under my ribs, frames the curve of my waist, crosses and winds its way across my stomach in a lattice of firm touches. Every knot feels like a kiss. Every tug, a command.

My breathing has gone shallow. Not panicked—aroused. Hyperaware. The rope is like a second skin now. One that hugs all the parts of me most men are too afraid to even look at directly.

“You feel that?” Rule asks quietly, looping a fresh strand between my thighs.

I nod once, lips parted as the pressure builds where I’m already wet and throbbing. The rope presses against the lips of my pussy, tight and teasing, brushing the aching spot that’s been throbbing for attention since the moment his voice said I’ll take that as consent.

“Good girl,” he says, tightening the tension with one practiced pull.

Fuck . That praise again.

It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t do anything. But I can’t lie to myself anymore—not with the way my body clenches when he says it. Not with the way I’m practically grinding on the rope now, thighs flexing involuntarily just to feel more.

I steal another glance at Ruin. His hand moves a little faster. He’s just watching. Possessing. His whole body like a shadow carved into the chair.

I want him to touch me. I want him to join this. To ruin me while Rule builds me into art.

“I’m going to finish binding your thighs next, then we’re going to put that sharp little tongue to better use,” Rule murmurs, voice silk-wrapped steel as he tightens the rope between my thighs just enough to make me shiver. “You’re going to get on your knees and choke on both our cocks—until your throat’s as wrecked as your cunt’s about to be.”

God, the way he says it—like a promise, like a threat. Like he’s already halfway down my throat.

My breath stutters and I swear I feel Ruin’s hot gaze from the chair like a physical touch. I don’t need to look to know he’s stroking himself harder now.

Rule’s hands trail over the rope framing my hips, sliding between my legs, fingers brushing my entrance where I’m already soaked. I gasp, muscles twitching, hips trying to roll, but the bindings hold me in place—perfect, inescapable tension.

“You feel that?” he whispers, dragging his fingers slowly through the wetness. “That’s from us. From being watched. From being tied. From knowing exactly what we’re about to do to you.”

He stands and leans in closer, his mask brushing my jaw and his breath hot against my ear.

“We’re going to fuck you together, Seanna,” he growls. “And you’re going to take everything we give you. Every inch. Every brutal thrust. Every fucking drop. Until your pussy is so wrecked and full, you can’t tell whose cum is leaking out of you.”

I moan—low and filthy—because fuck, I want it. I hate how much I want it. But I do. My whole body’s burning for it, every nerve ending wired for overload.

“You think you’re strong?” Rule continues, pressing one palm flat against my belly as he reaches around with the other to tug the rope just slightly between my legs again. “We’re going to break you in the best fucking way. And when we’re done, you won’t want to be strong. You’ll beg to stay like that—on your knees, dripping with us.”

I feel my legs weaken.

My breath comes in shallow pulls now, the ache between my thighs sharp and relentless, my nipples tight between the rope as my body writhes against its bindings. I glance again toward Ruin, I can’t fucking help it. He’s still watching like I’m his religion, one hand pumping slow and steady, the other resting on the arm of the chair like he’s reigning in the monster inside him—for now.

But his voice breaks through the tension—low, dark, hungry.

“She’s going to look so fucking pretty with both our cocks shoved down her throat,” Ruin growls. “Her eyes all glassy, her spit dripping, taking it like the fierce little goddess she is—our perfect addiction.”

A sound escapes me—a choked-off needy whimper that tastes like heat and shame and yes .

Rule chuckles beside me, dark and delighted. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

He presses his fingers back against my pussy, slipping one inside just to feel how ready I already am.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re already soaked for us. Needy little thing.”

He pulls back, running his hands down the ropes that bind me—like he’s checking his work. Like I’m a piece of art he’s about to defile.

And all I can think about— need —is to be wrecked so completely I forget how to say no.