Page 40

Chapter 39

Seanna

Morning comes slow, dragging light across my skin like it's afraid to wake me. It feels strange to be in a room with a window after spending days in a room without.

My body aches, sore in all the ways that remind me I was used—thoroughly, savagely, obsessively—by both of them last night. I only vaguely remember the aftermath. The gentler side of monsters. The way they’d cleaned me up, massaged the knots out of my trembling legs. Rule tending to the rope-burned cuts he’d given me when he chased me through the trees like prey, his hands steady and careful now, almost reverent.

I remember warmth. Steady pressure. Their voices low, murmured things I didn’t quite catch. Fingers brushing sweat-damp hair back from my temple. The softness of a cloth between my thighs. Then nothing.

Now, the room is empty. No armchair sentinel. No masked men.

No restraints.

I blink at my wrists. No rope. No cuffs. Just the familiar sting of bruises and the dull burn of used muscles. I stretch, slow and lazy, testing the boundaries of this unexpected freedom.

Then I do what any sane person in a new house would do.

I snoop.

I kick the covers off and push upright. My legs threaten mutiny, but I ignore it. First things first: clothes. If I’m going to wander through whatever curated hellscape they’ve dumped me in now, I might as well be dressed.

Dragging myself to the tall dresser, I yank open the top drawer—only to pause.

What greets me isn’t some borrowed T-shirt or folded sweatpants.

It’s the lingerie.

Not tucked away in the gift box this time. No. It’s folded. Placed deliberately. Like it belongs here. Like I belong here.

The same set they left on my bed when they were still just shadows in my periphery. When I was still pretending they didn’t exist. Still pretending I wasn’t unraveling.

I scoff under my breath, fingers brushing the familiar blend of leather and lace again. Of course they brought it here. Of course they unpacked it for me. Probably laid it out with reverent hands while whispering to each other about how perfect I’ll look in it.

So just to be a contradictory bitch, I put it on.

No ceremony. No performance.

I step into it like armor.

Then I find and pull on one of the long oversized shirts of mine from another drawer—soft, black, worn thin at the edges because I’ve had it forever. I bypass all the brand new clothes surrounding it purely because of Ruin’s words.

My bare legs protest every step with a satisfying ache. The hallway outside the bedroom is just as quiet, lined with sleek grey walls and dark wood trim, modern but cozy. Two doors stand closed across from me. One has the sound of a shower muffled but unmistakable.

Tempting.

God, it’s so fucking tempting to barge in, to catch one of them off-guard and ruin their carefully orchestrated mask of control. To get the answers before I have earned them. But I stop myself. That would feel like cheating. After everything they told me… their confessions, their truths—the faces and names still hidden—I won’t cheapen them.

If that’s one of their rooms, then logic says the second door belongs to the other.

My fingers twitch with curiosity, but I keep moving, further down the hall and into the heart of the house.

It’s massive. Open. Every line, every corner drenched in indulgence, like someone took my subconscious, wrung it out, and decorated with it. Black velvet furniture. Smoky gray walls. Blood-red accents. If I ever made a Pinterest board it would look exactly like this.

Of course it would.

They’ve studied me for years. Obsessed. Watched. They’ve been inside my mind, my records, my patterns. They probably know the exact brand of eyeliner I use and which of my bras I secretly think I look best in. So yeah. Of course they knew what kind of house I would love.

Of course they got it right.

Of course they built this world out of everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I never said aloud. It makes my stomach turn and twist and ache all at once.

I move through each room slowly, taking it all in. A sitting room with black silk curtains and a fireplace. A hidden nook with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a plush reading chair that practically begs to swallow me whole.

I wander through to the kitchen, fingers grazing the cool marble of the counter. The fridge is unnecessarily stocked. The shelves are arranged with a terrifying precision. The pantry is next—dark, deep, full of everything from imported oils to obscure spice blends. I’m halfway through opening one of the lower cabinets inside the pantry when—

“If you wanted a tour,” a voice murmurs behind me, lazy and low, “you could’ve just asked.”

I don’t jump. I don’t freeze. I turn slowly, already rolling my eyes because I don’t need to see him to know exactly who it is.

Rule.

There’s something in the way he speaks today—less edge, more velvet. It’s disarming. Infuriating.

“I didn’t realize snooping required an appointment,” I reply.

He leans against the doorframe like he owns the damn air in the room, mask still in place, modulated voice unmistakably amused. “Fair point.”

“I knew you’d come find me eventually,” I add, turning back to the pantry casually. “You two always do.”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and unhurried as his footsteps draw closer. “I was going to make you some more pastries.”

That gets my attention. I turn to face him again, raising a brow. “Cherry cream cheese?”

His mask tilts slightly in acknowledgment. “Of course.”

I shrug, pretending I’m not already imagining the buttery layers and sweet filling. “And here I thought you were going to punish me for wandering.”

He steps closer, hands tucked behind his back. “I still might.”

Then, softer—almost like a tease veiled in something more vulnerable—“But if you'd like to help make them… that would be even better.”

I narrow my eyes. “What, no threat? No forced compliance or bribes with caffeine this time?”

“You’re not bound,” he reminds me quietly. “You’re choosing.”

I hate how that lands in me. Soft. Undeniably real.

I look at him fully now, leaning just enough to let my mouth twist into something between a smirk and a dare. “Fine. But if they don’t come out perfect, I’m blaming you. And I want extra glaze this time.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

I let the silence stretch between us, just for a second longer than comfort allows, then move past him and back into the kitchen proper. My skin prickles with awareness of his proximity. But I don’t flinch when he brushes against me after he follows me. I don’t pull away.

I pull my hair up into a lazy knot as Rule moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times. Efficient. Confident. Silent when he needs to be, and deliberate when he doesn’t. It’s unnerving how domestic it looks on him. Like the same hands that tied me to a bed, that chased me through the forest like prey, could also know exactly where to find the vanilla extract and the right size mixing bowl.

I hop up onto the edge of the counter, watching him prep ingredients. “So,” I say, voice casual as I dangle my legs off the edge, “this your new plan? Seduce me with carbs?”

He pauses just long enough to glance at me—head cocked, expression unreadable beneath the mask. “You moaned last time I gave you these. Figured I’d play to your weaknesses.”

“That was appreciation,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not seduction. There’s a difference.”

“Mm.” He slides the cream cheese onto the counter, the sound of foil crinkling under his gloved fingers. “Sounded a lot like foreplay to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re just pissed I licked the last of it off my fingers and didn’t offer you a taste.”

“Not pissed,” he replies smoothly. “Impressed you managed to make pastries obscene without even trying.”

I grin. “I’m talented like that.”

He nudges a cutting board toward me, along with a knife that gleams under the kitchen light like a dare. “Want to chop the cherries or just keep staring at me like you’re plotting something?”

I slide off the counter with exaggerated grace and grab the blade, running my finger along the flat edge before giving him a slow, arched look. “Wow. Trusting me with a knife already? I’m touched.”

His stance doesn’t shift, but I can tell I’ve caught his attention. The tilt of his head, the way his gloved hands pause just slightly above the bowl of sugar. He’s waiting.

I smirk, lifting the blade and turning it slightly so it glints. “You sure you want to be that close? I’m unpredictable. Unstable. Probably holding a grudge or two.”

“Only two?” he murmurs, voice edged in amusement.

“For now,” I say sweetly. “But you’re really underestimating the damage a serrated edge can do.”

He finally steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the weight of him—not threatening, just inevitable.

“If I thought you’d try to stab me,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact, “I wouldn’t have given you a knife.”

I raise my brow. “So what—you want me armed?”

His voice dips lower, the kind of low that knows exactly where to settle in your chest. “I want you exactly like this. Sharp. Dangerous. Honest.”

The last word lands heavy, harder than it should.

I blink, just once. Then I shake my head, huffing out a dry laugh as I slice the first cherry clean in half. “You’re either incredibly confident or profoundly stupid.”

“Both,” he replies, going back to his preparations. “Depending on the day.”

“Today’s looking like a stupid day,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.

I keep chopping, the blade rhythmic against the board. He doesn't flinch. He doesn’t watch my hands. He just moves beside me like he trusts that I won’t drive the knife straight into his ribs.

That, more than anything, unsettles me.

Because part of me wishes he wouldn’t trust me.

And part of me... doesn’t hate that he does.

But because of that my mind chooses that moment to remind me of all the facts I do know.

I finish chopping the last of the cherries and slide the board toward him with a little more force than necessary. “Here,” I say flatly. “I didn’t poison them, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

I lean against the counter, arms folded. I should stop. Should leave this quiet little truce in one piece. But that’s not who I am. I don’t do peace. I do sabotage—especially when things feel too easy. Too safe. Too good .

He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just scoops the fruit into the bowl and starts folding it into the mixture like I haven’t been inching toward combustion.

So I strike where it hurts.

“You know, I still can’t get over it,” I say casually. “The way you touched me last night, the way you spoke. And the whole time, your last name is Reyes.”

His movements pause—just barely—but it’s enough.

“Javier’s son,” I press, voice curling into something sharp. “The heir. Groomed since birth to inherit the throne. Tell me, Rule—how does it feel knowing your legacy is built on bodies and blood and trafficking girls and drugs?”

He doesn’t look at me.

He doesn’t have to.

His knuckles tighten over the whisk, the leather making soft sounds as his grip tightens. For a moment, the only sound is the low hum of the oven preheating behind us.

Then—soft, low, controlled—he says, “You think I don’t know what he is?”

I lift my chin, defiant. “Do you?”

He turns toward me fully, and even through the mask, his presence is searing. His voice is razor-edged and hollow. “I’ve spent every fucking year of my life knowing exactly what he is.”

There’s something dangerous and trembling underneath the words, something deeper than the smooth confidence he usually wears like armor.

He sets the whisk down with too much care.

“My mother was a possession to him. A body to fuck. A name to own. He paraded her like a queen at events, then hit her hard enough behind closed doors to make her teeth rattle. I was seven the first time I tried to stop him.” His breath hitches slightly, but he swallows it down. “He backhanded me so hard I saw stars. Told me if I ever stepped between them again, he’d make me disappear.”

I blink, stunned—but I don’t speak. I let him bleed.

“She tried to leave once,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Tried to take me and my brother and sister with her. We got as far as a safehouse in Cartagena. It didn’t last twenty-four hours. His men found us. Dragged her back by her hair. Beat the maid who helped us until she couldn’t walk.”

He steps back slightly, giving himself space to breathe, and I realize—he’s not just recounting it. He’s still there. In every word. Every detail.

“And now,” he says, a bitter laugh caught in his throat, “he’s arranging for my sister—my baby sister —to marry a monster. A man at least twice her age who runs a rival cartel in Michoacán. She’s twenty. He wants to ‘secure the alliance’—his words.”

My stomach twists.

“She cried to me,” he says, like a confession. “Begged me not to let it happen. And I promised I wouldn’t. So I’m not. I already have a plan in place to get her out. She just doesn’t know it yet. But he’ll never touch her again. That bastard won’t use her like he used the rest of us.”

I can feel his gaze, it pins me, sharp and aching.

“I’m not him,” he says lowly. “The name Kingston Reyes is the only fucking thing I have in common with that monster. That’s not who I am. And if you really see me the way you act like you do—you should know that.”

The silence between us stretches thick and tense.

I cross my arms tighter, trying to shield the way his words hit me. But I don’t back down. I can’t.

“How do I know that?” I ask quietly. Not biting now—just honest. Wounded. “Right now… all I know about you is that he’s your father.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lash out or retreat.

Instead, Rule steps closer.

Slowly. Intentionally.

He takes my hands in his—gloved, warm, steady—and lifts them gently, placing them at the edges of his mask. His voice is a low, steady rumble, more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it.

“You do,” he says. “Because you do know me.”

I freeze, hands hovering just beneath his jaw. And it’s insane—because only a few days ago, I was clawing at this very mask, trying to rip it off in a blind fury. Now he’s letting me. Voluntarily. Like this moment—this offering—is sacred.

I stare up at him, breath caught in my throat.

My fingers curl slightly around the edge of the material, but I don’t pull. Not yet.

I don’t know if it’s mercy or fear or something else entirely, but I hold still. Because this? This isn’t about control anymore.

This is trust.

And that terrifies me more than any cartel heir ever could.

And he notices.

Of course he fucking does.

He tilts his head, voice dark with soft amusement. “What’s wrong, princess?” he murmurs, that familiar rasp rolling over me like velvet and barbed wire. “Scared of what you’ll find?”

My breath hitches.

Not at the words.

At the nickname .

Princess.

Only one person ever called me that like it meant something both teasing and reverent. Only one man made it sound like both a dare and a promise every time it left his mouth.

No. Fucking. Way.

Without thinking, I move.

I slide the glasses from his face first. Beneath them, his eyes are already watching me—sharp, calculating, heartbreakingly familiar.

Then I reach up and pull the mask off, slow and deliberate. My fingers tremble, just slightly.

And there he is.

Bodhi.

The smug, too-charming organization operative I’ve been sparring with for years . The same Bodhi I pinned to the mats only a week ago— pinned , like I’d actually overpowered him.

Bull. Shit.

I step back, reeling, heart pounding in my chest like it’s trying to claw its way out.

“You—” I choke out, eyes narrowing to slits. “You absolute bastard. I pinned you. You let me win.”

He shrugs, totally unbothered, like I didn’t just uncover a goddamn bombshell. “You needed the ego boost.”

“I should shoot you,” I mutter, fury and confusion tangling in my throat. “I should’ve known . You were always there, always watching, and I still didn’t fucking see you.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smirk. “That’s kind of the point, Seanna.”

“You’re stronger than you ever let on,” I accuse, voice rising.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“You’re faster.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re infuriating .”

“And yet,” he murmurs, stepping back into my space, voice a dangerous hum, “you never could keep your eyes off me.”

I open my mouth to snarl something else—but I don’t get the chance.

He kisses me.

Not tentative.

Not questioning.

Like he’s been waiting for this since the moment we met—since before I even knew who he was.

His mouth claims mine with heat and hunger, all rough edges and suppressed obsession. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. But it is honest.

And worse?

I kiss him back.

For one hot, burning second, I let myself sink into it—let his hand slide to the back of my neck, let his body press close until there’s nothing but heat and fury and the electric crack of connection that should never have happened.

And when I finally pull away, breathing hard, I don’t slap him.

I don’t scream.

I just stare at him and say—

“…Still can’t believe you let me win.”

He grins, flushed and feral. “You gonna punish me for it, princess?”

Oh, I will.

Just not in the way he thinks.