Page 42

Chapter 41

Seanna

I push open the door to what seems to be my bedroom with a lazy swing of my hand, muscles still buzzing with the aftershocks of Rule’s mouth on me.

The room is a goddamn dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you look at it.

Dark, modern, seductive. Big enough to fit half of my cabin inside it. Burgundy silk sheets still tangled at the foot of the bed like an invitation I’m pretending I don’t see. Every inch of it curated, crafted.

For me.

I blow out a slow, measured breath and make a beeline for the two doors I haven't opened yet, tucked side by side along the far wall. One has to be the bathroom. The other… no clue. Storage, maybe. Weapons closet. Secret trapdoor to hell. Knowing them? All three.

I grab the handle on the first door and swing it open.

And freeze.

It's not a closet. It's a closet .

A walk-in the same size of the fucking wardrobe room at the organization. And it's filled. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. Clothes— mine. Or, at least, everything I would have picked for myself if I had unlimited money and no goddamn conscience. Rows of black leather jackets, sleek dark jeans, ripped shirts, moody dresses in stormy shades of gray and blood-red. Boots, combat and heeled. Statement jewelry glinting under the soft recessed lights.

And there, tucked between it all, a few familiar items.

My ratty hoodie from the cabin. My favorite worn-out jeans with the split seam at the pocket. My first black leather jacket I spent six months saving up for.

I take a stumbling step back, chest tight, a tidal wave of too much rolling over me.

They didn’t just guess.

They knew .

They studied me so closely they could rebuild me from memory if they had to.

I slam the door shut harder than necessary and lean my forehead against it, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing a deep, slow breath into my lungs. It doesn’t help. The reality still slams into me like a freight train:

They built this world around me.

And part of me— the most traitorous part —wants to step inside that closet, run my fingers across every hem, every leather jacket, and belong.

I shove the thought down so hard it almost chokes me and push off the door, marching toward the second door.

The bathroom is exactly what I expect: more dark decadence. Black marble countertops, gray tiled floors that gleam under soft recessed lights, burgundy towels folded with military precision. The shower is a glass-walled monstrosity, big enough for two—or three. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and something sharper underneath. Something that smells like them.

I cross to the counter, hands bracing the cool stone, and lift my gaze to the mirror.

And stop.

My reflection stares back at me: hair a wild mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still heavy-lidded from pleasure and exhaustion. A dark bruise is beginning to bloom low on my throat where Rule’s hand wrapped around it last night. I look wrecked. I look wild.

I look theirs .

My throat tightens against the truth of it.

I drop my gaze, desperate for a distraction—and find it.

The counter is lined with products. Neatly, carefully. All my usual brands. All the things I love and use without even thinking. My lotion. My makeup. Even the specific brand of fucking eyeliner I hoard like a dragon.

Another hit, square to the chest.

My hands curl into fists against the marble, knuckles aching white.

I lift my head slowly, ready to snarl at my own reflection—But my breath catches in my throat.

Because in the mirror, behind me, is Ruin .

Silent. Still.

I know it's him, because he is still masked. Still gloved. Still dressed in his perpetual black like a goddamn shadow that refuses to let me go.

He’s standing just inside the door, arms folded, watching me with that devastating, brutal patience that always feels like it’s peeling my skin back one layer at a time.

My pulse jackhammers in my throat.

I don’t turn. I don’t move.

I refuse. If he wants something— he can fucking come get it.

My muscles lock stubbornly, a silent dare in the set of my shoulders. I see his reflection—see the way he stands there, still as a storm just before it breaks. Waiting. Watching.

But I won't be the first to move. Not this time.

The seconds stretch, brittle and sharp, vibrating with too much meaning.

The tension between us hums, a livewire under my skin, sparking with every shallow breath I take.

I keep my chin high, my back stiff, my fists clenched white against the cool marble counter. I tell myself I’m not trembling. That the buzz under my skin is rage. Not anticipation.

And then—he moves.

Slow. Unhurried. Each step a deliberate act of control. A reminder that he doesn’t have to chase me anymore.

I’m already caught.

I watch him come closer through the mirror, the reflection sharpening with every step until he's right behind me—so close that the heat of his body prickles against the nearly bare skin the lingerie barely covers.

Still, he doesn’t touch me.

Instead, he cages me in—one hand braced on the marble either side of me, his body hemming me against the counter like he’s building a prison out of his own limbs. A prison I’m not sure I want to escape.

My chest rises and falls faster, lips parting around breath that suddenly feels too thick, too heavy to drag down.

I can’t see his eyes behind the glasses. But I feel his gaze like a caress. We stare at each other, reflections locked. Neither speaking. Neither surrendering.

The air between us practically vibrates—dense, electric. I swear I can hear my own pulse pounding in my ears.

Finally— finally —he speaks.

Low. Raw. A voice like gravel and reverence braided into one devastating thing.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, breath hot against my neck, “what you do to me.”

I blink once—slowly—but I don't look away.

I can’t.

He leans in closer, his mask brushing the stray strands of my hair, his chest brushing the curve of my back in a contact so light it feels almost imagined. But it isn’t. It’s real. Every atom between us charged and aching.

“You standing there…” His voice scrapes lower, rougher. “Wearing that fucking lingerie we bought for you. So still, so proud. So fucking defiant.”

His hands move. At last. Sliding up the outside of my thighs—slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin, every sharp line and soft curve.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, voice breaking like it costs him something vital. His fingers trace the curve of my hips, skating over the delicate lace that cuts into my skin. “You’re ours . You’re mine .”

The possessiveness in that word doesn’t scare me.

It brands me.

I shudder under his touch, a helpless tremor running through me that no amount of willpower can suppress. Heat floods my skin in waves, drowning every rational thought I still have left.

“I look at you,” he breathes, “and I wonder how the fuck I ever thought I could stay away.”

His hands trail higher—up over my waist, my ribs—dragging lightly over the faint bruises and rope-burns they left etched into me like a map of ownership. His touch is achingly careful now. Tender. Worshipful.

“You were born for this,” he rasps against my skin, his breath ghosting over the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “Born to drive us insane. To bring us to our fucking knees.”

One hand cups my breast through the thin lace—fingers rolling my nipple between them with almost cruel precision—while the other slips lower. Fingertips finding the scrap of lace between my thighs and shifting it aside with devastating ease.

Two fingers press against my slick entrance—teasing, testing. I gasp, clutching the edge of the counter, knuckles bone-white against the marble to stay upright.

He watches me through the mirror. Watches every flicker of my expression, every desperate twitch of my thighs. Sees everything I’m trying not to give him.

He watches my face as his fingers circle—once, twice—then slip inside me with a slow, deliberate thrust.

Stretching. Curling.

My mouth falls open in a soft, broken moan I can’t swallow down fast enough.

He groans low against my neck like my sound fuels him.

"You feel it too," he rasps, his breath skating across my throat. "The way you fit around me. The way you fucking melt for me without even trying."

His fingers pump slow, curling just right with every thrust, coaxing a tremor up my thighs, a helpless twitch in my hips.

And still—still he holds back.

The tension thickens. Grows almost unbearable. I can feel him waiting for something. Expecting something.

Finally—he speaks again. This time softer.

“Now that you know,” he says, almost a whisper, “that it was Bodhi behind Rule’s mask...” He pauses, like he needs to force the next words out. “Does it change anything, Seanna?”

The question lodges under my ribs like a blade, cuts me open. Lays me bare.

I open my mouth—close it again.

Because fuck, I don’t know. Because yes —it should change everything. And no —it changes nothing at all.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet. Not when my chest is cracked open and my heart’s slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Not when I can still feel the steady, relentless press of his fingers inside me, the way he’s holding me together and tearing me apart all at once.

All I feel is this hollow, aching need to know him.

All of him.

And so, my hands lift—shaking, hesitant. I reach behind me.

The pressure inside me coils tighter, sharp and relentless, spiraling upward like a wire pulled too tight.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop me. Just keeps fingering me—slow and relentless—and then he shifts his hand.

The heel of his palm grinds against my clit with devastating pressure, a slow, brutal friction that drags a desperate sound from deep inside me. It’s not gentle. It’s not teasing. It’s pure fucking intent. A dark, deliberate claim meant to tear me apart while I still stand here, helpless and shaking and staring into the mirror like our reflections might splinter under the weight of it.

A whimper breaks loose, wrecked and helpless, my hips rocking into his hand despite every shred of pride left clinging to my bones.

Still, my fingers find the edges of his glasses. I slip them off—slow, careful—feeling them leave his face with a soft scrape. I drop them onto the counter with a tiny, final sound.

And then—I meet his eyes.

I’m so close I can barely breathe, barely stand. The world narrows to nothing but the slide of his fingers, the throb building between my legs, and the devastation waiting in his gaze.

Dark brown. Sharp. Steady. So goddamn familiar it rips the breath from my lungs.

Recognition slams into me like a freight train.

Those eyes—those eyes I’ve trusted on ops, trusted in fights, trusted to watch my six when I didn’t trust anyone else. Those eyes belong to one man. One name.

I reach up again and curl my fingers under the edge of his mask. My pulse pounds so hard I swear he can feel it in every part of my body.

Slowly—deliberately—I peel it away.

Every nerve ending in my body screams for release, trembling at the edge, the need clawing up my spine like a living thing.

The mask falls to the counter beside the glasses with a whisper of fabric.

And there he is.

Matteo .

My breath hitches. My heart fucking stops.

And just as my mind shatters into jagged pieces of disbelief and recognition—his fingers hit that spot inside me—pressing, curling—dragging a shuddering, broken moan from my lips.

The orgasm tears through me without warning, violent and raw, all sharp edges and devastating force, clawing up my spine with a violence that rips the air from my lungs.

I can’t look away.

I can’t breathe.

All I can do is fall.

The pleasure crashes over me in waves, brutal and unstoppable, my body convulsing helplessly around his fingers as I cling to his gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.

“Matteo,” I gasp—wrecked, raw, desperate—his name tumbling out like it’s the only thing left keeping me upright.

Not Ruin. Not Huxley. Matteo.

The man I’ve trusted my life with more times than I can count. The man I thought I knew better than anyone.

He watches me fall apart around his fingers—watches every second of my undoing—with those same dark, wild, familiar eyes. Jaw tight. Breath shaking. A storm barely held in check.

And when I shudder—panting, clenching helplessly around him, my hands scrambling at the marble for something, anything to hold onto—he leans down, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, voice guttural and wrecked and irrevocably his.

"You were always mine, little storm," he whispers, every word searing into my skin like a brand. "You just didn’t know it yet."