Page 44

Chapter 43

Seanna

The water scalds my skin, but I don’t turn it down.

I brace my palms against the cool marble of the shower wall, letting the punishing heat burn away the aftershocks still coiled in my body—the soreness, the betrayal, the desperate ache I can’t seem to scrub clean.

It doesn't work.

It never does.

I tilt my head back, closing my eyes as the spray beats against my throat, the bruises there a testament to how easily I'd unraveled for them. How easily I still could.

Even now, with the truth lying between us like a smoking crater, part of me aches for them. Part of me still fits too easily against their hands, their mouths, their voices low and reverent in the dark.

And worse?

Part of me feels something almost akin to admiration simmering under the rage.

A begrudging respect for how thoroughly they infiltrated my life. How carefully they threaded themselves through every inch of it until I couldn’t tell where they ended and I began.

I should have seen it sooner.

I should have paid more fucking attention—the looks I now realize were more frequent than anyone else’s. The emotions behind them I missed, too busy chasing my demons, too busy burning myself alive trying to save the world.

They weren’t hiding as well as I thought.

Not really.

Looking back, I can see it now. The way Matteo’s gaze lingered after every mission debrief. The way he never let anyone get too close before putting a bullet in them. The way Bodhi never let anyone else sit between us at HQ if he could help it. And the times he offered to spar with me just to touch me. The way both of them stood just close enough, just constant enough, like satellites that never drifted out of orbit.

It wasn’t just professionalism. It wasn’t just friendship. It was this. Obsession. Quiet. Meticulous. All-consuming.

They had stitched themselves into my life so seamlessly that I never thought to question it.

And maybe that’s the worst part. That I didn’t notice.

I was too focused on the darkness.

Too focused on tearing down every corrupt bastard who preyed on the innocent, too obsessed with embracing the fire inside me to notice the two men who had already lit the match.

I missed it.

I missed them .

I press my forehead to the tile and breathe hard, trying not to drown in my own hindsight.

It's so much easier to be angry. So much easier to drown in betrayal. But even in the wreckage, there's a jagged, brutal admiration chewing its way through my bones.

Because fuck , they did it. They infiltrated my life, my defenses, my heart—piece by patient, merciless piece.

God. I let them in. I never saw it coming, and I don’t know if I regret it.

Get it together, Seanna.

After what feels like forever, I finally drag myself out, toweling off mechanically. I pull on a pair of black cotton shorts and a tank top from the collection of clothes that they brought from the cabin—simple, familiar—armor against the vulnerability still bleeding out of me.

I don’t bother with makeup. Don’t bother looking in the mirror. I already know what I'd see.

When I open the door to the bedroom, the house is unnervingly quiet. No looming shadows. No waiting threats.

Just the faint murmur of voices down the hall.

I follow it.

My bare feet are silent against the hardwood as I move toward the open living room. They're there—the two of them.

Rule. Ruin.

Bodhi. Matteo.

Kingston. Huxley.

The names snarl in my head, none of them fitting, all of them too fucking real. I’ve known them separately for years. Bodhi—the cocky operator, slipping in and out of my missions at the Organization, always lurking at the edges like smoke. Matteo—the one who sat beside me almost every goddamn day. The steady hand in the middle of the chaos. The one who stayed late sometimes at the office after missions, buying me shitty vending machine coffee when the world got too heavy.

And now— Ruin and Rule. Masks. Violence. Obsession.

I’ve never known them as Kingston and Huxley. And maybe that’s why it’s almost easy to shove those names aside. To pretend the weight of their bloodlines aren't bleeding out all over my skin.

Because standing here now—watching them—those names mean nothing.

They’re just... them .

Two men from two parts of my life that were never supposed to meet. Never supposed to fit together like this—quiet, casual, comfortable.

Talking like they didn't just rip my world apart with their bare hands.

The smell of coffee hooks into me before anything else.

Rich. Sharp. Exactly how I take it.

There’s a plate on the coffee table. Pastries. Cherry cream cheese.

Of course.

Rule doesn’t even glance back when he speaks, but his voice slides across the room like a hand around my throat. "They’re still warm, princess."

I freeze.

Fingers tightening in the hem of my tank. Breath snagging somewhere too deep to pull free.

I don’t know what the hell to call them in my head anymore. I don’t know how to step into this room without feeling like I’m walking into a war I’ve already lost.

But the coffee smells good.

And I’m not the kind of girl who runs from a battlefield.

Not even one I never had a chance of winning.

So I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and step forward.

Because if they think I’m going to crumble now—if they think for one second I’ll break easier just because they finally ripped their masks off—they don’t fucking know me at all.

I cross the room, the smell of coffee thick in the air, the pastries still steaming slightly on the plate. They don't move as I approach, just glance at me with a casual, almost lazy awareness that I still feel like a physical touch.

I grab the coffee first—priorities—and take a long sip, letting the bitter heat burn its way down my throat. Exactly the way I like it.

I don’t sit right away. I stand for a moment by the edge of the coffee table, mug in hand, staring at the two men sprawled across the black velvet couch like they own the fucking air in the room.

Maybe they do.

Ruin is in his usual position, forearms resting on his knees, his head tipped slightly to the side like he’s trying to read my mind. Rule sits straighter, arms thrown over the back of the couch, looking at me like he’s already plotting ten moves ahead. The masks are now gone. The names are stripped away. Only the bones are left: Bodhi. Matteo. Obsession.

And me? I’m the battlefield they bled for.

The plate of pastries sits between us like a peace offering. Cherry cream cheese, just like he promised. They even glazed them a little heavier this time. I should laugh. I should throw the fucking plate at them. Instead, I pick one up, break off a piece, and pop it into my mouth.

It’s good. Too good. A decadent little betrayal of my own anger. Of course they’d know how to weaponize pastry against me.

I chew slowly, eyes never leaving theirs, feeling the heat of their gazes burn hotter with every second of silence I let stretch between us.

"Coffee’s good," I say finally, voice light, almost bored.

Rule’s mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk. "You’re welcome, princess."

My fingers tighten around the mug at the nickname—but I don’t correct him. Not this time.

Instead, I sink onto the armchair opposite them, folding one leg over the other. Deliberate. Calm. Unbothered. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing how raw I still am under the skin.

"So, we’ve established you two have been planning this for a long time," I say, picking invisible lint off my tank top.

Neither of them deny it.

"Years," Matteo agrees, voice low, steady.

I shrug, feigning indifference. "You did your homework. Congratulations. Top marks for stalking and sabotage."

A flash of something dark moves through Bodhi’s eyes, but he reins it in fast.

"It wasn’t just stalking," he says quietly.

"No," I agree, tilting my head. "It was infiltration."

The word hangs between us, sharp and clinical. It should taste like ash. It doesn’t. It tastes like truth. And something dangerously close to understanding.

I take another slow sip of coffee, letting the heat roll through me.

"Did you ever think," I murmur, voice cool, "that maybe you didn't have to work so hard?"

Matteo leans forward slightly, muscles tight under his black shirt. "What do you mean?"

I meet his gaze head-on, no flinching, no apology.

"You didn’t have to orchestrate every detail. You didn’t have to puppet-string my whole fucking life to get me close."

I set the mug down carefully on the table between us, the ceramic making a soft clink against the marble.

"You just had to ask."

Their silence is a tangible thing. It wraps around me, heavy and stunned and vibrating with something raw.

"You think we could have saved years of stalking?" Bodhi says at last, voice rough.

I smile, slow and a little cruel. "No. Not the versions of you I knew then. You weren’t ready."

I let the truth sink in before I continue, my voice softening only a fraction:

"But maybe... maybe if you'd asked even a month ago, I would've said yes."

The confession costs me something. It digs in under my ribs and twists.

Matteo’s hands clench into fists against his knees. Bodhi’s jaw ticks, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of it.

"You’re saying," Bodhi says slowly, "you’re not running."

I snort. "Running? From you ?"

I lean back, letting my head tip lazily against the chair.

"You think a little betrayal’s gonna send me scattering?"

Matteo’s mouth curves into something small and wild. Not a smile exactly—something darker.

"You’re fucking magnificent," he says under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

I let it slide. Mostly because it feels... good. Dangerously good. And I’m not about to admit to how much the newly discovered praise kink will work for them.

But I don’t let the moment stretch too long. I don't give them the satisfaction of thinking I’ve gone soft.

Instead, I tilt my head slightly, studying them both under the lazy drag of my lashes.

"You know," I say, voice casual, almost sweet, "you never did tell me where the villain names came from."

Bodhi’s mouth quirks. Matteo’s jaw ticks once, a flash of something between amusement and resignation crossing his face.

"You mean Rule and Ruin ?" Matteo asks, voice dry.

I nod, picking up the coffee and sipping it, watching them over the rim like a cat playing with two very stupid mice.

"Rule was easy," Bodhi says with a smirk. "It’s a bastardization of my real name. Kingston. King. Rule. Reign. Control."

His eyes glint wickedly. "Figured if I wasn’t allowed to have a crown, I’d take the fucking throne anyway."

I hum low in my throat, not hiding my amusement. "Little dramatic, don’t you think?"

His smirk deepens. "You’re one to talk, princess."

I flip him off without missing a beat and turn my attention to Matteo.

"And Ruin ?" I ask, voice dipping sharper. "That’s a whole different flavor of fucked-up."

Matteo doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

"It’s not complicated," he says, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Even when I was a kid... I knew one thing for sure."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze locking with mine.

"If anything or anyone ever got between me and you—" His voice drops, dark and quiet. "I would ruin them. Ruin everything. "

The honesty in it burns hotter than any lie ever could.

No apology. No shame. Just a simple, brutal truth.

And fuck me, part of me wants to throw my coffee at his face for saying it so plainly. And part of me—God help me—wants to straddle him for it.

I set my mug down a little harder than necessary on the table, the sound sharp in the charged silence.

"Of course," I murmur, fingers tapping against the ceramic. "Of course you picked your own damn destiny."

He just watches me, silent, steady. Like there’s no universe where he regrets it. Like he would choose it again. Every fucking time.

And maybe he would.

Maybe he already has.

I lean back in the chair, folding my arms loosely across my chest.

"Fine," I say. "You’ve got your dark little fairytale titles sorted."

I let the words linger just long enough to cut before I strike where it matters.

"What about Javier?"

The amusement vanishes from both their faces in an instant.

Good.

I press harder, voice going low and cold.

"What’s the plan? What are you going to do to him?"

They exchange a glance—quick, practiced, silent. The kind of look that tells me whatever their answer is, it’s already written in blood.

But Bodhi—no, Rule —is the one who answers, voice slow and careful.

"Patience, princess," he says, almost gently. "The plan’s still in motion."

I narrow my eyes. "I’m not asking for a full play-by-play. I just want to know something. "

Matteo— Ruin —shakes his head once, final.

"It’s better if you don’t. Not yet."

"You’re not protecting me," I snap.

"No," Matteo agrees, standing slowly, stretching his shoulders with a casual roll that makes every muscle under his shirt shift. "We’re protecting the plan."

He steps closer, slow and easy, like he’s circling prey he already knows can’t outrun him.

"And," Bodhi adds lazily, following suit, "we can keep you... distracted ... while you wait."

My stomach knots, heat flashing low in my abdomen even as my jaw tightens in defiance.

I push up from the chair, slow and deliberate, facing them square.

"You think pastries and a quick fuck are going to keep me from demanding answers?"

Bodhi’s mouth curves—not into a grin this time, but something darker. He steps closer, voice a low, lazy rasp that brushes against my skin like smoke.

"I’m pretty sure," he says, gaze dragging down my body with shameless hunger, "we can both agree when we fuck it isn’t quick ."

I snort under my breath but don’t rise to the bait. Not this time.

Instead, I fold my arms and level them both with a flat look.

"Fine," I say. "You don’t want to tell me about Javier yet. Then you’d better find another way to keep yourselves useful."

Matteo’s mouth twitches, that small little twist again.

"We thought you might say that," he says smoothly.

Before I can ask what the hell that means, he gestures behind him with a lazy tilt of his head.

"Come on, little storm. Let’s show you what else we built for you."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously but follow as they move toward a set of double doors tucked discreetly off another hallway on the other side of the living room.

Matteo opens them with a flourish, stepping aside so I can see inside first.

The breath catches in my throat.

It’s a sparring room.

Fully fucking equipped.

Sleek dark mats cover the floors, punching bags hang heavy from reinforced beams, weapon racks gleam against the far wall, mirrors lining one side like a brutal confession. The entire space smells like leather, steel, and adrenaline. Like violence waiting to happen.

"You built me a fight room?"

"Built us one," Bodhi corrects. "You needed an outlet. So we gave you one."

I cross my arms. "How thoughtful. You plan to throw yourselves at my fists until I calm down?"

Matteo’s voice is low, unreadable. "If that’s what it takes."

The silence that follows hums with a different kind of violence. My hands twitch at my sides. It’s been too long since I hit something for the fun of it.

I tilt my head slowly. "And if I win?"

"You won’t," Bodhi says smoothly.

"You want to lose," I counter.

Matteo steps into my space, close but not crowding. His voice brushes against me like a challenge wrapped in silk.

"We want to earn our place again. However you make us do it."

My pulse stutters, then catches fire.

I don’t answer.

I just smile—a slow, dangerous baring of teeth—and step onto the mat.

If they want forgiveness, they’re going to have to bleed for it.

And God help them, I’m in the mood to make them.