Page 33

The monitor casts a bluish glow across my face as I watch Rhea alone in the chamber, her chest rising and falling with rapid, panicked breaths.

She looks small in that metal chair, vulnerable yet somehow still defiant—chin raised, back straight despite the restraints binding her wrists and ankles.

Even in her fear, she refuses to break, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.

Mine.

The word pulses through me with each beat of my heart. Mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to save.

The door behind me opens, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Noah.

His footsteps are measured, deliberate—the walk of a man who knows exactly where he stands in the world and what power he holds.

The leather of his expensive shoes whispers against the concrete floor as he approaches, stopping just behind my right shoulder.

“She’s said everything,” he says, his voice low and certain as he glances at the monitor. “And seems innocent enough.”

I nod, watching as Rhea tugs uselessly at her restraints, frustration evident in every line of her body.

“I know,” I reply, my own voice rough from the beating earlier. My ribs still ache with each breath, a constant reminder of Noah’s lesson.

Noah moves to stand beside me, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“We’re willing to set someone else up to take the fall.

If the police need someone.” His tone is casual, as if discussing the weather rather than framing an innocent person for murder.

“But we might be able to just call it foul play. Accident during a party. Tragic but not criminal.”

Relief floods through me, though I’m careful not to let it show on my face. This is what I wanted—Rhea free, safe from the consequences of that night. But I know Noah well enough to recognize that his offer comes with strings attached. Nothing is ever free with the Reapers.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, finally turning to face him.

Noah’s expression is carefully neutral, his eyes calculating as they meet mine. “We’re only willing to do this if she agrees to be part of the Reapers.”

The statement hangs in the air between us, so unexpected that for a moment I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. “The Reapers?” I repeat, confusion clear in my voice. “You want a woman in the Reapers?”

Noah’s mouth curves into a slow, cold smile. “She’s got a pretty fucking mouth.”

Something hot and sharp twists in my gut at his words, at the way his gaze lingers on the monitor, on Rhea’s lips as she nervously runs her tongue across them. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, towering over him, my body coiled tight with a possessiveness so intense it borders on rage.

Noah doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink at my sudden movement.

Instead, he laughs—a soft, knowing sound that only heightens my anger.

“Relax, Thatcher,” he says, leaning back slightly to look up at me, his posture deliberately casual despite the tension crackling between us.

“You can have her. But she needs to agree to stay quiet. About Jack, about the Reapers, about all of it.”

I don’t step back, unwilling to cede even an inch of ground. “She will.”

“I need to witness it,” Noah continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I need to see the control you have over her.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “Go out there right now and make her admit it. Make her show us all that she belongs to you. Make her submit. Fuck her.”

The command should anger me further, but instead, a different kind of heat begins to build at the base of my spine. The thought of going to Rhea, of claiming her in front of Noah, in front of all of them—it sends a rush of adrenaline through my veins, a heady mixture of power and anticipation.

I’ve dreamed of this moment, imagined it in countless variations during sleepless nights.

Rhea, bound and at my mercy. Rhea, finally acknowledging what we both know—that she’s mine, completely and utterly.

And now I have a solid reason, something tangible to offer her: protection.

Freedom. A way out of the nightmare she’s trapped in.

As long as she submits.

Noah sees the shift in my expression, the darkening of my gaze, and his smile widens.

“Go on,” he urges, stepping aside to clear my path to the door. “Show me she’s yours.”

I don’t need to be told twice. Every cell in my body is alive with anticipation as I move toward the door, excitement building with each step.

The weight of Noah’s gaze follows me, but I barely notice it now, my focus narrowing to the thought of Rhea waiting on the other side, unaware of what’s coming.

The corridor outside is dimly lit, the walls concrete and the air cool against my skin. The sounds of my footsteps echo as I approach the chamber, the heavy door unlocked but closed, separating me from what’s mine.

I pause for a moment, gathering myself, savoring the anticipation that thrums through me like a current. Then I push the door open and step inside.

Rhea straightens immediately at the sound, her head snapping up, eyes widening as they land on me. Recognition flashes across her face, quickly followed by a complex mixture of emotions—relief, confusion, and then, as understanding dawns, pure, undiluted rage.

“You,” she hisses, the single word dripping with venom. “You did this.”

I approach slowly, deliberately, letting her see all of me—the bruises still visible on my face from Noah’s lesson, the casual confidence in my stride, the hunger in my eyes as they rake over her bound form.

Her wrists are still cuffed behind her back, the metal chair cold and unforgiving beneath her.

Perfect.

Without responding to her accusation, I drag another chair across the concrete floor, the harsh scraping sound filling the chamber as I position it directly in front of her. I sit, my knees almost touching hers, and lean forward, elbows resting on my thighs, hands clasped loosely between us.

“Hello, Dove,” I say, my voice low and intimate, as if we’re alone in her bedroom rather than a basement torture chamber.

The nickname seems to push her over the edge. Her face contorts with fury, and before I can react, she lunges forward as much as her restraints will allow and spits directly in my face.

The warm wetness hits my cheek, sliding down toward my jaw in a slow, deliberate trail. For a split second, I’m frozen, shock giving way to a white-hot rage that threatens to consume me. I wipe the spit away with the back of my hand, my movements controlled despite the anger coursing through me.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I say, my voice deceptively soft. But my eyes have hardened, my jaw tight with barely suppressed fury. “Open your fucking mouth, Rhea.”

She glares at me, defiance written in every line of her face.

“Fuck you,” she spits, the words sharp as knives.

I move faster than she can react, my hand shooting out to grip her chin, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. I know Noah is watching, know the head of the Reapers is evaluating whether I truly control her, whether she’s really mine.

“I said,” I lean in closer, close enough to feel her ragged breath against my lips, “open your fucking mouth.”

Something shifts in her eyes—a flicker of fear, maybe, or recognition of the dangerous edge in my voice. Slowly, reluctantly, her lips part, and then, in a move that surprises me, she sticks out her tongue, her gaze never leaving mine.

The sight of it—pink and wet and offered up despite her obvious hatred—sends a jolt of arousal straight to my groin. Without hesitation, I lean forward and spit deliberately onto her outstretched tongue, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, my saliva glistening on her tongue, both of us suspended in this intimate, degrading moment. Then, her eyes still burning into mine, she swallows.

The simple act hits me like a physical blow. My cock hardens instantly, straining against my jeans as blood rushes south. The knowledge that a part of me is inside her now, that she took it willingly despite her rage, is intoxicating.

I release her chin, my hand sliding to cup her jaw instead, thumb stroking almost tenderly along her cheekbone.

“Good girl,” I murmur, feeling the tremor that runs through her at the praise.

She’s still glaring at me, but there’s something new in her gaze now—a heat that matches my own, a reluctant acknowledgment of the current running between us. Her hands may be bound, but that only heightens everything, makes it more visceral, more primal.

I lean in closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whisper, “You need to listen to me now, Dove, if you want to get out of here alive or jail-free.”

She remains silent, but I can feel her attention, sharp and focused. I take her silence as compliance—the first real surrender she’s offered since this began.

“I own you,” I continue, my voice barely audible, meant for her ears alone despite knowing that Noah can probably hear every word through the surveillance system.

“If I say jump, you jump. If I say open your pretty fucking mouth, you open it.” My hand tightens slightly on her jaw, emphasizing my words.

“You’re on a very thin thread with me right now.

Keep defying me, and I’ll make sure you end up behind bars for life.

No parole. And you’ll never see me again. ”

The threat hangs in the air between us, and I watch as it sinks in, as she processes the implications. I can almost see her mind working, weighing her options, calculating her chances. She’s smart, my Dove. She knows when she’s beaten.

Her continued silence is all the answer I need.

“Now,” I say, my voice dropping even lower, rougher with desire, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Her breath catches, her pupils dilating slightly at my words. But still, she doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans infinitesimally closer, her body betraying what her pride won’t allow her to admit.