The second fifteen minutes were harder. My knees were aching now, sharp pain radiating up my thighs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. The muscles in my lower back began to protest from holding myself upright. I shifted slightly, trying to redistribute my weight, trying to ease the pressure on my kneecaps.
"Don't move," Mason said without looking up from his book, his voice mild but firm, turning a page with a soft rustle of paper.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The room was silent except for the tick of a clock I hadn't noticed before, each second stretching into eternity. Outside, birds sang in the fading light. Inside, four predators watched their prey suffer. The third fifteen minutes were agony. My legs had gone numb, thenstarted tingling, then erupted into pins and needles that made me want to scream. Sweat dripped down my temples, sliding along my jaw, dropping onto my collarbone. My back ached from holding myself upright, my spine screaming for relief. The burgundy rug blurred beneath me as tears of pain gathered in my eyes.
They just sat there. Reading. Scrolling. Watching. Like I was entertainment. Like my suffering was nothing more than a mildly interesting diversion. The sunlight had shifted, no longer warm on my skin but leaving me in shadow. The temperature seemed to drop. Or maybe that was just me—my body trembling, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the comfortable cabin air.
"Please," I finally gasped, the word escaping before I could stop it, torn from my throat by desperation. "Please, my legs?—"
"That's speaking without permission," Mason said, looking up from his book, his honey-brown eyes meeting mine with calm disappointment. "We start over."
"No," I breathed, horror washing over me like ice water, my stomach dropping. "No, please, I can't?—"
"You can," Mason corrected gently, his voice soft but unyielding, brooking no argument. "You will. Because this is what happens when you attack your pack. This is how you learn."
The hour started over.
The second hour was worse than the first. My body had already been pushed to its limits, and now it was being pushed further. The pins and needles evolved into burning, then into numbness, then back into burning. I lost track of time. Lost track of everything except the pain and the humiliation and the four pairs of eyes watching me crumble.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I started crying. Not the angry tears from before, quiet, defeated tears that slid down mycheeks and dripped onto my thighs, darkening the fabric of my sleep pants. My shoulders shook with the effort of staying still, of not making a sound. Through the bond, I felt their emotions. Mason's patient love. Ethan's clinical satisfaction. Leo's dark amusement. Caleb felt something like pride. Pride that I was enduring. Pride that I was learning.
I hated them. I hated them so much it burned.
"Time," Mason finally said, closing his book and standing. The word seemed to echo in the silent room, releasing me from my imprisonment. He crossed to where I knelt, his footsteps soft on the hardwood, and crouched down so we were eye level. This close, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw, the genuine concern beneath his calm mask.
"What did you learn?" Mason asked quietly, his honey-brown eyes searching my face. I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. My legs were screaming, my pride was shattered, and I hated them so much I could taste it, bitter and metallic on my tongue.
"Ava," Mason prompted, his voice patient, his hand reaching out to cup my tear-stained cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness with impossible gentleness. "What did you learn?"
"That you're bastards," I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying, barely recognizable as my own.
"Besides that," Mason replied, a ghost of a smile crossing his face, something almost like affection warming his eyes.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat. "That... that there are consequences."
"Good girl," Mason murmured, and despite everything, despite the pain and the humiliation and the hatred, something warm flickered in my chest at the praise, a spark of pleasure that made me sick. I hated myself for it. Hated my body for responding to him even now.
"Can you stand?" Mason asked, tilting his head slightly, studying my face.
"I don't know," I admitted, my voice small and broken, childlike in a way that made me cringe. Mason extended his hand, palm up, waiting. I stared at it, the same hand that had signed off on my captivity, the same hand that had touched me during my heat, the same hand that belonged to a monster. His fingers were long and elegant, his palm calloused in places from whatever work he did.
I took it. He pulled me to my feet, and my legs immediately buckled, the muscles refusing to hold my weight, fire shooting through my thighs and calves. Before I could fall, he caught me, sweeping me up into his arms like I weighed nothing, cradling me against his chest.
"Caleb," Mason said, his voice quiet, carrying me toward the hallway. "Prepare the bath. Hot. Epsom salts."
"I can walk," I protested weakly, though we both knew it was a lie. My head lolled against his shoulder, my body too exhausted to hold itself up.
"You can't," Mason replied simply, his arms secure around me, his chest warm against my cheek. "And that's okay. We'll take care of you." He carried me through the cabin, past the kitchen where dinner sat abandoned and cooling, down the hallway lined with photographs I'd never looked at closely. The bathroom door was already open, steam rising from within, the sound of running water filling the air. Caleb stood by the tub, testing the temperature with one massive hand, his ice-blue eyes flickering to us as we entered. The bathroom was warm and humid, fogged mirrors and the scent of eucalyptus from the bath salts. Mason set me on the edge of the marble counter, his hands gentle as he steadied me, keeping me from slumping over.
"Arms up," Mason instructed, reaching for the hem of my shirt, his fingers brushing against my sides.
"I can undress myself," I said, but my voice lacked conviction, my arms hanging limp at my sides.
"Arms up," Mason repeated patiently, his honey-brown eyes holding mine, waiting.
I raised my arms. He undressed me with clinical efficiency, shirt pulled over my head, pants tugged down my trembling legs, underwear slid off. His touch was impersonal, careful, nothing like the heat of the claiming. Just practical care. Just tending to what belonged to him. Then he lifted me, one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back, and lowered me into the bath.
The hot water hit my aching muscles and I gasped, a sob escaping my lips, tears springing fresh to my eyes. The heat was almost painful at first, too much sensation on numb flesh—but then my body adjusted, and the relief was so profound I moaned.
