“You know…” I clarify, voice low. “Make me feel alive.”
That’s all it takes this time.
He answers with a sinful little nod, thumbs finding the knots he tied earlier. The belt slips free. The towel loosens. The wind catches on the edge of me, and he catches the rest, guiding me back down to the blanket.
When it’s cold as hell, he makes me warm.
When I need it most, he’s all vow and worship.
Talon does what Talon does best, and for a few bare moments, it feels like the universe finally pays out on all our terrible, terrible bargains.
Just like that—with the taste of salt and citrus and him, one of my terrifying-as-fuck serial killers—the thought from before circles back into my mind.
Checkmate.
Only this time, the thing I want to defeat isn’t fate.
It’s the past.
His past.
It can’t touch him anymore.
Because now, he’s all mine.
Isuppose a better woman would have ended Mark’s suffering quickly. He’s been through literal torture, after all. But two days later, lying tangled between two of my three men, I’ve realized something. I’m not a better woman. I’m not even a good one. I might be pretty damn bad.
“Isn’t there a limit to this?” I ask, as another scream cuts through the air. There’ve been so many over the past two days that they’ve started to blend in. It’s just like the crows outside, or the wind through the trees, or the generator kicking in now and then.
A constant thing.
Like music set too low to bother turning off, but make it Halloween.
“What, torture?” Talon props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. I’m lying between him and Cassian, wearing freshly hand-washed polka-dot lingerie.
They seem to really like this one.
Between it and the collection of hickeys dotting my skin, I probably look like some kind of unfinished constellation—one someone forgot to connect with lines.
“I just mean… how much more can he take?” I say, staring at the ceiling. “Won’t his body just… shut down at some point?”
Talon runs a hand through his hair, then leans down, his burnt-orange strands brushing my shoulder as his lips follow.
“Believe me,” he murmurs against my skin, “the human body can handle a lot. We could drag this out for months if that’s what you wanted.”
“Why?” Cassian’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Do you want it to be over?”
Do I?
It’s disturbingly comforting, having my murderer, my ex-husband, suffer within reach. I lived that pain for five years. He’s had forty-eight hours.
Justice doesn’t feel balanced yet. I’ve been saved, freed… but he hasn’t suffered enough.
And yet, somewhere under all that fury, I can feel something else trying to crawl in.
Pity.
“I said I wanted him to suffer as long as I would’ve made him suffer in the afterlife,” I say finally, half answering Cassian, half convincing myself.
