I turned off the shower and opened the door, leaving her alone in the bathroom. In sixty seconds, everything would change. Oliver would get his show.
And I’d cross a line I could never come back from.
Chapter 9
Mia
The darkness should have made crossing the room easier. Should have hidden my naked body from whatever surveillance Julian Oliver had installed in this cabin. But I felt the cameras anyway—invisible eyes tracking my movement from bathroom to bed, recording everything for his viewing.
My skin crawled with each step, hyperaware of my exposure. Of being watched. Of being entertainment for men who saw women as things to own, to use, to break.
“About time.” Coop’s voice carried that rough edge I was learning to hate. The one that made him sound like them. Like he enjoyed this. “Starting to think you’d got lost.”
The bed creaked as he shifted, making room for me. I could barely see his outline in the darkness, just a shadow against shadows. But I knew he was lying there undressed, playing his part for our audience.
“Get that sweet ass over here before I come get you myself.”
The words made my stomach turn even though I knew—knew—they were just performance. Just another layer of the lie we had to sell to stay alive. But knowing didn’t make hearing them easier.
I slid under the covers quickly, trying to minimize my exposure. The sheets were rough against my skin, military surplus like everything else in this place. They smelled like industrial detergent and something else—gun oil maybe, or that particular scent that clung to places where violence lived.
Coop shifted his weight and pulled me under him. My whole body tensed, knowing Oliver was watching this. Watching us. Watching me naked and vulnerable beneath a man who was supposed to own me. The violation of it—of performing intimacy for a monster’s entertainment—made bile rise in my throat.
Even though Coop used his broader frame to shield me from the worst of the surveillance, I could still feel those cameras like hands on my skin. Could imagine Oliver leaning forward wherever he was, pale eyes gleaming as he watched his newest acquisition being used. My skin crawled with the knowledge that this moment, this forced performance, would probably be replayed. Studied. Enjoyed.
Coop kept his weight on his elbows, careful not to press against me, not to trap me beneath him. But even that careful distance couldn’t stop the panic clawing at my chest. My breathing went shallow, rapid. The darkness pressed in from all sides, and suddenly, I was back in that crushed car, metal folding in on me, no escape, no air, no?—
“Hey. Breathe.” His lips barely moved against my ear, the word more vibration than sound. “You’re okay. You’re not trapped.”
He shifted, and I could just barely see his blue eyes in the darkness. They were agonized. He’d remembered my claustrophobia, was trying his best to offset it.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You know what I like.” His voice carried loud enough for the cameras, rough and possessive, before he mouthed,Sorry.
I forced my lungs to match his rhythm, forced the panic back down even as my body trembled with the effort of not shoving him away and running. But there was nowhere to run. Just cameras and Oliver and this performance that might kill me before it saved me.
“Oh yeah, that’s good. You know who you belong to, don’t you? You don’t want those other guys to touch you, then you better make me happy.”
His lips dropped to my ear again. “You’re doing great.” The words were so quiet, they were more vibration than sound. “Pretend it’s just us. Like before we broke up.”
Before. When we’d been different people. When touching him had been as natural as breathing. When his hands on my body had meant safety and desire instead of performance and survival.
His lips found mine in the darkness. Gentle at first, nothing like the rough possession he’d shown in front of the others. This was softer, careful. A question more than a demand.
I answered without meaning to. My mouth opening under his, my body remembering the exact pressure and angle that had always made heat pool low in my belly. Six years since he’d kissed me, and my lips still knew his shape, still recognized the way he tilted his head just slightly to the right.
God help me, he still tasted the same. Like coffee and something darker, something that was purely Ryan underneath the Coop facade. My body responded before my mind could stop it, softening under his familiar weight, remembering exactly how we fit together. I clutched his shoulders, not sure if I wanted to pull him closer or push him away.
His hand cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone as the kiss deepened. The careful choreography we’d maintained started to slip. This was supposed to be pretend, a show for the cameras. But his breathing had gone ragged, and mine matched it.
The heat building between us had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with the chemistry that had always combusted when we touched.
“You’re doing great.” He whispered it between kisses, his voice rough in a different way now. Not with cruelty but with want. “Almost done.”
But we weren’t almost done, and we both knew it. His hands were moving now, sliding over my body with practiced familiarity. Finding all the places that made my breath catch, remembering exactly how to touch me even after all this time.
I had to bite back the sound that wanted to escape when his thumb brushed across my nipple. Had to fight the urge to arch into his touch, to pull him closer, to forget everything except the way he was making me feel.
This was Ryan’s mouth on my throat. Ryan’s hands relearning my body. Ryan’s weight pressing just enough to make me feel held without feeling trapped. The cognitive dissonance of it—Coop the monster versus Ryan who’d loved me—made my head spin.
