Loyal wore dark jeans, a black hoodie pulled low over his brow, hands flexing into fists and out again at his sides. Guilt dripped off him like sweat, regret crawled up the line of his spine. But he didn't move. Didn't reach. He wouldn't save me. Not now. Not anymore.
And Wolfe?—
God, Wolfe.
Wolfe wore black tailored trousers. A black turtleneck that cut sharp against the line of his throat. The shoulder holster hugged his chest. A gun glinting under his jacket. Silent. Final.
My breath stuttered. He didn't look brutal or furious—he looked inevitable. A king not dressed for diplomacy, but for execution.
Wolfe's eyes locked onto mine—flat, cold, not angry, not cruel. Just certain, as if he already knew how this night would end, as if he'd already decided.
I felt the leash burn tight across my ribs—even without it around my throat, even without it wrapped visibly across my skin. Alive. Commanding.Breathing for me.
Wolfe's hand rested casually on the holster, thumb stroking slow over the black leather—not threatening, just patient. Waiting for me to finish remembering who I belonged to.
Royal chuckled low from the pillar. “She's going to survive this,” he said lazily, smirk curving crueler. "One way or another."
Loyal didn’t speak. Didn’t lift his head. Just shook it once when Wolfe’s phone buzzed briefly. A signal. A question.
Wolfe didn’t even glance down. He looked at Loyal. Sharp. Demanding. Loyal shook his head again. A small, grim movement.
“Don’t bother.”
Barron wasn’t coming. Barron wouldn’t save anyone tonight.
A flicker of something cold slid down my spine—fear, maybe, or memory. But it died quickly.
Wolfe shifted—one step forward, one hand curling slow into a fist at his side. The gun didn't matter. The holster didn't matter. The world didn't matter.
The door to Room 305 creaked.
Callum.
My ex.
I heard his footsteps. Cocky. Confident. Hope bleeding off him like gasoline. He thought he could save me. He thought I still needed saving.
The door swung open wider. The ex stepped inside. Smirked. Wearing hope across his shoulders like a dying flag.
He didn’t see the wreckage kneeling in front of him. He saw a girl he thought he could still save. And he was already dead for it.
He crossed the room with slow, careful steps, boots echoing hollow against broken tile. His eyes locked onto me—not Wolfe, not Royal, not Loyal. Me. He thought I was still his to save, still his to fix, still his to own.
I stayed kneeling, breath scraping raw against the leash burning invisible across my throat. I didn't look at Wolfe. Didn't look at anyone. Only stayed kneeling, breathing, praying to survive this the only way Wolfe taught me—by loving the chain, by worshipping the breath he owned.
Callum crouched down in front of me. Close enough that the heat of him burned wrong against my skin.
He smiled. Soft. Pitying. Pathetic.
“Come on, Cloe,” he whispered.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
“This isn’t you.”
I didn't move. Didn't breathe harder. Didn't blink. Standing would be betrayal. Hope would be death. Survival meant kneeling even when shame ripped through my lungs like fire.
His hand touched my wrist. Gentle at first. Soft. The way memory remembered safety. The way ghosts whispered promises.
