“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans, and in a blur of movement I can’t track, he’s running. I can only watch, well, partially watch, in fascination. I can barely get my limbs to coordinate, and Rhys is full-out running the length of the theater room and dropping to his knees. Seeing him fumble with the velvet curtain beneath the screen, my brain switches into activation mode.
I rush after him as quickly as I’m able, my heart slamming against my ribs. Reaching out blindly at first, there’s nothing but air and carpet. I’m starting to think Rhys is wrong, that we’ve truly lost, until he half disappears beneath the curtain and a high-pitched squeal responds. I don’t even care for the pain it costs me as adrenaline floods my system.
My fingers brush against her skin, and I latch on, aiding Rhys in dragging her out in a chaotic tangle of limbs and screams. Harper squirms like she’s still convinced she can wriggle free and make a run for it, even though our hands are already pulling her from the shadows. The velvet curtain brushes over her back as we haul her into the open, and when she collides with my chest for half a second before dropping to the carpet, it knocks the air out of me. Not because of the impact, but because of the wild fight in her, the stubborn refusal to surrender even when she’s caught.
Even as Rhys’ phone alarm rings out, she puts up a good fight against the two men double her size pinning her down. Thewhiskey within me churns into something electric and stupidly alive, the rush of finding her hitting harder than expected. Her skin is warm and soft against my hands, her muscles tight with the last sparks of adrenaline as she kicks and twists, tiny but fierce in a way that sends a jolt straight through my already-spinning head. The next second, my lips are on hers, silencing her frantic cries. She stills for a minute, the heat of her mouth spilling across mine, and then she bites me.
“I won!” Harper insists, throwing her shoulder into my ribs and using her feet on Rhys’ chest to shove him backwards. “I heard the timer before you found me. I won.” Even in my drunken state, I’m sure she’s wrong, but I’m more focused on Rhys’ narrowed glare and flaring nostrils.
Pushing up onto his hands and knees, he prowls towards her like a creature of habit. Delayed alarm bells sound in my head, too late to intervene as Rhys crawls over Harper’s body and grips her by the throat. In a smooth move, he lifts and slams her back against my chest, effectively pinning her between us. His hold on her neck doesn’t lighten, but Harper leans into it, her legs snaking out to lock around his hips and drag him closer. I can’t fight the arousal that shoots through me at the sight of her tenacity like the purest form of lust.
Lifting his free hand, Rhys drags his thumb across her lips and holds it up to show me a smear of crimson. I frown, licking my bottom lip and tasting copper. My eyes meet his, noting how his previous rage has subsided for something darker, something almost playful. Dragging up his signature smirk, he tuts, tilting his head at the little menace between us.
“You didn’t win, Babygirl,” Rhys’ nose pushes into Harper’s hair where he inhales deeply. “We all did.”
Chapter Eighteen
Damn, I know this is a slippery slope, but Rhys and Clay aresohot when they’re drunk. The whiskey has peeled them down to their barest selves, cracking open their armor and exposing the parts of them I’m already dangerously weak for.
Rhys becomes an unfiltered collision of lust and barely concealed fury, a man who wants and takes in the same breath. Clay’s whole façade softens, all that rigid self-protection slipping just enough to reveal the submissive hunger he tries so hard to hide. Life has taught him to expect the worst from wanting too much, but he aches to relinquish control.
Together, they’re a storm I willingly put myself in the center of, standing tall against the winds until I discover the truth of who they are. Every frayed edge pulls me in deeper, every broken shackle reveals another trace of their truest desires. Turns out that truest desire is me.
Pulling me along behind him, Rhys keeps muttering under his breath, practically growling. We scale the stairs with Clay’s arm hooked around my waist, his feet tripping against every other step. I can’t help but laugh at the attempt to herd me like prey when I’m the only one of sound mind. At the top ofthe stairs, instead of taking us to the guest room as expected, Rhys turns in the opposite direction. He stops outside an unremarkable door and looks at Clay with a simmering blaze in his eyes.
“Come on, then. Open it,” Rhys demands, jerking his chin towards the door. Clay’s brows tug together, his gaze unfocused from the liquor, his reactions half a beat behind as he reaches out to try the handle. It doesn’t budge. Rhys rolls his eyes with disdain. “Not with your hand. If the door were unlocked, obviously I could have done that.”
“I figured this was a king of the castle thing,” shrugs Clay, rubbing the back of his neck. Leaning back on his heels and folding his arms, Rhys’ jaw clenches.
“Where’s that brute strength you’re always using against me?” The three of us pass glances, Clay’s eyes narrowing on the door as if the answer might present itself if he concentrates hard enough.
“You want me to break the door down?” Clay asks, blinking slowly, his mind catching up. Rhys nods, the condescension dripping from him seconds away from slow clapping.
“Well, yes. I want to be inside, and I don’t have a key,” Rhys states painfully matter-of-fact. Clay stares at Rhys for a long moment, like he’s trying to determine whether this is some sort of trick. In the end, his drunken bravado wins out, and Clay releases my waist to square up to the wooden door. I merely stand and watch, like a car crash happening in slow motion, as a drunk Clayton rolls his shoulders and rushes forward with the force of a battering ram.
The wood rattles with a bone-deep thud that echoes down the hallway, the entire frame jolting. The door groans but doesn’t give, and Clay stumbles back a half step, blinking at it with genuine betrayal, as though the door personally insulted his manhood. Rhys snorts beside me, far too entertained to careabout the assault of his household. Clay shakes out his arm, sways, and sets himself again.
“Just…Ignore that,” he grunts before barreling forward a second time. This time, the wood splinters, the lock shatters with a crack that ricochets through my receivers. The door bursts inward so violently that it rebounds off the interior wall and bounces halfway closed again. Clay stands in the aftermath, panting, triumphant, and slightly blurry-eyed. “Ta da.”
I bite down on my smile, stroking Clay’s back. His muscles tense beneath my touch, the unknown ahead sending a quiver of excitement through me. Stepping over the threshold, I sense Rhys’ energy shift, though I can’t immediately see why. It’s just a bedroom, practically identical to the one we’re occupying. Air that smells stale, dust covers on the furniture, nothing special. Nothing worth Clay nearly dislocating a shoulder for.
Pursing my lips, I turn toward Rhys, ready to ask for an explanation, but he’s already stalking deeper inside. His hand skims the edge of the covered dresser, his fingertips ghosting over the sheet like he’s searching for something only he can see. Clay follows behind, rubbing his shoulder and flicking his gaze back to me with a look that portrays something like,why are we still humoring this psycho?
“Rhys,” I whisper as if the room might suddenly morph into something otherworldly if I’m too loud. “What are you doing? There’s nothing in here.”
Rhys doesn’t answer me, nor do his steps falter as he approaches a large wardrobe and tugs the dust sheet free. It’s huge and imposing, crafted from wood and sculptural talent. Reaching around the back, there’s a faint click before the wardrobe moves. I flinch, initially believing that the wardrobe is falling before realising it’s actually swinging forward on a piece of false flooring as if it doesn’t weigh over two-hundred pounds.
Curling his finger, Rhys beckons us to follow as he steps into the empty space tucked into the wall. I step forward tentatively now, cold air rolling out and brushing over my cheeks and arms as my fingers slip in between Clayton’s. We share a look of unease as we step into the unilluminated passage. We don’t even consider not going after Rhys as he walks into the slender hall that seems to wrap around the outside of the house, hence the cool breeze.
Coming to a stop halfway down, he then dislodges a portion of the wall. I can sense the smugness rolling off him, like we’re about to step into another world we’re not prepared for. Asking for my hand, he ignores the one I offer and pulls my hand from Clayton’s. I purse my lips at the predatory move, but Clay is too tipsy to care.
“Where are we?” I ask, stepping into the room. The silhouettes around the edges take form, and I blink rapidly against the shadows, sure that I’m not seeing properly. Yet when Rhys flicks on the light, it turns out we are actually in a sex room. An actual sex room.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up, because the light doesn’t just reveal the room, itexposesit. Every inch of the walls is drenched in a deep, wine-dark red that feels like velvet against the eyes, intimate yet heavy. The ceiling is painted a darker shade, almost black, making the space feel like it’s closing in toward us. Soft, recessed lighting runs along the edges of the ceiling, casting everything in a low, sultry glow. I swallow hard.
“Rhys…” I hardly breathe. It’s not like I’m innocent with either of the men pressing into my sides, but this is another level. It’s daunting, and devilishly exciting.
“My father’s hidden sex room,” Rhys agrees with the question I didn’t want to voice. My nose wrinkles. Clay tilts his head at a padded bench with straps tucked neatly beneath it, then at the sleek X-frame bolted into the far wall.
