Then he claims me.
One hand curls around my throat, while the other tears the mask from my head. His mouth crashes against mine—hard, possessive. It’s a kiss and a verdict all at once, a punishment for making him wait this long… or maybe just the moment he finally stops pretending he’s in control.
He breaks away, breath rough, eyes dark enough to swallow the light. “Wraith,” he orders, voice a low command that vibrates through me.
Wraith steps closer without a word, his hands finding my shoulders. His fingers move slowly, deliberate, kneading the tension from my muscles until heat seeps through my skin and my pulse forgets how to steady itself.
A low sound escapes me as Wraith’s fingers slide lower—half moan, half surrender—and Rook swallows it with another bruising kiss.
I feel, rather than see, the next command ripple through the room. New hands join—rougher, surer—gliding over my arms, tracing my sides with a touch that’s equal parts reverence and hunger.Vale. It has to be. No one else touches like that—like sin disguised as worship.
The others follow. Somewhere in the blur, more hands find me, working slow and sure, massaging the tension from my legs, kneading at my calves and thighs while Rook’s mouth keeps me anchored. It’s maddening—too much, too good, too consuming.
And somehow, it’s still not enough.
Rook pulls away, and I open my eyes—bereft, breathless, and burning for more.
Wraith moves in next, one hand closing around my throat, the other tracing the curve of my hip before settling in a firm squeeze. His mouth finds my temple, then my shoulder, teeth grazing over sensitive skin in a warning disguised as affection.
Before the shiver can fade, Vale’s mouth claims mine in a searing kiss. His pitch-dark eyes lock on me, holding me there—commanding me to watch, to feel, to surrender—as the others move around me like a tide I can’t fight.
Fingers find the heat at the apex of my thighs—slow at first, then precise—as if they already know exactly what my body craves.Wraith. I know that touch. Teeth graze along my thigh, a brief sting that melts into pleasure, then lower, tracing the path of a breath down my calf. I feel, rather than see, someone settle between my legs. The anticipation builds—tight, electric—and they haven’t even begun. I moan into Vale’s mouth, bracing for the next wave.
Vale tears his mouth from mine, and before the breath can steady in my chest, another presence fills the space he left.
Saint.
My eyes widen when I realize it’s him at my feet—those glacial eyes softened by something darker, something that could be devotion or ruin. Wraith’s touch withdraws at the same moment the pressure crests inside me, leaving me trembling, aching, a sound breaking loose from my throat—half-frustration, half-plea—as need curls hot and relentless through me.
Saint doesn’t ask, he claims. Mouth latching onto the bundle of nerves between my legs with expert precision. His tongue laps at my pussy, feather light strokes that has me mewling loudly. I gasp, my head falling back, grateful for the solid strength behind me keeping me upright. The world narrows to sensation—heat, pulse, pressure—until thought dissolves entirely. The edges of everything blur. Sound fractures into light. I break apart in a cry, the world gone white and spinning.
Still, they don’t stop.
When my eyes finally flutter open, I see Rook—poised against the table, calm, commanding, content to simply watch as I come undone. The sight steals my breath. It’s power and possession all at once—shameless, beautiful, intoxicating.
It’s empowering. It’s sexy.
It’s fuckingeverything.
Saint shifts aside, and Ash steps into my line of sight. Wraith slides from behind me, dropping to his knees at my feet, while Vale takes his place—his hands already roaming, possessive and unrestrained.
Ash leans in, his hesitation lasting only a heartbeat before his mouth finds mine. The kiss starts tentative, uncertain… then deepens, catching fire until there’s nothing hesitant about it at all.
His hand tightens around my throat, a firm reminder of control, while Vale’s touch moves in counterpoint—teasing,coaxing, reigniting the ache that threatens to unravel me all over again.
Ash pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his breath unsteady against my lips. “You choose,” he says.
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder.
Realization floods through me—they’re letting me decide. Letting me choose who claims the first step into the fire. The thought sends a shiver straight through my chest, equal parts awe and hunger.
My gaze finds Rook first—instinct, gravity, something deeper than thought. I search his face for permission I don’t need, for an anchor I already have. His jaw tightens, a single muscle ticking before he gives a quick nod. He knows I might not choose him—and I can see the sting of it in the way his throat works when he swallows it down.
I take a breath, letting my eyes move across them, feeling the weight of what this choice means. Who needs it most. Who doubts what we’re building.
The answer strikes, clear and electric.
Ash.
