The heat blooming across my ass is uncomfortable and humiliating and—God help me—arousing in a way that makes me want to die of shame right here on his lap.
"I hate you," I gasp out, because it is the only thing I can think to say that might make this stop.
SMACK.
"You have mentioned that."
SMACK.
My eyes are burning, my face is on fire with mortification, and I can feel Luca and Gabriel watching—can feel their eyes on me while Dante disciplines me like a child who misbehaved at dinner—and the humiliation of it is almost worse than the actual pain.
Almost.
SMACK.
"Are you done?" Dante asks, and his hand is resting on my ass now, heavy and warm, not hitting anymore but not letting me up either.
I do not answer. I am too busy trying to breathe through the mortification, trying not to cry, trying not to acknowledge the way my body is responding to this in ways that are absolutely unacceptable.
"I asked you a question, Flower."
"Yes," I grit out through clenched teeth that I am definitely not grinding together. "I am done."
"Good."
He releases me, and I scramble off his lap like it is on fire, stumbling slightly as I try to get my balance back. My ass is throbbing, my face is burning, and I cannot look at any of them—cannot meet their eyes without dissolving into tears or violence or both.
"Sit down and finish your dinner," Dante says, like nothing happened.
I stand there, trembling with rage and humiliation and something else I absolutely refuse to name, seriously considering whether it would be worth it to launch myself at him and see how much damage I can do before Gabriel pulls me off.
"Rosalina," he says, and there is a warning in his voice now. "Sit."
I sit.
I pick up my fork with a hand that is definitely not shaking and take a bite of food that I can barely taste because my entire body is vibrating with fury and my ass is throbbing and I am acutely aware of every single breath the three of them take.
"Good girl," Dante murmurs, and the praise sends an unwanted shiver down my spine that I am going to pretend absolutely did not happen.
I hate him.
I hate all of them.
But as I sit there eating my favorite meal in silence while my ass throbs from Dante's hand and Luca smirks into his wine and Gabriel watches me with those knowing gray eyes that see way too much, I realize with sinking, horrible dread that hate might not be the only thing I am feeling.
And that terrifies me more than anything else that has happened this week.
More than the locked door and the escape attempts and the realization that I am trapped here with three men who apparently want to share me like some kind of communal possession.
Because if I do not hate them—if there is something else underneath all this rage and fear and defiance—then I am in so much more trouble than I thought.
And I do not know if I am strong enough to survive it.
9
GABRIEL
Six-thirty in themorning and I am already awake, dressed for my run, lacing up my shoes in the kitchen when I hear it.
