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I should be afraid. Some small, sane part of me knows I should be. But I'm not. I'm lost instead, swallowed whole in the eternal haze of lust he's built around us like a church with no exits, incense made of sweat, and want, and his ragged breathing against my throat.

"Move, Savannah. Move your ass, move your mouth, move your hips." His fingers hook deeper, and I whimper around them, drooling, undone. "Fuck me back, baby. Fuck me back."

And God help me, I do. I move because he told me to, because some broken, devoted part of me will always move when Legion Kane tells me to.

My hips rock, desperate and clumsy at first, then finding the rhythm he wants, the one he's carved into my body over years and miles and every silo night we ever stole.

I work his fingertip in my ass and his cock in my pussy at the same time.

Then I work my mouth around his fingers. Letting them push past my comfort zone, leaning into it until I gag.

I fuck him back like I'm his trashy little slut.

His dirty, stained angel.

And I have never felt more seen in my entire life.

He shifts beneath me, boots scraping the floor as he scoots forward in the chair, angling his hips up so the new position opens me wider around him. The change in angle drags a broken sound out of my throat—him hitting somewhere deeper, somewhere that makes my thighs shake against his.

I lean into it. Chase the feeling.

His fingers slide out of my mouth, wet and glistening, and I don't get a single second to miss them before I'm collapsing forward, face pressed to the curve of his shoulder, breathing him in.

His finger sinks into my ass deeper now. Like he means it. Like he's gonna make it hurt. It punctures me with the same rhythm as his cock, driving up into my pussy.

Both points of him moving together now, in sync, like he planned this exact torment years ago and finally gets to collect on it.

I can't form words anymore. Only sound. Whimpers dragged out against his throat, my hips grinding down to meet him, desperate and shameless.

He groans low, feels it building in both of us at once, and neither of us tries to hold back anymore.

We come together—no warning, no words.

Just moaning, writhing, shaking apart in the same breath, his fingers still buried, his cock pulsing deep inside me as I fall completely apart against him.

We stay tangled like that for a while, breathing each other in, his finger still buried, his cock still twitching inside me like neither of us got the memo that it's over.

Then I hear a click.

I lift my head off his shoulder, blinking through the fog, and find him holding his phone up between us, screen angled to catch the both of us in the frame.

He turns the screen toward me before I can protest, and I go still, staring at the girl looking back at me.

My face is blotchy red, sweat-slicked, mascara dragged into two dark rivers down my cheeks like something out of a horror movie. My lips are swollen, shiny, a thin sheen of spit still clinging to the corner of my mouth where his fingers were.

I look wrecked. Owned. Filthy in a way no camera has ever caught me before—not Eleanor's, not my own, not anyone's.

And him.

God, him.

That new haircut, sharp and clean, the beard shaped into something almost respectable—except for his eyes. Those give it all away.

He looks like a demon wearing an angel's face for a costume party he has no intention of attending sober.

I am suddenly overcome with compulsion. I grab his face between my hands and kiss him. Whisperin' dirty promises. "I am your whore, Demon Kane. Your absolute fucking whore. And you will use me like this any time you want."

CHAPTER 5