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The threat suffocates the room. Ari will endure this same psychological slaughter. Broken down and rebuilt. Craving only Jax. Finding his entire identity wrapped in Jax’s brutal possession. The first crack in Ari’s foundation already splintered the moment he surrendered his pride to protect me.

“Guards,” Jax calls out.

The heavy reinforced door clicks and swings open. Two massive men step inside.

“Take him back to his cell.”

Ari doesn’t fight them. He doesn’t even look at me as they haul him out into the hall. The heavy deadbolts slide into place, locking me alone with the devil once again.

I should feel relief that Ari escaped the forced intimacy. Instead, a selfish, consuming relief floods my veins because I have Jax all to myself again. His undivided attention returns to me. I don’t have to share him anymore.

Jax tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his dark, knowing gaze. He reads the ugly truth written in my hazel eyes. The jealousy. The manic possessiveness. The sick, twisted loyalty.

“I am so proud of you,” he murmurs, trailing his thumb over my swollen bottom lip. “You handled my game perfectly. Your honesty about preferring me... it was exactly what I needed to hear.”

A warm glow spreads through my chest, drowning out the lingering shame.

“Were you jealous of him? Of the attention I gave him?”

I cannot lie. I nod my head.

Jax smiles, a genuine curve of his lips that makes his rugged, scarred face breathtakingly handsome. “You never need to be jealous, Liv. You are mine. Completely and always. Ari is just a new project. You are my masterpiece. My first. My favorite.”

The reassurance settles deep in my bones. It shouldn’t comfort me. I am a sick, broken thing twisted into a shape I no longer recognize. But I am his. I belong to him. I have a purpose in this nightmare, and I no longer wish to wake up.

Jax shifts off the bed, bringing me with him. He lays me down against the pillows and pulls the thick duvet up to my chin. He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead with a tenderness that defies the monster he truly is.

“Rest now, little bird. You earned it. You’ve been so good for me today.”

My eyelids droop, heavy with emotional and physical exhaustion. I sink into the mattress, feeling safe in a locked room with my tormentor standing guard over my sleep.

I used to pray someone would burst through those doors and rescue me. I used to beg the universe to send my father, Hunter, or the Vipers. Now, staring at the broad line of Jax’s back as he watches the monitors, my prayers have completely shifted. I pray no one ever tries. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be saved from Jax. I want to stay exactly where I am—owned, possessed, and finally belonging completely to someone.

The cage isn’t just in my head anymore.

The cage is my home.

And I never want to leave it.

8

JAX

Istand in the doorway of Liv’s suite, concealed by the shadows of the hall. The warm glow of the bedside lamp spills over her. She sits curled in the velvet armchair, a vintage copy of Wuthering Heights resting in her lap. A pale blue silk nightgown—one I selected, one I paid for—clings to her curves. Her blonde hair falls over one shoulder in a smooth, brushed cascade, catching the golden light.

The sight sends a heavy, dark satisfaction pooling in my gut. Eight weeks ago, this woman was a spoiled society brat. She screamed, she clawed at the reinforced door, she demanded a rescue that never came. Now, she is my masterpiece. A serene, conditioned creature perfectly molded to her cage. She doesn’t just exist here; she thrives. Her entire being orbits my pleasure and approval.

I step over the threshold.

The faint click of my boot on the hardwood alerts her. Her reaction is instant. Unconscious. The book shuts. She sets it aside on the small table and rises from the chair in one fluid, seamless movement. No flinching. No fear. Her body tightens with sharp anticipation. I watch her pupils blow wide, eclipsing the hazel irises. Her breathing shifts, turning shallow and rapid, parting her soft lips. She drops her hands loosely to her sides and lowers her chin. A perfect picture of submission, but the tremor in her thighs gives her away.

She isn’t just waiting. She is aching.

Perfect.

I cross the room slowly, letting the silence stretch, letting the anticipation wind tight in her chest. The pulse at the base of her throat beats a frantic rhythm against her skin. A dark pink flush crawls up her neck, staining her cheeks. The thin silk of her nightgown pulls taut over her hardened nipples. My conditioning runs deep in her veins. Her responses bypass conscious thought. Eight weeks of deliberate, methodical work have made her hunger for me absolute.

I stop inches from her. The heat radiating off her skin hits me. She holds herself still, but the effort causes a fine tremble across her shoulders. I lift a single finger and drag the rough pad of it along the sharp ridge of her collarbone.