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Guilt hits me like a fist to the sternum. Not just for this, but for pushing her too hard, too fast. For all of it. The blackmail. The way we trapped her, threatened her sister, made her feel like she had no choice but to submit. She thinks she’s here because she has to be. Because we hold Bailey’s safety over her head like a blade.

I want her to want us. Not because she’s forced to. Not because she’s scared. But I want her to look at me the way she looks at Noah when she thinks no one’s watching…with that helpless hunger that has nothing to do with fear.

Noah pulls out slowly, his jaw tight, and Fawn collapses onto the mattress with a whimper that sounds broken.

Not the good kind.

The kind that means we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross. I watch her face, searching for tears, for anger, for anything that tells me I need to back the fuck off. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her chest heaving with breaths that shake her whole body. She looks wrecked.

“Fawn.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw. When I reach for her shoulder, and she flinches, I feel it like a gut punch. “Hey, baby. Look at me.”

She doesn’t. Her face is turned away, buried in the pillow, and my stomach drops because I know that posture. I’ve seen it in men who’ve lost too much, given too much, who don’t know how to come back from whatever hell they’ve walked through.

She’s not like us.

She’s a college girl who stumbled into something she doesn’t understand, and we just used her like she was something we owned.

The mask is suffocating me. I tear it off and toss it aside, sucking in a breath of air that smells like sex and sweat and her. It doesn’t help. I still feel like I’m drowning.

“Fawn.” I try again, softer this time. I touch her hair, the strands tangled and damp against her temple, and this time, she doesn’t flinch. Small victory. “Talk to me, Princess. Tell me you’re okay.”

She turns her head just enough for one eye to find mine. It’s glassy and unfocused, and a bruise is forming on her jaw where Ryker’s fingers must have gripped too hard. I examine the damage with a detachment that scares me. The red marks on her hips from Noah’s hands. The way her thighs are shaking, trembling with aftershocks, exhaustion, or both.

“Bailey,” she whispers.

Not what I expected. Not even close.

“Where is she?” Fawn’s voice cracks, and she struggles to push herself up onto her elbows, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. “Is she okay? You promised…you said if I did this, you’d keep her safe. Where is my sister?”

The fear in her eye guts me. Even now, naked and trembling, her soft body covered in our marks, her first thought isn’t of herself. It’s of Bailey.

“She’s fine.” I reach for her, steadying her when she sways. “Bailey’s fine, Fawn. I swear to you. She’s safe.”

“I want to see her.” Tears start falling, tracking down her cheeks, and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “I need to see her. Please. You don’t understand. She’s all I have…”

“Hey. Hey.” I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me, to see the truth in my eyes. “We’re going to bring her here. Okay? Noah and Kipton will go get her right now. You’ll see her tonight. I promise.”

Noah has already stepped back, pulling his jeans on. He meets my gaze, and I see the understanding, the immediate shift from lover to protector. He doesn’t question it. He just nods and reaches for his shirt.

“Kipton,” Noah calls out, and the door to the adjoining room opens almost immediately. Kipton stands there, already dressed, his eyes taking in the scene…Fawn naked and crying on the bed, me holding her, the disaster of what we’ve done written across every inch of her skin.

“Bailey,” Noah says, and that’s all he needs to say.

Kipton’s jaw tightens. He glances at Fawn, something unreadable flickering across his face, then he turns and follows Noah out the door without a word. The lock clicks behind them, and then it’s just her and me.

“Come on.” I stand, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up before they get back.”

She lets me pull her up, but her legs buckle almost immediately. I catch her, lifting her into my arms bridal-style, and she doesn’t protest. She just curls against my chest, her face tucked into my neck, her tears hot against my skin. She weighs nothing. I hate it.

The marble and gold bathroom is ridiculous luxury for a place like this. I set her on the counter and start the bath, adjusting the temperature until steam rises in thick clouds. She watches me with hollow eyes, hugging her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold her own pieces together.

“Can you stand?” I ask.

She nods, but when I help her down, her knees nearly give out again. I catch her, one arm around her waist, and lower us both into the water. The heat envelops us, and she gasps, her body going rigid for a moment before melting against me.

I reach for the soap and lather my hands, then I start washing her. Starting with her shoulders, working down her arms, across her back. She tenses when I touch the marks we’ve left, the bruises, bites, and fingerprints, but she doesn’t pull away. I clean every inch of her with a gentleness I didn’t know I had in me, rinsing away the sweat and sex and evidence of what we did to her.

When I reach her hair, I guide her back until she’s floating, her head resting against the edge of the tub. I work shampoo through the tangled strands, my fingers massaging her scalp, and a small sound escapes her…something between a whimper and a sigh. It’s the first non-pained noise she’s made since we finished, and I cling to it like a lifeline.