007

VIVIENNE pov.

The second Kane slammed the door behind him, I didn’t waste a breath pretending to settle in. This was a room meant to impress, dark wood, lush carpets, cold windows looking out on nothing but shadows, every inch designed to say... you are owned. I let out a low, dark ugly laugh cause they can’t cage a hurricane with marble and silk.

First thing, every exit, every surface, every possible crack or loose panel got my attention. I stalked the perimeter, bare feet whispering over ancient wood, knuckles running over the edges of the glass, searching for flaws. The windows were bulletproof, the sills old but reinforced, latches bolted tight, not a speck of play. The door was steel-cored, hinges welded, deadbolt on the outside. Under the bed? Nothing but floorboards. No vents big enough for a wolf, no loose tiles, no clever gaps behind the dresser. Even the security camera in the corner wore a red blink like a smug little eye.

I circled again, checked under the carpets, behind the wardrobe, inside the drawers for anything sharp, anything useful, but all I got was the taste of dust and the proof the brothers were no fools. They’d done this before. They’d caged monsters, maybe even ones meaner than me.

Still, I smiled. I always find a crack, even if I have to make it myself.

The bathroom was marble and gold, a cruel joke. I stripped, let the filthy rags drop to the floor, and turned the water on as hot as it would go, stepping into the spray and letting it scald away auction dirt, sweat, blood everything but rage. The steam blurred the mirror, beads of water running down my body. I scrubbed until my skin stung, nails scraping at every bruise, every leftover touch. I wanted to peel it all off, be raw, be clean, and be untouchable.

I pressed my hands to the cold tile, letting the water thunder over me. Somewhere in my skull, Ivy whimpered, a weak pulse in the darkness.

“Ivy, you still alive in there?” I muttered, voice flat, all my sarcasm burned out for a second.

She answered, barely a whisper, battered but stubborn. “Barely. I’ll live, Vee. They can’t keep us down forever. Just… don’t let them see you weak.”

A savage grin curled my lips. “Me? Show weakness? Please. I’ll tear out their hearts and use them as soap before I beg.”

Ivy managed a laugh, weak and ragged. “Attagirl. Just don’t do anything stupid until I’m back. And maybe, try not to get us killed tonight?”

I snorted, steam curling around my fists. “No promises, wolf. You know me.”

Finished, I shut the water off, stood there dripping in the silence, body aching, mind spinning with exit strategies, with revenge, with every insult I’d ever take back tenfold.

I wrapped a short towel around myself, stepped out and I immediately sensed someone in the room but before I could turn, a hand went around my neck and caged me.

“Hello, Red. Bathing all alone?” The voice slid down my spine, soft, amused, and so fucking calm it made my claws itch.

I didn’t flinch or gasp. I just went predator-still, every muscle locking, water still dripping from my hair onto the marble floor in slow, deliberate plinks.

Asher.

Of course it was Asher. The quiet one, the one who looked like an angel carved out of winter and smiled like he was counting the ways he could ruin you while you slept.

His hand was loose around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, thumb brushing the hollow beneath my jaw like he was petting something dangerous that amused him. His tongue, warm, slow, and very deliberate, traced a single line from the curve of my shoulder up to the spot behind my ear, tasting the water, tasting me, like he had all the time in the fucking world.

I let him finish the lick and then I smiled.

“Get your fucking tongue off me before I bite it off and wear it as a necklace, pretty boy.”

He laughed, barely a breath against my wet skin, and didn’t move. His chest was flush against my back now, hard, warm, and the towel the only pathetic barrier between us. I could feel every inch of him through his clothes, tailored shirt, belt, the slow, deliberate press of his hips that told me he was already half-hard and not even pretending to hide it.

“Threats,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “sound so much sweeter when you’re dripping wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel, Red.”

I twisted, fast, vicious, aiming an elbow at his throat. He let me but suddenly caught my arm mid-swing, twisted it behind my back with humiliating ease, and pressed me forward until my cheek kissed the cold marble wall. The towel rode up, barely covering my ass now. His grip was gentle, almost tender, and that made me want to scream.

“Shh,” he whispered, like he was calming a spooked mare. “I’m not Kane. I’m not going to bruise you tonight.”

“Pity,” I hissed, straining against his hold, feeling the stretch in my shoulder, the way his fingers circled my wrist “I was hoping for an excuse to gut you.”

He hummed, low, and pleased. His free hand settled on my hip, thumb stroking the bone there, slow circles, lazy, maddening circles. “You’re shaking.”

“From rage, asshole.”

“Liar.”

His mouth found the side of my neck again, open-mouthed this time, teeth grazing skin, tongue following, tasting salt and steam and the last traces of whatever floral shit they put in the water. He took his time, licking a slow path up to my pulse, then sucking, just hard enough that I felt it between my legs like a fucking traitorous drumbeat.

I bit back the sound that wanted to crawl out of my throat and of course he noticed.

“Sensitive here,” he noted, voice clinical and filthy all at once. “Good to know.”

I snarled, jerked hard enough that the towel slipped lower, baring one breast. He didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on mine in the fogged mirror across the room, golden, unblinking, serene, while his hand slid from my hip to the front of my thigh, fingers splayed wide, possessive, stopping just short of where the heat was already pooling, thick and humiliating.

“Don’t,” I warned, voice raw.

“Don’t what?” he asked, voice innocent as sin. “Don’t taste what we paid for? Don’t find out how sweet the infamous Viper gets when she’s cornered?”

His fingers traced the crease where thigh meets hip, feather-light, never crossing the line, just circling, teasing, mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing it for later torment. My breath hitched, fucking betrayed me, and he smiled against my shoulder, soft, slow, and cruel.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Fight me and lose anyway. I like you like this, angry, wet, shaking, pretending you don’t want my tongue lower.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, but it came out shaky, too much air, and too much heat.

“Language, Red.” His teeth scraped the tendon in my neck, not biting, just reminding me he could. “We have all night.”

He released my wrist, finally, but before I could spin and break his nose, both his hands were on my hips, turning me, slow, deliberate, until my back hit the wall and I was staring up into that angel-carved face. Water still clung to my lashes. My chest rose and fell too fast. The towel was barely clinging to one shoulder now, one wrong breath from falling completely.

Asher’s gaze dropped, finally, lazy, appreciative, like he was inspecting art he’d already decided to ruin. He didn’t touch but just looked. Every scar, every bruise from the auction and life, every inch of skin that had never bowed to anyone.

Then he knelt, slow, graceful and fucking reverent causing me to froze.

He didn’t grab me. Didn’t force my legs apart. He just knelt there, eye-level with my hips, hands resting on his thighs, and inhaled, long, deep, and deliberate, like he was savoring a vintage he’d waited years to taste.

“Goddess, you smell like violence and honey,” he said, voice rougher now, the calm cracking just enough to let something feral bleed through. “Ten million was a fucking steal.”

I laughed, sharp, jagged, and unhinged. “Enjoy the view, saint. It’s the closest you’ll ever get.”

He looked up, golden eyes glowing soft in the dim light, and smiled like I’d just dared him to prove me wrong.

Then he leaned in, not touching, never touching, just breathing me in, warm breath ghosting over the insides of my thighs, so close I felt the heat of his mouth and my knees nearly buckled but I locked them, snarling.

He stayed there, nose barely an inch from where I was wet and aching and hating myself for it, and exhaled slowly, and deliberately, the air hitting me like a caress I couldn’t escape.

I cursed, filthy, vicious Italian, English, whatever came out first.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my skin.

“Keep talking,” he murmured. “Every curse makes me want to drag this out longer.”

His tongue came out, just once, flat and wet, licking a stripe up the inside of my left thigh, stopping a millimeter short of where I was throbbing. Then the right thigh, same slow, worshipful drag, tasting water, tasting me, never giving me what my traitor body was screaming for.

I slammed a fist into the wall beside his head, hard enough to crack the tile.

“Fucking do what you want or get the fuck out,” I snarled, voice breaking on the last word.

He looked up again, lips wet, eyes glowing, and shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said simply. “Not tonight.”

He rose calmly towering over me again. One hand lifted, thumb brushing my bottom lip, smearing the water there, then slipping just inside my mouth, pressing down on my tongue like he owned the taste of me but I bit him hard.

He didn’t flinch, just watched me with that terrifying calm while I tasted his blood, copper and salt and something darker.

“Good,” he whispered, pulling his thumb free, tracing the blood across my lower lip like lipstick. “Keep that fire. You’ll need it when your heat hits.”

He stepped back, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt like he hadn’t just unraveled me with nothing but breath and tongue and cruel, exquisite patience.

“Sleep well, Red,” he said, turning toward the door. “Dream about what I didn’t give you.”

The door closed softly behind him.

I slid down the wall, legs shaking, fists clenched, dripping wet in every fucking way.

And I swore, loud, vicious, to the empty room, to the cameras, to the gods themselves, that the next time Asher Shadowcrest put his mouth on me, I’d make him choke on it.

But tonight, tonight, the bastard had won and I hated how much I wanted round two.