Chapter 005 Hopes Razor
The door clicked shut behind him, and the room went dead quiet except for the low hum of the air system. I stayed on the sectional, legs folded under me, knees screaming from the carpet burn earlier. His taste lingered—salt and skin and something darker, something that used to be mine. Chocolate, bergamot, cayenne. It coated my tongue like a promise I wasn’t allowed to keep.
My wolf paced inside my chest, claws scraping bone. MATE. MATE. MATE. The word hammered against my ribs, frantic, starving. Three years of silence and suddenly she was screaming again.
I pressed my thighs together. Still wet. Still throbbing. My body didn’t care that he’d paid for the hour or that the cameras had probably come back online the second he walked out. It only knew the bond had snapped taut again, vicious and alive.
Hope flickered—small, stupid, dangerous. I’ll get you out. He’d said it against my mouth like a vow. I wanted to believe him so badly my teeth ached.
But hope was a razor. I knew that better than anyone.
I didn’t move until Darlene pushed the door open without knocking. She took one look at me—hair messed, lipstick gone, dress wrinkled—and her mouth flattened.
“Don’t tell me you’re falling apart now.” Her voice was ice. She used to at least pretend sympathy after rough sessions. Not tonight. “Clean yourself up. Rage is waiting.”
I stood. Knees buckled slightly; the left one popped with a wet click. Darlene didn’t offer a hand. Just watched me wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist, smooth my dress down, fix what I could. Her eyes were flat, like I was meat starting to turn.
I walked past her without a word. The hallway smelled like bleach and old smoke. Backstage was empty—chairs pushed in, mirrors dark. My locker stayed closed. Nothing in there I wanted to touch tonight.
Rage leaned against the Mercedes at the curb, engine running. Big guy, arms crossed, face unreadable. He opened the back door without speaking. I slid in. Leather cold against my thighs.
We pulled away from the curb fast. Houston blurred past—neon signs, late-night crowds, billboards promising things I’d never have again. Nine minutes to the high-rise. I counted every one.
“Cameras are live,” Rage said quietly, eyes on the road. That was all. No comfort, no questions. Just the warning.
I nodded even though he couldn’t see it.
The elevator ride up to twenty-four was silent except for the soft ding of floors. My reflection stared back—smudged makeup, swollen lips, eyes too bright. I looked like what I was: used.
The apartment door unlocked with my palm print. Inside, everything gleamed. Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture that cost more than most people made in a year. All of it watched. Cameras in every corner, motion sensors, microphones sensitive enough to catch a heartbeat.
I kicked off the heels by the door. Walked to the windows. Houston spread out below like broken glass catching light. My cage, gilded and thirty stories up.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. Breathed until the shaking stopped.
Shower next. I needed his scent gone before Waylon smelled it on me.
The bathroom filled with steam fast. I stripped and stepped under the spray, scalding. Soap burned between my legs. I scrubbed anyway—thighs, stomach, neck, hair. Anywhere he’d touched. Anywhere he’d marked.
My fingers found the scar on my left knee. Thick ridge of tissue, shiny and wrong. I sank down to the tile, water pounding my back, and let the memory take me.
Two years ago. Maybe two and a half. I’d tried to run. Got as far as the Louisiana border before they dragged me back. Waylon didn’t yell. Just smiled that thin smile and told the pack doctor to hold me down.
The witch came in with her silver wire. Thin as fishing line, glowing faint blue from the spell wrapped around it. They forced my leg straight. I screamed until my voice shredded.
She threaded the wire through the joint—slow, precise. In and out like sewing. Every tug tore cartilage, ground against bone. The spell kept the silver from poisoning me outright, but it stopped the shifter healing cold. Permanent.
Waylon watched the whole time, sipping bourbon.
“You’ll be even more beautiful with a limp,” he said when she finished. “My broken angel.”
I threw up on the floor. They left me there until morning.
The water went cold before I stood up again. My knee throbbed in time with my pulse.
I dried off roughly. Didn’t bother with clothes. The apartment was always warm—Waylon liked skin on display.
Another memory hit while I brushed my teeth. The night he took my virginity. Not the first time he touched me, but the first time he made it public.
I’d refused a VIP request. Some oil tycoon wanted “the full experience.” I said no. Got mouthy, even. Thought I still had the right.
They drugged my drink at rehearsal. Spelled cocktail—made me pliant, wet, eager against my will. Body moving while my mind floated somewhere far away.
Waylon carried me into the biggest suite himself. Red velvet, low lights, three paying clients in suits sipping champagne. Cameras rolling.
He laid me on the chaise like a gift. Spread my legs wide for them to see.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, voice smooth as oil, “as promised, our beautiful angel is going to give me her cherry tonight.”
I remember the flash of phones. The way the men leaned forward.
He didn’t prep me. Just pushed in dry. Tore me open. Blood slicked my thighs, dripped onto the velvet. I felt every inch, every rip, even through the haze.
When he finished he pulled out and held me open so they could see the mess. Cum and blood mixed. Proof.
“Virgin no more,” he said, laughing. The clients clapped.
I passed out after that. Woke up sore and sticky with a collar around my neck for the first time.
I spat toothpaste into the sink hard enough to splatter.
Bed next. Silk sheets cool against bruised skin. I curled on my side, facing the window. City lights blinked like they were trying to signal something.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Too wired. Too raw.
The door opened without a knock sometime after three.
I didn’t flinch. Knew the footsteps.
Waylon moved quiet for a big man. The mattress dipped as he climbed in behind me. His hand settled on my hip—possessive, heavy.
“How did he taste, little slave?” Voice low, amused. He’d watched the feed. Of course he had. Even with the camera disabled part of the time, there’d been enough.
I stayed still. Didn’t answer.
His fingers dug in. “Answer me.”
“Like anyone,” I lied. Voice flat.
He laughed softly. Rolled me onto my back. Pinned my wrists above my head with one hand. The other slid between my legs without warning. Two fingers shoved inside rough.
I gasped. Couldn’t help it. My body—trained, broken—responded instantly. Wet. Ready. The spells and years of Alpha command did their work.
He pumped slowly. “Liar. You came for him. I saw it.”
I turned my face away. Stared at the ceiling.
His mouth found my shoulder. Teeth sank in hard—new mark over Jade’s fading one. Blood bloomed hot and coppery.
He shifted, spread my legs wider. Replaced fingers with cock in one brutal thrust.
Pain flared bright. Then the forced pleasure rolled in behind it, sickening and unstoppable. My back arched against my will.
“Nobody ever fucks you like your Alpha,” he growled against my neck. Started moving—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the headboard.
I bit my tongue to keep quiet. Tasted blood.
He took his time. Used me thoroughly. Bit my breasts, my throat, my lips. Left bruises shaped like fingerprints. When I came—body clenching around him, shame burning—he groaned and followed, spilling deep.
After, he stayed inside a minute. Smearing himself on me deliberately. Marking.
He pulled out slow. Wiped his wet fingers across my stomach.
“Don’t wash it off,” he ordered. Alpha command laced through the words. My skin prickled in obedience.
Then he was gone. Door clicked shut like nothing happened.
I lay there in the dark. Thighs sticky. Shoulder bleeding. Between my legs sore and used.
The wolf whined—small, broken sound. Not for Waylon. Never for him.
I curled tight, arms around my ribs. Refused to cry. Crying never changed anything.
Instead I held onto the memory of Jade’s voice. Low, steady. Certain.
I’ll get you out.
Hope cut deep. Hurt worse than silver wire or teeth in my flesh.
But I clung to it anyway.
Morning would come soon. Another day dancing on ruined knees. Another night waiting for whoever paid.
But maybe not forever.
Maybe.
I watched the sky lighten from black to gray and held that razor close.