Chapter 24
Agatha
The door shuts hard; the sound echoes in my skull. Their footsteps fade down the hall until I can’t hear anything but my own pulse. They left me here. Strapped down. Like some kind of prize animal waiting for the slaughter.
Leather cuffs hold my wrists above my head, fixed to the headboard by a short length of chain.
There’s slack enough that I can lower my arms, but not nearly enough to slip free.
Every pull makes the metal clink, the leather scraping against my skin, a constant reminder I’m caught. I can move. I just can’t escape.
“Fuckkk!” I scream, loud enough to rattle the headboard.
A low chuckle answers me from the corner.
My head snaps to the sound. Evander. He’s leaning there, half in the shadow, like he owns it.
“What do you want?” My voice shakes, but it’s not fear. It’s fury.
He tilts his head, eyes catching the thin strip of light from the lamp. “I think we’ve answered that a lot tonight,” he says, calm as ever. “You.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Why not just ask me on a damn date then? Instead of stalking me and fucking me like animals?”
The smirk that curves his mouth makes my stomach flip, and a well-known tingle hits my clit, damn traitor that it is.
“You liked being used like a fuck toy,” he says. “Don’t lie. And is asking you out on a date really your style, Agatha? Honestly, would you have gone on a date with all three of us? Your student’s uncles?”
My throat goes tight. I want to spit yes, just to spite him, but the truth burns hotter. “You’re not wrong,” I mutter.
He pushes off the wall, takes two slow steps closer. “You don’t strike me as the dating type. You’re the fuck-them-and-leave-them type.”
“You’re still not wrong.”
He stops by the bed. His shadow falls across me.
“What do you want from me? And don’t say everything,” I snap. “Don’t give me some bullshit line or riddle. I want real words. How do I get out of here?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Agree to forever.”
I bark out a laugh. “Okay, not happening. How do I get out of these restraints?”
“Make us trust you not to run.”
The leather cuffs press harder into my skin as I jerk against them. “Then tell me what you want from me! No bullshit, no lines, no fucking poetry. What the fuck do you expect me to do?”
His eyes glint like he’s been waiting for me to ask that.
“We want you to rule over us. To want us even though we’re murderers.
To crave us even though we can hurt you.
We want to right the wrongs done to you in the past, with you by our side.
” He leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Better if you hold the knife.”
I gasp before I can stop myself.
He smiles like it’s everything he hoped for. “Think about it,” he murmurs, and then he turns, leaving me strapped to the bed, seething.
I stare at the door long after it shuts. My chest is a knot of heat and rage and something worse—want.
Can I do what they want? Should I?
And what shade of fucked up does it make me that I’m even considering it?
“Dammit,” I whisper against the empty room, dragging air in through my teeth. I try again, twisting, rolling my body, testing how much space I have. Not much. They knew what they were doing when they strapped me here.
I stare up at the ceiling and start calculating. Could I dislocate my thumb? Could I rip my skin raw enough to slip free? Could I fake stillness long enough to make them believe I’ve given in, then take my chance when the door opens again?
I close my eyes and picture them. Corwin—reckless, unhinged, the one who would push me just to see if I’d break.
Then Garron, he’d hold me down until I stopped fighting, not cruel, just inevitable.
And Evander… the one who watches too close, who says too little.
He makes me feel seen in ways I don’t want, like he knows the shape of every scar without needing to look.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but heat pools low anyway. I hate it. I hate them for making me feel this twisted.
They said forever. They said rule. They said bleed. And I can’t tell if the shiver running through me is fear or hunger.
Can I do what they want? Could I really stand beside men who murder and call it devotion? Could I rule anything when my wrists are raw and bound above my head?
The cuffs creak as I twist again, teeth clenched. I refuse to break for them. But the worst part?
Some fucked-up part of me wonders if I already have.
That thought is poison, but it slides through me, anyway.
I force my breathing to slow. One, two, three. I count until the thudding in my chest starts to soften. If I’m going to survive this, I have to think, not panic.
I look around the room, cataloguing every detail.
Wood-paneled walls. A dresser scarred with scratches.
Heavy curtains pulled over the windows. Cabin furniture, plain and solid.
A lamp in the corner that casts too much yellow light.
I don’t know whose vacation place this is, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s mine now, at least for as long as they keep me here.
I start planning like I always do.
The cuffs: leather, thick, locked. Not breaking those without tools. The bedframe: metal, bolted into the wall. No way to wiggle it loose. My body: restrained, aching, alive. My mind: frantic, furious, calculating.
I test everything again. Wrists twist. Ankles kick. Nothing.
So I test myself.
How long until the burn in my shoulders forces me still? How many minutes before my skin starts to numb? How many times can I pull before my wrists swell so tight I won’t be able to slip them out even if the lock pops by chance?
This is what they want. To see me strain. To see me fight. To see how long before I break.
I spit out a laugh, sharp and bitter. If they want a show, I’ll give them one.
My thoughts shift, uninvited, to each of them.
Corwin. Blue eyes too sharp, tattoos crawling up his throat. He smiles like he already knows how the story ends. He wants to break me, and part of me wonders what happens if I let him try.
Garron. Steady, heavy, the one who carried me like I was nothing. His voice rumbles like something deep underground. He’s patient, solid, the kind of man who doesn’t push—terrifying in a different way. Maybe worse, because you can’t fight inevitability.
Evander. Quiet. Watching. He doesn’t move until it matters. His words sink in deeper than they should, calm when everything else is fire. He unsettles me most of all, because I think he already knows what I’ll choose before I do.
I test the cuffs again and hiss when the edge scrapes skin raw.
“What the fuck do you really want from me?” I whisper because the question won’t stop gnawing at me.
Their voices echo in my head.
Forever.
Rule.
A knife in your hand.
The worst part? Some part of me thrills at it.
Some part of me wonders what it would feel like to take the blade they’re holding out and make it mine.
To carve out payback on the people who baptized me until I choked, who bound my wrists in rosary beads, who told me every inch of skin was already spoiled.
Could I do it? Could I cut someone open and feel nothing but relief?
I arch against the restraints and feel my chest rise hard, my breath jagged. My body betrays me, heat coiling low, sharp and hungry. I hate it. I love it.
My head tips back against the pillow. “You’re losing it, Agatha,” I mutter. “You’re really fucking losing it.”
But the truth is worse. I’m not losing it. I’m finding it.
And maybe that’s exactly what they want.