Chapter 91
BELLA
Cool air brushes against my skin as I step inside the second room.
This room is different. Holy, almost.
A cathedral for control.
Except I’ve made it kinky and full of sin.
They both follow without a word.
Rowan looks focused, and Reggie’s jaw ticks like he’s already calculating how to win.
He closes the door behind us, and I spin to face them.
“Go on then, who won?” I ask.
“Me,” Reggie says.
I thought as much. Which explains Rowan’s mood.
I offer Reggie a grin. I bet he’s itching to spank me even harder.
“Okay, well, it’s time for the next one.”
“This one’s a trust game,” I say, tracing my fingers along the arm of the black leather cross on the wall. “My brother Kane used to teach his team exercises like this when he was in the military.”
I can feel their attention sharpen.
“Kane always said trust is the purest form of surrender. Not the romantic kind. The survival kind. When you let someone close enough to hurt you and believe they won’t.”
My hand drifts down the leather straps, each buckle clicking softly under my touch.
“He also taught me how to throw knives.”
That gets their attention.
Two pairs of eyes flick up, the air shifting from curiosity to caution.
I smile. “And lucky for us, Conan keeps a few in his cabin.”
I move to the second cross.
Reggie opens his mouth, probably to tell me I’ve lost my mind, but I lift a hand to stop him from saying something dumb.
“No talking during the trust test,” I warn. “You’re not in charge here.”
Rowan’s lips twitch and Reggie just watches me with that unreadable calm that’s never actually calm.
“Step forward,” I order softly.
They do.
The sound of leather sliding through buckles fills the room as I fasten them—wrists, ankles, chest.
Rowan’s pulse jumps under my fingertips when I tighten the strap across his ribs.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.
He just breathes me in.
“Good,” I whisper. “You trust me.”
I move to Reggie next.
He holds still, but his muscles are tight, jaw locked.
Always pretending he’s fine when he’s two seconds from exploding.
When they’re both secured, I walk to the table in the corner.
Three knives gleam under the low light.
I pick one up by the handle, testing the balance.
“I should’ve brought my lipstick blade,” I muse.
Rowan arches a brow—still silent, but I can hear the question in his grin.
“I bedazzled a knife, and my lovely brothers like to take the piss out of me.”
Rowan smirks.
“I’m not going to hit you,” I say finally, letting the blade catch the light as I turn it in my hand. “But I am going to make you believe I might. Then again, I never said how good I was at throwing them. Just because Kane tried to teach me doesn’t mean I listened.”
I look at Reggie, who stiffens.
The knife spins once between my fingers before I release it.
It whistles through the air, embedding into the wall a few inches beside Rowan’s head.
He exhales through his nose, a smirk ghosting across his lips.
Good.
I grab the second one.
This time, I let it graze the air near Reggie, close enough to brush his sleeve with wind, then stick into the crossbeam above his shoulder.
Silence.
Only their breathing.
I walk back, trailing my nails over the edge of Rowan’s jaw, then Reggie’s.
“See?” I murmur. “You didn’t even flinch. That’s trust.”
I pause between them, looking up.
“Round two isn’t about winning,” I tell them. “It’s about control and who’s willing to give it.”
Neither speaks.
But the way they look at me—the heat, the restraint, the unspoken promises—tells me everything I need to know.
And for the first time tonight, I think maybe I’m the one being tested.
“Would you let me cut you?” I ask Reggie, running the flat side of the blade along his throat.
“You can speak when I ask a question,” I whisper.
His voice comes low, steady. “Cut me. Brand me. Whatever you want, Princess. I can handle you.”
My heart races. I pull back. His eyes burn into mine—steady, knowing. He’s right. He sees me.
“Would you let me cut you?” he asks quietly.
I tilt my head.
I trust him with my life. “Yes. I trust you.”
He offers me a small smile. “Then cut me.”
I unbutton the first few on his shirt, running my nail along his chest.
He sucks in a breath.
“You’re too pretty to cut, Irish. I don’t need to brand you when I know I’m etched deeper than any blade could.” I press my palm over his heart.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
I move over to Rowan; he grins as I run the smooth side of the blade against his cheek.
“Now you, rockstar. Would you bleed for me?”
“I’d bleed out for you. You know that, baby.”
I press a kiss to his cheek, and he groans softly, the sound barely contained.
“I really get to you, don’t I?” I whisper.
“I’m addicted.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Do you trust me?” he counters.
I drag the dull edge of the blade down his throat until it catches on his skin, a single bead of red blooming there.
I inhale sharply, then lean in and brush my lips against it, tasting the metallic salt before it fades.
Then I step back so I can see them both, strapped up and bound to me in ways they probably never imagined.
“How do we win?” Rowan asks.