1. Rue #3
My thighs press together, slick and aching. I'm dripping now, not just from my chest. I can feel arousal coating my inner thighs, hot and undeniable, and when Roman's hand slides down to grip my hip, his thumb brushing dangerously close to where I'm throbbing, I nearly come apart.
He switches to my other breast, latches on with the same desperate hunger.
His mouth works at my breast, drawing out milk in long, steady pulls, and I'm lost in the sensation—the wet heat of his tongue, the rough scrape of his stubble against sensitive skin, the way his fingers knead and massage like he's worshipping me.
My head falls back against the glass, eyes fluttering shut.
Then he speaks.
"Can't believe my little stepsister has this side to her."
The words punch through the haze.
Stepsister.
I shove him. Hard. My palms slam against his chest and he stumbles back a step, mouth releasing my nipple with a wet pop. Milk drips down my skin, cooling in the air between us.
"What?" My voice cracks. "What did you just?—"
Roman wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and he's smiling. Not sheepish. Not apologetic. A slow, knowing smile that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.
"You didn't think we wouldn't know who you really are?" He tilts his head, dark eyes glinting. "What your family does for a living?"
The bathroom tilts. Spins. I press my back against the glass wall for support, my legs threatening to give out. "I don't?—"
"Reed and I ran a background check the second your mom sent over that fake resume." He takes a step closer, casual, like he's discussing the weather. "Tracked down your real address, your dad's history, your brother's medical records. We know everything, Rue."
My chest constricts. Can't breathe. Can't think.
They knew. They've known the whole time.
I lunge for the towel hanging on the rack beside the sink, grab it with shaking hands and yank it around myself. The fabric sticks to my wet skin, but I don't care. I need to get out. Need to run. Need to?—
Roman's hand closes around my wrist before I make it two steps.
"Where do you think you're going?"
I try to twist free, but his grip is iron. "Let go of me!"
He doesn't. Instead he hauls me against his chest, spins me around, and before I can process what's happening, he's lifting me. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, cradling me like I weigh nothing.
"Put me down!" I beat my fists against his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I can reach. The towel slips, falls away, leaving me bare again. "Let me go!"
He carries me out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, into the hallway.
His skin is hot against mine, every step making my breasts bounce, making milk leak fresh trails down my stomach.
I thrash, kick, but it's useless. He's too strong, too solid, and somewhere deep in the traitorous pit of my core, I feel a pulse of arousal at how easily he handles me.
No. No, I hate this. I hate him.
But my body doesn't get the memo. My nipples are hard where they brush against his chest. My thighs are slick. And when he adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass, I have to bite back a moan.
"Stop fighting." His voice is low, rough. "You're only making it worse for yourself."
We descend a staircase I didn't see earlier—narrow, hidden behind a door at the end of the hall. The air grows cooler. Darker. Stone walls close in around us, lit by dim sconces that cast flickering shadows.
A basement. He's taking me to a basement.
Panic claws up my throat. I renew my struggles, slam my palm against his jaw hard enough to snap his head to the side. He grunts, but doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down.
"Feisty." He sounds almost impressed. "I like that."
The staircase opens into a room, and my heart stops.
Chains hang from the ceiling. Leather restraints dangle from hooks on the walls. A padded bench sits in the center, equipped with straps and buckles I don't want to understand. This isn't a basement.
It's a dungeon.
Roman sets me down on a platform, and I scramble backward, but there's nowhere to go. He catches my wrists, pins them above my head with one hand while the other reaches for the restraints.
"No!" I buck, twist, try to wrench free. "Don't you dare?—"
The leather chain hanging from the ceiling closes around my left wrist with a soft click. Then my right. He moves to my ankles next, spreading my legs wide and securing them to the floor's chain. I'm splayed open now, completely exposed, every part of me on display.
Milk leaks from my breasts in thin streams, pooling on my stomach. Arousal coats my inner thighs, glistening in the low light.
Roman steps back, admires his work. His cock is still hard, jutting out from his body, and when his gaze drags over me—lingering on my breasts, my spread thighs, the wet evidence of how much I want this—his jaw flexes.
"Time to continue what we started."
I yank against the restraints, leather biting into my wrists. "Let me go!"
Please don't let me go.
The thought whispers through my mind, unbidden and horrifying. My core clenches, empty and aching. I can feel how ready I am, how desperately my body wants him to close the distance and finish what we began upstairs.
I hate this. I hate him. I hate myself for wanting it.
"Let. Me. Go."
Roman just smiles.
Another stream of milk trails down my breast, warm and insistent. I watch it through the dim light—watch it curve over my ribs, pool in the hollow of my stomach. My body won't stop betraying me. Won't stop producing this evidence of how broken I am, how stressed, how completely overwhelmed.
Roman's eyes track the movement. His pupils dilate, black swallowing the charcoal until there's almost nothing left. His chest rises and falls faster, muscles shifting under all that ink. His cock twitches, a bead of moisture gathering at the tip.
He likes it. The realization hits me again, stronger this time. He actually likes watching me leak.
He takes a step closer, his hand lifting toward my chest. Those long fingers reach for my breast, and I can already feel how it's going to be—his palm cupping the weight, his thumb brushing over my nipple, coaxing out more milk while I hang here helpless and wanting.
"Don't." The word rips out of me. "Don't touch me. Don't you dare."
His hand freezes midair. His gaze snaps to mine, and the playfulness drains from his expression. What's left is serious. Intense. The kind of look that makes my stomach flip and my thighs clench despite everything.
"You know I'm your stepsister." My voice shakes, but I force the words out anyway. "You know what I am. What my family does. And you—you're just going to?—"
"Yeah." He doesn't look away. Doesn't blink. "I know exactly who you are, Rue. Doesn't change a damn thing."
"It should." My wrists pull against the restraints, leather biting into skin. "It should change everything."
"Why?" He drops his hand, crosses his arms over his chest instead. The movement makes his tattoo flex, all those roses and thorns shifting with muscle. "Because we share a stepparent? Because your mom married my stepdad and then lied to both of us? That's supposed to make me not want you?"
Heat floods my face. "Yes!"
"Bullshit." The word comes out flat. Final. "You're lying to yourself if you think you didn't want this too."
"I don't?—"
"You don't?" He gestures down at himself, at his cock standing thick and hard between us. "Look at me, Rue. Look at how much I want you. Then tell me you don't feel the same."
My gaze drops before I can stop it. Follows the path from his face down that perfect chest, over the carved abs, to where he's jutting out proud and ready. Thick enough that I know it's going to hurt. Long enough that I'll feel him everywhere.
My core clenches. Pulses. Slick drips down my inner thigh.
Traitor.
"That doesn't mean anything," I whisper.
"It means everything." He takes another step closer, close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. "Your body's screaming for me. Has been since you opened that door upstairs. And if you deny it—if you stand there and tell me you don't want this—we're both gonna know you're lying."
My throat tightens. I can't look at him. Can't meet those dark eyes that see straight through every defense I've ever built.
"We just started something," he continues, voice dropping lower. Rougher. "Let's finish it. Then we'll talk. Figure out the rest later."
"Roman—"
"You feel that?" His gaze drops to my chest, where milk is leaking faster now, both nipples dripping steady streams that patter softly against the stone floor. "That pressure? I can make it stop. Can take care of you."
The ache in my breasts intensifies, swollen and full and desperate for relief. I've been leaking for hours, my body producing and producing with nowhere for it to go. The weight is unbearable. The tightness makes every breath hurt.
He could fix it. He could?—
"Just let me," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."
I close my eyes. Try to find some shred of dignity, some reason to say no. But my body won't listen. My breasts throb, my core aches, and every nerve ending screams for him to close the distance and finish what we started upstairs.
Kurt needs this. The money. The transplant.
You need this.
The thought whispers through my mind, traitorous and true.
"Okay." The word comes out broken. Barely audible. "Okay."
Roman's answering smile is pure sin.
Roman's mouth crashes onto mine—hot, demanding, his tongue sweeping past my lips before I can think to resist. The kiss is different this time.
Hungrier. Like he's trying to devour me whole, trying to claim every breath I take.
His teeth catch my lower lip, tug hard enough to sting, and the sharp sensation shoots straight down to my core.
I moan into his mouth. Can't help it. Can't stop the sound from climbing up my throat and spilling between us.