Chapter Fourteen
Rhea
L ucian turns without a word and starts down the main hall, his footsteps sharp and sure against the polished stone floor.
Theo carries me close, arms solid and cradling me like I’m a priceless antique with anger issues.
I’m not. I’m just burning.
My nails curl into his shirt. I’m trying not to grind down on him again like some kind of possessed lap dancer. Trying not to let the scent of all of them drag me under like a weighted blanket soaked in lust.
But it’s getting harder.
The hall twists deeper into the estate like the set of a villain’s lair. The walls turn matte-black and soundproof, the lights get lower, the air gets colder.
And the vibe is unquestionably dungeon chic.
Lucian stops in front of a massive steel-plated door that looks like it could withstand a small war. I watch as he presses his palm to a square panel.
There's a beep. Then a hiss.
A seam splits the door like the world's least subtle metaphor, and it glides open on whisper-smooth hydraulics.
Which is suspicious.
Nothing that heavy should move that quietly.
Kai steps up beside the door, blinking into the room.
“Who the hell needs a panic room this big? What the fuck are you hiding in here, Vale?”
“Would explain the gate situation,” Ash mutters, arms crossed like he’s trying to physically restrain himself from judging everything. “I guess the Vales collect problems like they collect properties.”
Lucian doesn’t even flinch, never mind rise to the bait - instead, he steps aside and gestures for Theo to follow.
The room is huge. Definitely nicer than my apartment.
But make no mistake: it screams containment with a side of decorative hostage.
Soft grey walls. Mirrored window. Lighting set to gently interrogate .
A bed so pristinely made I’m positive it’s never seen sex, sleep, or sunlight. A desk I won’t be using. An armchair I might weep in.
And an en suite bathroom that probably costs more than my soul.
Kai whistles under his breath. “Lucian, if I had a room like this in my house, I’d be getting a lot more creative with how I used it.”
Ash doesn’t even look at him. “If you had a room like this, it’d smell like beer and bad decisions.”
Lucian’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade. “This room is for control. Not indulgence.”
“Guess that depends on your definition.” Kai hums. “My safe word is technically ‘ indulgence '.”
Theo lowers me to the bed with the kind of reverent care you’d reserve for handling cursed objects. My bare thighs hit the cool sheets. My brain, however, is still overheating.
The heat pulses again - low, cruel, unstoppable.
I whimper.
I’m soaked. Again .
“I can’t,” I whisper, voice raw and thin as paper. “I can’t hold it -” Theo pulls back and I whine. Yes, whine . Like a spoiled showdog who just got told 'no treat'.
“She’s spiraling,” Ash observes like a man delivering a weather report about a tornado made of sex.
“She’s trying not to,” Theo bites out, crouching beside me. He brushes my hair back, his hands shaking just slightly. “She’s still fighting.”
“Which is probably the problem,” Lucian says flatly. “The more she resists, the harder she crashes.”
Kai grins. “Wow. That hits. That’s me every time I agree to shots after midnight.”
“She needs relief ,” Ash mutters. “Fast.”
“I volunteer,” Kai says immediately, raising his hand.
Theo’s head snaps toward him. “You even breathe on her -”
“She has to choose,” Lucian interrupts, calm but iron-edged. “Not instinct. Her. ”
Despite the haze, the ache, and the fact that I might spontaneously combust, I push up on my elbows, chest heaving like I’ve just run a marathon while being chased by horniness.
I lock eyes with Kai.
His smirk dies. Just a little.
“No one touches me,” I rasp. “Not unless I say so.”
There’s a pause, then Lucian nods, sharp and approving.
“Good. Smart. ”
Kai lifts both hands in surrender, grin rebounding instantly.
“Hot and in charge? Bambi, you really do have it all.”
Theo glances at me, eyes soft but pained. “You sure you want to do this alone?”
“I don’t want to.” I whisper. “I need to.”
He hesitates, then nods.
Lucian is already backing out like this is a court deposition he’s late for. “There’s a control panel by the bed. Buzz if you need -”
“ Lock the door, ” I interrupt, eyes snapping to him.
Lucian tilts his head, gaze unreadable. “Are you sure?”
“Just do it. ”
His jaw ticks once, then he turns and leaves without another word.
Ash says nothing. Just watches me like he sees through every layer I’ve ever worn. Theo lingers at the door. His eyes meet mine, and I see it - the ache , the instinct .
The way it kills him to walk away.
Meanwhile, Kai gives me one last look - half teasing, half something else.
“Shout if you change your mind, Bambi. I'll bring snacks.”
The door hisses shut.
The lock clicks loud.
And I’m left alone in a five-star panic suite, slicked-up, stripped raw, and moments away from either enlightenment or spontaneous combustion.
I barely make it halfway across the bed before I collapse like a Victorian heroine mid-faint, except way sweatier and four-hundred percent hornier. I’m panting like I’ve just outrun a pack of wolves - and not the sexy kind.
My dress is clinging to me, soaked with a shame cocktail of sweat, slick, and the pure, undiluted panic of a girl who is about five minutes from humping the memory foam mattress into retirement.
I reach for the zipper, and it laughs in my face. Of course it sticks - why wouldn’t it?
I yank so hard I hear fabric tear, but at this point, modesty is a distant memory, and that dress had it coming.
It hits the floor like a crime scene, and I drop to my knees on the mattress in my underwear, shaking, overheating, and very much Not Okay.
I faceplant into the sheets and scream. Muffled. Feral.
Like a dramatic possum who just learned she can’t mate with air.
I reach between my thighs like I’m searching for the Holy Grail. Spoiler alert: I find it.
Instantly soaked. Disgustingly, humiliatingly ready.
I grind the heel of my palm against my clit and bite my own arm to keep from moaning loud enough to summon a wellness check. My brain is foggy, my thighs are trembling, and I’m pretty sure if I saw a priest right now, I’d spontaneously combust.
I hate this. This helplessness, this need .
But my body doesn’t care. It’s ready, waiting, practically begging at this point.
Flipping onto my back like a frustrated rotisserie chicken, I yank my underwear to the side with trembling fingers. The air hits me, and I gasp like a woman possessed.
Which… I am.
By horniness.
I circle my clit once, then twice. My hips roll up, desperate and instinctual, and I push my fingers in. Then more.
Still not enough.
Still just me, chasing an orgasm like it owes me money.
I slam my head back against the mattress, panting as I hunt down some scrap of relief, some moment of control.
The pressure builds fast - high, sharp, almost painful . I squeeze my thighs tighter, grind my hips harder. My hair sticks to my face, my chest heaving.
My head rolls back as I continue to fuck myself harder and faster, thighs cramping, hips jerking.
The orgasm hits -
And then promptly ghosts me.
Slips away like a forty-year old man named Brad who's heavily reliant on dating apps, but isn't sure whether he's ready for a relationship.
I let out a furious sob and slam my hand into the mattress.
I feel like a one-woman rage band. I’m shaking, soaked, and so empty I could sue someone about it.
“Fuck,” I hiss, voice breaking. “Fuck this.”
I glance at the pillow.
Oh no.
I glance again.
Oh yes.
I grab it like it just called me pretty and straddle it with zero shame left in my soul.
The moment I grind down, I see god. Or maybe just stars.
Whatever. It helps.
It’s soft, but just rough enough. I start rocking like a woman possessed, slick soaking into the cotton.
This poor pillow has been drafted into service it never signed up for.
And oh, fuck -
It feels better.
More pressure. More depth. More everything.
I rock my hips harder and faster, mouth falling open as I ride it like instinct’s finally giving me a damn clue what might help.
The cotton cover drags against my swollen clit - soft but textured - soaking up every drop of slick gushing out of me as I rut down into it like a beast .
My fingers dig into the mattress. My breath shudders.
And then -
They’re in my head.
Ash -
That unbothered, tightly-leashed dominance.
His hands, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was both prey and weapon.
I grind down harder.
Kai -
Smirking little menace. A walking red flag with great hair and the energy of a golden retriever who learned to flirt.
He’s cocky, annoying, and, unfortunately, extremely hot.
I whimper. My thighs shake.
Theo -
Gentle hands, reverent eyes, that "I’ll ruin you with kindness" thing that should be illegal.
I roll my hips tighter, breath catching, chasing it now like my life depends on it.
And then -
Lucian -
Oh god, Lucian.
Cold gaze. Murder energy. That voice that sounds like it signs death warrants and bedtime stories with the same tone.
And the way he looked at me when I told him to lock the door?
Like he already had me.
Like I’d already lost.
Like I was already his.
“F- fuck -”
I rut against the pillow like I’m trying to file a complaint with the universe.
My thighs are slick. The pillow’s wrecked.
I don’t care. I want it.
I need it.
I grind harder, faster, rhythm gone, sanity optional.
I’m moaning now, too. It's loud and filthy, and I can’t stop.
“Lucian -”
I gasp his name like it’s a spell.
God, I want him to see me like this. To hear me cry for it, to see how soaked I am, how empty, how ready .
How much of a mess I am without him.
“Fuck - Lucian, please -”
I want them all to hear me. I want one of those alphas to open the damn door and find me like this, ruined and riding a pillow like it’s my last hope -
And then it breaks me.
My hips snap down, legs flying wide, body trembling. The orgasm crashes into me like a truck full of bad decisions and blackout sex dreams. I scream as I grind into the pillow so hard I feel the stuffing shift.
It's loud. Guttural.
Entirely unladylike.
My cunt pulses and clenches around nothing. The pillow is absolutely ruined by my slick - drenched through entirely, an innocent casualty in the war of my heat.
I keep grinding through the aftershocks, chasing every last twitch of pleasure like I can bottle it and chug it later.
I collapse, sweaty and panting, hair stuck to my face, heart pounding like I just won the weirdest Olympic event in history.
And the pillow?
I yeet it across the room.
It lands with a damp slap against the far wall.
I don't so much as glance up as I lie there in the aftermath, my entire body still twitching.
That wasn’t just a release - that was an exorcism.
My body is wrecked, my soul is confused, and my thighs are probably going to need therapy.
But it was mine.
I did that. Me.
Solo. On a pillow. In a panic room.
…and I don’t know what that says about me.
But I do know this:
If they thought locking me up would stop me from coming undone, they seriously underestimated what one omega, four mentally present alphas, and one emotionally available home décor item could accomplish.