Chapter 43 Cora
CORA
The text arrives while I’m sipping coffee at the breakfast bar. Three words that crack my world open: “Martha is gone.”
Martha Coleman. My childhood nanny. The only adult who ever stood between me and my father’s rage. Gone at sixty-two from a heart attack in her sleep.
“Cora?” Dom’s voice sounds distant through the sudden ringing in my ears. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t speak, just hand him my phone. His arm slides around my waist, anchoring me while Ryder and Liam crowd close, their concerned faces swimming in my vision.
“She was the only one who saw,” I finally manage. “The only one who tried to stop him.”
The next day, we attend the funeral. It’s small—Martha never married, had no children of her own.
She poured all her love into me and other children she cared for instead.
I stand between Dom and Liam, Ryder’s hand steady on my back, as they lower her casket.
I should be crying, but I’m hollow, remembering another funeral when the same woman in the casket was holding my hand.
My mother’s service had been massive, performative—Mayor Pike’s beloved wife, taken by cancer. I was six, confused by the notion of death. Martha had held my hand then too, whispering that she’d always protect me.
Three months later, he hit me for the first time.
“I need to go to the house,” I tell them afterward. “Martha kept a small apartment over our garage after she retired. My father kept the house he shared with my mother, but rarely went back there after we moved into the city. There are things...”
They understand without explanation, forming a protective triangle around me as we approach my childhood prison. The house looms, white columns and pristine landscaping masking its ugliness.
“I’ll show you where the garage apartment is,” I say, leading them around back, trying not to look at the kitchen window where he’d once thrown a plate that shattered against my cheek.
Martha’s space is untouched, frozen in time. Books, knitting, and photos of me everywhere. I move to her desk, opening drawers almost mechanically, when I find them—a stack of sealed envelopes tied with faded ribbon.
My name in Martha’s careful handwriting.
I open the first letter with trembling fingers, scanning her words:
I witnessed Mayor Pike strike Cora today when she spilled her juice. This is the fourth incident this month...
“Oh my god,” I breathe, flipping through more envelopes. “She documented everything. For years.”
Liam gently takes one, his eyes scanning the contents. “Cora, these are dated, detailed accounts. She was creating evidence.”
I clutch the letters to my chest, tears finally breaking free. “She kept everything. All these years, she was building a case against him.”
My fingers trace Martha’s handwriting—steady, intentional, just like her presence in my life had been.
Even after Pike forced her into retirement, Martha had remained my lifeline.
Weekly calls. Birthday cards with twenty-dollar bills tucked inside.
Coffee dates where she’d study my face carefully, asking questions that made me both uncomfortable and grateful.
“Are you sleeping, honey?” she’d ask, or “How’s that bruise healing?” Never pushing too hard but never looking away either.
“She’d text me after every public appearance with my father,” I whisper. “Checking if I was okay. I thought she was just being motherly, but she was... documenting. Protecting me even when she wasn’t there.”
Dom’s hand squeezes mine. “She loved you.”
I pick up another letter and open it, as I read the words, my entire world feels like it’s crumbling to ash.
While I don’t have evidence, I am certain that William Pike murdered his own wife. There have been things I’ve overhead in this house that are damning, I just don’t know how to find the evidence…
I drop the letter, my heart galloping at a ridiculous speed. “Surely not…” But then, why not? My father has done terrible things… Is it possible he’s a murderer too?
Liam grabs it and sighs heavily. “This isn’t the first I’ve heard this.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your father’s ex-girlfriend, Melissa Connor, told me that he once told her that your mother didn’t die of cancer, as everyone thinks. That your mom was going to leave your father and take you with her. He said sometimes accidents happen to women who don’t understand their place.”
Acute pain clutches at my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Liam runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been compiling evidence to be sure. I had to unseal post-mortem records for your mother, and I’m still waiting for the results. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew she was sure, but this makes it even more likely.”
I can’t help it. I just sob. My entire body is shaking. My father has always been a monster in my eyes, but if he murdered my mother, if he took away the one good thing in my life, then he’s more than a monster. He’s soulless. Heartless. And deserves to rot in hell.
Ryder scoops me up in his arms. “It’s okay, princess. We’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”
“The letters!” I gasp through my sobbing.
Liam nods, carefully gathering them. “We will take them home. No use lingering in Pike’s home longer than necessary, even if he doesn’t live here anymore.”
As Ryder carries me, I take one last look around Martha’s little sanctuary. The afghan she knitted during my high school years. The collection of teacups we’d built together.
“Goodbye,” I whisper, touching the doorframe.
The air feels oppressive as we walk to the car, the house looming behind us like a physical threat. Dom slides behind the wheel with Liam beside him. Ryder helps me into the back before joining me, immediately pulling me against his chest.
As Dom pulls away from the curb, I continue to sob into Ryder’s shirt. His lips press against my hair, my temple, wherever he can reach.
“She was the only mother I really had,” I choke out. “The only one who saw me. And that might be all because my father killed…” I can’t manage to say it.
“I know, princess,” Ryder murmurs, his hand rubbing gentle circles on my back. His other hand finds mine, prying my fingers open where they’ve clenched into a fist. “I know.”
His lips brush my wet cheeks, kissing away tears, before finding my mouth in a tender, comforting kiss. I melt into him, grateful for his warmth, for the steady beat of his heart against mine.
A few hours later, back at the penthouse, I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching darkness fall over the city. Martha’s letters sit in a neat stack on the coffee table, each one a testament to her quiet vigilance. A numbness has spread through me. A quiet clarity.
“You okay?” Liam asks, appearing at my shoulder with a glass of wine.
I take it, my fingers brushing his. “Not really. But I will be.”
Thoughts swirl like the burgundy liquid in my glass—my father’s rage, Martha’s protection, the possibility that my father took away my mother. I turn to face the three men who now form the corners of my world.
“I need something,” I say, setting down my untouched wine.
Dom steps closer. “Anything.”
I bite my lip. “Right now, I need to stop these spiraling thoughts. I need to just feel.”
All three of their eyes darken, and Liam clears his throat. “What did you have in mind?”
“I want to replay the Hunt.” The words hang in the air between us. “But on my terms this time.”
Ryder’s eyebrows lift. “What are those terms?”
“A home invasion. You three, wearing those masks from the Hunt, breaking in while I’m alone.” My voice grows stronger with each word. “I want to face that fear but knowing I’ve chosen it. That I have control, even when it looks and feels like I don’t.”
Liam studies me carefully. “This is about reclaiming power.”
“Yes.” I meet their gazes one by one. “I want this to be something I chose, something that empowers me.”
Dom takes my hand, his expression serious. “We’d need clear boundaries, a safe word.”
“Absolutely,” I nod. “And I want to fight back—really fight, not just pretend. I want to feel that resistance and then... surrender on my terms.”
Ryder’s hand finds the small of my back. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything.” I lean into his touch. “The Hunt, my father—they all represent moments when my power was taken. I want to take it back.”
The three exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them before Dom speaks.
Dom’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “We already did something similar when I came to pick you up at your apartment, remember? You fought me, I took you anyway.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of that night—how I’d struggled against him, scratched his chest, bitten his shoulder, all while growing wetter by the second.
“That wasn’t planned, though,” I say. “This would be... intentional. Structured.”
“We used a safe word then,” Dom continues. “Midnight. It worked well.”
Ryder moves closer, his eyes darkening with interest. “Exactly how do you want this to go, Cora? What are you imagining?”
I take a deep breath, suddenly feeling vulnerable despite being fully clothed in a room with three men who’ve seen every inch of me.
“I want you to go somewhere for a bit and then break in while I’m alone.
Wearing the masks from the Hunt.” My voice grows steadier as I continue.
“I want you to act like burglars who decide to take me against my will. Degrade me, call me names, but also... praise me. Tell me how good I feel, how perfect I am for you.”
I step closer to Ryder, placing my palm against his chest.
“I want to be used—passed between you, no regard for what I want. But knowing it’s you three under those masks. Knowing I chose this.”
Liam’s fingers trace my jawline. “And you’ll fight us?”
“Yes. Really fight. Not just token resistance.” I meet his gaze. “I need to feel like I’m giving everything to resist before I surrender.”
“And if it becomes too much?” Dom asks, his voice serious despite the obvious arousal in his eyes.
“Midnight,” I confirm. “Same as before.”
“When?” Dom asks, his voice husky. Liam and Ryder lean forward, eyes darkening with interest.
“Now.” The word tumbles out before I can second-guess myself. “Tonight. I’m ready.”
“You’re sure?” Liam’s eyes search mine.
I nod, my heart already racing with anticipation. “I need this. Today of all days—after Martha’s funeral, seeing that house again, learning my father most likely killed...” I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence. “I need to reclaim something.”
Dom runs a hand through his hair. “We need some time to prepare and give you the element of surprise.”
“Perfect.” I tug at the sleeve of my black dress. “I’ll change into something casual, like I’m just having a night alone at home.”
Ryder steps close, his fingers brushing my cheek. “You remember the safe word?”
“Midnight.” I lean into his touch. “But I won’t need it.”
Dom clears his throat. “If you can’t speak, then you need to hum the national anthem if you need us to stop.” He looks so serious. “Or click your fingers, if you have the use of them.”
I raise a brow. “How likely is it that would be case?”
“Enacting a home invasion with three men and one woman? Very,” Dom states. Then he kisses me, hard and possessive, before pulling away.
“We’ll leave now.” His voice drops to that commanding tone that makes my insides tighten. “You won’t know when we’re coming back.”
Liam’s lips find my forehead. “Lock the door behind us.”
“And don’t peek,” Ryder adds with a wink, trying to lighten the moment despite the tension crackling between us.
They gather their phones and keys. Dom retrieves a duffel bag from the closet—containing the skull masks from the Hunt, I assume. The door closes behind them with a soft click.
I lock it as instructed, then press my forehead against the cool wood. Alone in Dom’s massive penthouse, I suddenly feel small. Vulnerable. Exactly what I wanted.
I change into yoga pants and a thin T-shirt, remove my makeup, and let my hair down. My reflection looks younger somehow, more innocent. The woman who stares back at me is both a stranger and a friend—the person I’m becoming through my relationship with these three men.
My stomach flutters with nervous anticipation as I curl up on the couch with a book I can’t focus on. Every distant sound in the building makes me glance toward the door. Every passing minute amps up the delicious tension.
I have no idea when they’ll return or how they’ll enter. The not knowing is part of the thrill.