Chapter 18
18
“ C elest,” Beckett says, his tone unreadable. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten.” I pause, plates in hand, a flicker of confusion knotting my brow. The whole day had been oddly domestic.
“Forgotten what?” My gaze shifts to Whit and Quinn, expecting their usual teasing or at least some level of shared confusion. Instead, they wear the same smug expressions as Beckett.
“You still haven’t admitted you belong to us, sweetheart,” Quinn murmurs as he comes up behind me, his fingers brushing my hair aside. His lips trail soft, deliberate kisses along the curve of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
“I told you,” I manage, my voice already breathy. “I belong to no one but myself.”
“No need for lies,” Whit interjects smoothly, borrowing one of Quinn’s signature smirks. They all seem to think quite highly of themselves right now.
“I’m not.” I twist, trying to shake myself free of Quinn’s distracting kisses, only to yelp when he sweeps me into his arms, carrying me effortlessly down the hall.
“Guess we’ll just have to persuade you,” he teases, his laughter rich as I squirm against his hold.
“I think you’re right,” Whit agrees, pushing open his bedroom door and stepping aside as Quinn strides in, depositing me onto the bed with ease.
Beckett is the last to enter. He strips off his shirt as he crosses the threshold, making quick work of his pants before shaking his head and tsking at me. “Being a bit of a brat aren’t you, little thief.”
I’m so distracted by Beckett’s bare skin and the hard planes of his body, I don’t notice Whit tugging the sweatshirt along with my barely-there nightgown off in one swift motion—until the chill in the air prickles my skin.
“Hey, wait!” I cry out, scrambling to cover myself with my hands. “I’m not being a brat!”
Quinn grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. “No hiding. Well, at least not tonight,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
When did everyone get naked?
Beckett moves up from the foot of the bed, spreading my knees before lowering his mouth to capture a nipple. A moan slips from me; I’d be embarrassed if I were able to think clearly.
“You won’t get what you want until you’re a good girl and give us what we need,” he murmurs.
“W-what is it I w-want?” I stutter, my voice breathy.
“Guess you’ll know when you start begging,” Whit says, leaning over from the side of the bed to kiss me. His tongue teases the seam of my lips, and I part for him, letting him claim my mouth, steal my breath, take what he wants.
I break the kiss with a cry as Beckett’s tongue drags a slow, deliberate lick up my center, followed by several more. The pressure—it’s not enough. Not nearly enough, and I whimper in protest. Quinn chuckles before lifting and flipping me over in one smooth motion.
Beckett slaps my rear and commands, “Up you go, hands and knees.” The moment I obey, I squeal as he slides beneath me, gripping my hips, pulling me down to sit on his face. I try to lift, afraid I’ll hurt him, but he doesn’t let me move.
Quinn kneels in front of me, his fist gathering my hair at the nape of my neck. “Go on then, sweetheart, show me what you’ve learned.” I lower my mouth to his tip, tracing a hesitant lick before wrapping my lips around him, sucking just the head into my mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, voice rough. “You’re a quick study.”
Beckett keeps his slow, deliberate pace, and when I shift, seeking the pressure and speed I need, he tightens his grip on my cheeks, spreading them apart and holding my hips in place with unyielding strength. I let out another frustrated whimper, only for Quinn to hiss and drive deeper into my throat.
Something cold and slick glides against my tight ring before a finger follows, massaging the slippery substance around before pressing inside.
“I’m taking this tonight, princess,” Whit murmurs, pumping his finger in and out, gradually increasing his pace. I whimper, a plea forming on my lips. “Don’t worry, I promise you can take it.”
I’m not convinced, but when he eases in a second finger, the low groan that emanates from me suggests he might be right.
Finally, the string inside me pulls tighter, coiling to the breaking point I’ve been desperate for—only to have Beckett and Whit still their movements, letting the tension unravel. When I let out another muffled, frustrated sound, they just laugh. Which infuriates me further.
“All you have to do is give us what we want,” Quinn grunts before driving into my throat, forcing a gag from me. Suddenly, it clicks—they’re going to keep me teetering, denying my release until I surrender to their demands.
My body betrays me, trembling with need, but my mind refuses to yield. They want me to say it—to surrender, to let them claim me. And maybe… maybe I crave it too. But I won’t break so easily.
Beckett and Whit resume their movements, making me gargle a whimper. Pleasure twists with the ache of Whit’s fingers stretching me open. Before long, he and Beckett find a rhythm, driving into me in perfect opposition. I fight to conceal how close I am to unraveling, but they know—somehow, they always know. And just when I’m ready to shatter, they all pull away.
“No!” I try to cry out, but Quinn smothers the sound.
“She’s ready,” Whit declares. I’m lifted again, but just as I’m about to be lowered, Beckett shifts, bringing me face-to-face with him.
“You belong to us. Say it and you’ll be rewarded,” he commands before positioning himself at my entrance. He yanks my hips down, filling me in one swift thrust—I forget to breathe.
Quinn kneels beside me again. He fists my hair, tilting my head to align perfectly with his hard length—still glistening from moments ago. I part my lips without hesitation before he drives deep, hitting the back of my throat and making me gag again.
“Good girl,” Beckett praises from below, guiding my hips to rock against him. More of that slick substance is worked around my now stretched rim, and this time, Whit’s fingers slip in with ease. The sensation shifts with Beckett inside me—I feel impossibly full. Whit thrusts his fingers a few more times, twisting them before withdrawing.
I gasp as something much larger presses against me. Beckett stills, and I cry out as the stretch pushes beyond what I thought possible.
“Fuck, princess, you look so good stretching around me like this,” Whit groans.
The burn is relentless—oh God, it’s unbearable. If not for the tears already streaking my face from choking on Quinn, they’d be falling now. I cry out, but Whit doesn’t stop pushing in until he’s buried to the hilt.
“So fucking tight, she’s strangling my cock,” Beckett grits out. They give me a moment to adjust—as if that were possible. I’m so full I can barely breathe. Their shallow movements begin, the sensation overwhelming, stealing what little air I have left. Slowly, the burn fades into something like pleasure edged in pain, and I’m hurtling toward the edge faster than ever before.
No. No. No. No?—
Not again.
They still, and slowly withdraw, laughing as I let out a raw, frustrated scream. “Please, I can’t take it,” I rasp, my voice raw from Quinn’s ruthless thrusts down my throat.
“Say it. You’re ours,” Quinn commands, tilting my chin until our eyes meet. “Such a beautiful mess. You know how much I love your tears.”
I need to fight this.
I should fight it.
But Beckett grips me like I’m his, Whit stretches me—marking his claim, and Quinn—damn him—tilts my chin, forcing me to meet the hunger in his eyes. My breath hitches.
Their hands, their mouths, their control—it drowns me.
I don’t want to break free.
My body has already surrendered.
And when Quinn whispers, “Say it, sweetheart,” my mind follows.
“Okay,” It’s breathe.
That’s all they need. Whit and Beckett don’t bother with gentleness this time, driving into me without hesitation—not that they need to, not when I now take them so easily.
“Not going to last,” Quinn admits, his voice strained and his grip tightening. “Be a doll and swallow every drop.”
He holds me firmly in place, as I gag around every inch of him, shuddering when he finally spills down my throat before easing out. He tilts my chin, his thumb tracing my swollen lips.
“Look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with satisfaction. “Our perfect little mess. So full of cock, just like you should be.”
“S—s-so f-full.” I manage to agree. He laughs, gently releases my chin, allowing me to collapse onto Beckett.
Beckett and Whit quicken their pace, though Whit remains measured while Beckett takes me hard and fast. Whit anchors my hips as Beckett thrusts up, slamming into me again and again.
Beckett’s arms wrap around me, one hand tangling in my hair as he holds me tight, his breath hot against my ear. “Are you going to come all over our cocks like a good girl?” he growls.
“Y-yes, I’m… I’m come—” I scream, tumbling over the edge, shattering into a million pieces. I’m certain I’ll never be able to reassemble myself in the same way again.
Somewhere on the fringes of my mind, I hear Whit groan about how tightly I’m gripping him, before he follows me into bliss—Beckett right behind him, each giving into their releases.
When I finally surface from the haze, time feels irrelevant. I don’t bother opening my eyes.
I’m in the bath, though I have no memory of getting here. The hot water is bliss, easing the ache deep in my muscles. Fingers work shampoo into my hair, another set smoothing body wash over my skin. The sensation lulls me, warm and weightless, and I could drift off completely.
Before I know it, I’m lifted from the water, wrapped in a towel, and—faintly, barely there—I swear I feel fingers braiding my hair.
I’m carried from the bathroom and laid gently on the bed. Two soft kisses graze my forehead, followed by murmured goodnights. I mumble a response, already drifting, rolling onto my side as footsteps fade and the door clicks shut.
There’s a body. Whit—I think, wrapped in his scent—slides in behind me, tugging the covers over us. One arm slips beneath my head, the other cinching around my waist, holding me flush against him.
Just as sleep claims me, his lips brush my hair, but slumber steals me away before I catch the words he whispers.
The sounds of cooking drift from the kitchen—I assume that’s where he’s gone. He seems to handle every meal, and I’m certainly not complaining.
I was never taught to cook. Growing up, I was told hiring a chef was a mark of status. But now, I suspect Josiah simply wanted to ensure I couldn’t fend for myself.
I stretch, wincing as a dull ache settles low in my body—a lingering reminder of last night. My mind should be screaming at me to run.
It’s not.
Instead, all I can think about is the way they cared for me afterward, how cherished I felt between them. The realization is nothing short of terrifying.
The soreness isn’t as bad as I expected—the bath must have helped. Walking, however, is another story.
I move gingerly to his closet, pulling a button-up from a hanger. It’s long enough to pass as a dress, and after rolling the sleeves to my forearms, I follow the scent of cinnamon rolls down the hall.
My mouth waters in anticipation.
“Oh good, you’re up,” Whit says, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Nice shirt.”
“Quinn was about to wake you. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Beckett remarks, sliding a cup of coffee along with the cream and sugar across the counter.
“Please, as if I’d wake Celest the same way I wake you fuckers,” Quinn scoffs, feigning offense. “How you feeling, sweetheart?”
“Oh, um,” I stammer, suddenly self-conscious. “A bit sore.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I can only imagine how red my fair skin has turned. Somehow, I flush even deeper as I glance at the barstool, debating whether to stand instead of sit.
“Not surprising. The fact you’re walking makes me question whether those two did a thorough enough job.” Quinn smirks, lifting a brow suggestively.
“Oh God, I don’t think I could’ve survived anything more.” The words slip out before I can stop them. They all laugh as I bury my face in my hands.
“Don’t be embarrassed, not with us,” Whit soothes, though the smug look on his face stays firmly in place.
Quinn helps me onto the barstool. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s hardly worse than walking.
I splash in some cream, add a touch of sugar, then cradle the warm mug in my perpetually cold hands, sighing after the first sip.
When I open my eyes, all three of them are watching me.
“What?”
“Remember what you agreed to last night?” Beckett asks.
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
Their words still echo in my ears: You belong to us now.
They’d surrounded me, their presence relentless, until resistance became impossible—until I couldn’t deny that I wanted it too. I should feel regret. I should be ashamed. But as I sip my coffee, swallowed in Whit’s shirt, their eyes heavy on me… I don’t.
It’s not that I’ve given up.
No, I’ll never belong to anyone the way Josiah wanted me to.
This… this is different.
It’s not control, or power, or obligation.
It’s connection.
Yes, they’re killers. Yes, they held me against my will in a house they let me believe was haunted. And yes, they starved me—albeit unintentionally.
Allegedly.
Yet, they make me feel safe. They push me to grow, to learn—not to hold me back.
As masked men, they made me feel alive. As men, they’ve unraveled me, shown me things I never knew my body could feel.
I know it’s too soon to trust them. I know I never should.
But I want them.
And I’m so tired of fighting it.
I draw a deep breath, meeting Beckett’s gaze, then Whit’s, before finally landing on Quinn—who’s already grinning.
“Fine,” I concede, folding my arms. “I’m yours. But you need to understand something.”
Quinn leans in dramatically, eyes gleaming. “And what might that be, sweetheart?”
I jab a finger into his chest. “If I’m yours, then you’re mine. All three of you. No more pushing your will on me. If I’m in this, it’s because I choose to be. ”
Beckett nods, his expression firm, approving. “Fair enough. But I can’t promise I won’t be controlling.”
Not that I’d want to give up his particular brand of control anyway.
Whit smiles, his voice as steady and warm as he is. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Quinn, of course, can’t resist the drama. He clutches his chest like he’s suffered a mortal wound. “She’s so bossy! I think I love her even more!”
“Shut up, Quinn,” Beckett mutters, though the faint twitch of his lips betrays him. I’ve noticed he says that at least once a day.
I tighten my arms across my chest, fixing them each with a sharp glare. “But—and this is non-negotiable—I need clothes. Actual clothes. And shoes. I refuse to keep wandering around half-naked like some… some kept pet.”
Quinn gasps, flinging his hands in the air. “How dare you insult the negligees! They’re luxurious, made in France, and hand-selected?—”
“They’re scraps,” I cut in, sharp and final. “I want real clothes. That’s not too much to ask.”
Whit chuckles, shaking his head. “She’s got a point, Quinn. The least we can do is let her choose her own wardrobe.”
Beckett slips a hand into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and without hesitation, passes me a sleek black credit card. “Get whatever you want.”
I stare at the card, blinking. “That’s it? No limits, no rules?”
“None,” Beckett replies smoothly. “We trust you.”
They trust me.
Quinn groans, throwing himself onto the couch like he’s mourning a great loss. “This is it. The end of the negligee era. However will we survive?”
“You’ll manage,” I say dryly, taking the card from Beckett’s hand. The weight of it feels strange in my palm—like a key to a freedom I hadn’t realized I needed.
Whit grabs a piece of paper from the counter, jotting something down. “Here’s the PO Box. Have everything sent there. It’s secure.”
I glance at the address, then back at the three of them, eyes narrowing. “This feels… too easy.”
Whit grins, tone teasing. “It’s called trust, Celest. You’re ours now, remember? That means we take care of you.”
“And you take care of us,” Beckett adds, and I nearly topple over when he winks at me. “It goes both ways.”
I swallow hard, warmth tightening in my chest—foreign but undeniable.
They mean it. They want to take care of me.
I don’t know how or why this has happened, but they do, and I’m certain I’ve made the right choice.
“Okay,” I whisper, nodding. “Thank you.”
Quinn sits up suddenly, grinning wide and mischievous. “Just promise us one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t get granny panties or muumuus,” he teases, winking. “I’m holding out hope for at least one scandalous dress.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips refuses to be contained. “You’ll just have to wait and see. I guess you better make sure to be a good boy, then, huh?”
Quinn groans, throwing a hand against his forehead in mock swoon. “Did I mention I think I’m in love?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?”
The other two groan in exasperation as I laugh again.
And then it hits me—I’m happy.
It’s not conventional. Most would probably find it horrific. But I’m done caring what other people think.
I’m happy. That’s all that matters.
The rest is just noise.