Chapter 44
VI
It’s not gone when I wake up.
Not the dull throb in my knee that’s become background noise. Not the stiffness in my shoulders from sleeping on worn cushions.
This ache is deeper. Hotter. Centered low in my belly and spreading through my thighs like a slow burn that never quite goes out.
I’m still in the secret room.
The overhead lights are off now, just the faint glow of a lantern someone left burning on the crate table. The couch beneath me smells like sweat and something else—them. All three of them. The scent clings to my skin, my hair, the blanket someone must have draped over me while I was out.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember hands. Mouths. The edge they pushed me to, over and over without letting me fall. I remember begging. And I remember them leaving me here—wrecked, denied, aching so badly I could barely breathe.
My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop myself. The need is unbearable. A constant pulse between my legs that hasn’t faded even after sleep. If anything, it’s worse now. Sharper. More insistent.
I slide my fingers lower, breath hitching when I feel how wet I still am. Slick. Swollen. So sensitive that even the lightest touch makes my hips jerk. I close my eyes, biting my lip to stay quiet.
Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
My fingers circle my clit, slow, careful, and pleasure spikes through me so sharp, I gasp. My thighs fall open, back arching off the couch. God, I’m so close already. Just a few more seconds—
“Well, well.”
I freeze.
My eyes snap open.
Fuck me.
Rogue is standing in the doorway, half-skeleton mask pushed up on his forehead, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s been there for a while. Watching.
Heat floods my face.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, voice lazy and amused. “You were doing so well.”
I yank my hand away, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” He pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, the door closing softly behind him. “You know, it’s cute. The way you think you can just help yourself.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” He crosses the room slowly, boots deliberate on the concrete floor. “Hand between your legs. Hips rolling. Biting your lip so you wouldn’t moan too loud.”
“Get out.”
“No.” He stops at the edge of the couch, looking down at me with that infuriating grin I can hear, even if I can’t see his mouth clearly. “Did we say you could do that?”
I swallow hard. “You left me like this.”
“We did,” he agrees. “On purpose.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair doesn’t exist here, sweetheart.” He crouches beside me, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes bright with amusement. “You know what does exist? Rules. And the rule is: you don’t touch yourself unless we say you can.”
“That’s not a rule—”
“It is now.”
I glare at him, pulse pounding in my ears. “You can’t just—”
“We can.” His hand comes to my knee, light, almost casual, and slides up my thigh. Slow. Deliberate. “And we did.”
My breath catches. His fingers stop just short of where I’m aching, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His grin widens. “Oh, I like that. Say it again.”
“Rogue—”
“Say it.”
“Please.”
His fingers slide higher, so close I can feel the heat of his hand, and then stop. “Please what?”
“Please let me—” I can’t finish the sentence. It’s too humiliating.
“Let you come?” he asks, voice soft and mocking. “Let you finish what you started?”
“Yes.”
He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy circles on my inner thigh. Not moving higher. Not giving me anything.
“Here’s the thing, Vi,” he murmurs. “You don’t get to decide when you come. We do. And right now?” His hand lifts away completely. “We say no.”
A frustrated sound tears out of my throat. “You’re an asshole.”
“True,” he agrees, standing up. “Now, get dressed. You’ve got work.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You’re serious.”
“Very.” He walks to the door, pauses with his hand on the handle. “And, Vi?”
“What?”
He glances back over his shoulder, eyes glittering. “If I catch you touching yourself again without permission, I’ll make sure you don’t come for a week.”
Then he’s gone. The door closes. The lock clicks.
I’m left sitting there, blanket pooled around my waist, thighs still slick, hands shaking with the effort it takes not to finish what I started.
I’m so fucked.
But I get up anyway. Force my legs to work even though they’re trembling. Pull on my clothes with shaking hands, every brush of fabric against my skin making the ache worse.
By the time I step out into the corridor, the Rot is already moving around me, voices, boots, the low hum of activity that never stops.
And somewhere in the noise, I know they’re watching. Waiting. Deciding when I’ve earned what I need.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and start walking.