Epilogue
The music gets louder the deeper we go.
Not jarring, just constant. A low, pulsing beat that vibrates through the floor, up through my boots, settling in my chest like a second heartbeat.
The hallway is narrow, walls painted deep red, lit by dim bulbs that cast everything in shadow.
Doors line both sides, some closed, some cracked open just enough to see movement inside.
I catch glimpses as we pass.
Bodies. Skin. Mouths. Hands.
My pulse kicks.
Armen’s hand is firm on my lower back, both possessive and protective. Sting walks ahead, shoulders squared, scanning each door we pass. Rogue brings up the rear, close enough I can feel his heat.
We stop at a door near the end of the hall. Unmarked. No window. Just solid wood and a heavy brass handle.
Sting opens it.
The room beyond is small but thoughtfully outfitted. A low couch against one wall, deep-red fabric worn soft. A table with a single lamp, casting warm gold across the space. Bottles of drinking water. Clean towels folded neatly. And along the far wall—
Glass.
Floor-to-ceiling glass that looks into another room.
No. Not a room.
A stage.
My breath catches.
Beyond the glass, the space opens wide, high ceiling, dim lighting, a raised platform in the center. And around it, scattered in the shadows, people. Sitting. Standing. Watching.
Waiting.
“What is this?” I whisper.
Armen steps behind me, hands on my shoulders. “A place where people come to see. And be seen.”
My throat goes dry. “You want me to—”
“We want you to choose,” he interrupts. Voice low, steady. “If you don’t want this, we leave. Right now. No questions.”
I stare at the glass. At the stage beyond. At the eyes watching from the dark.
I should say no.
But instead, my pulse is racing for a completely different reason.
“They can see us?” I ask.
“Through the glass,” Sting says. “One-way at first. But if you step onto the stage...” He trails off. Lets the implication hang.
Rogue moves to my side. “You don’t have to decide now. Just watch. See how it feels.”
I nod slowly.
Armen guides me to the couch. I sink down, knees weak. He sits beside me, hand resting on my thigh, grounding me. Sting leans against the wall, arms crossed. Rogue kneels in front of me, eyes dark and steady.
Beyond the glass, movement.
A couple steps onto the stage. She’s bare, except for straps of leather across her chest. He’s fully clothed, but his hands are already on her, rough, claiming. He bends her over the edge of the platform, and the watchers in the shadows lean forward.
I can’t look away.
He fucks her right there, hard, public, shameless. She moans loud enough I hear it through the glass. The watchers don’t touch. Don’t move. Just watch with hungry eyes.
My breath comes faster.
Armen’s hand tightens on my thigh. “What do you feel?”
I swallow. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I close my eyes, try to name it. Fear? No. Shame? Maybe a little. But underneath—
Heat.
Curiosity.
Want.
I open my eyes, meet Armen’s gaze. “I want to understand it.”
His mouth curves, small, approving. “Good.”
Sting pushes off the wall. “Then let’s show you.”
They move with the same coordinated ease they always do.
Armen stands, pulls me up with him. Sting crosses to the door at the side of the room, the one that leads onto the stage. Rogue stays close, fingers trailing down my arm.
“We’re not asking you to go out there,” Armen says. “Not yet. But we want you to see what it feels like. To be watched. To be claimed where everyone can see.”
My pulse hammers. “Here?”
“Here.” He gestures to the glass. “They can see in if we let them. Right now, it’s one-way. We can see them but they can’t see us. But if you want them to watch...” He reaches for a switch on the wall. “All I have to do is flip this.”
I stare at the switch. At the glass. At the shadows beyond.
Then I look at the three of them. Armen’s steady gaze. Sting’s controlled stillness. Rogue’s wicked grin.
“Do it,” I whisper.
Armen flips the switch.
The glass shifts, subtle, but I feel it. The one-way mirror becomes transparent. The watchers beyond can see us now. I see their heads turn, eyes locking onto the glass. Onto me.
My breath stutters.
Rogue steps behind me, hands sliding up my body. “They’re watching now,” he murmurs against my ear. “Every move. Every sound. Every time we touch you.”
Sting moves in front, fingers at the hem of my shirt. “Still want this?”
I nod.
He pulls my shirt over my head slowly. Deliberate. Giving the watchers time to see.
Armen’s hands are at my jeans, unbuttoning, sliding them down. I step out of them. Stand there in just my bra and underwear, heart pounding, skin flushed.
The watchers don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare.
Rogue unhooks my bra, lets it fall. Sting pulls my underwear down. I’m bare now, completely exposed, and they’re still fully clothed.
The contrast is stark. Intentional.
I’m the prize. The focus. The one being claimed.
Armen guides me to the couch, sits me down. Spreads my legs with firm hands. “Look at them,” he says.
I do.
Through the glass, I see faces in the shadows. Men. Women. Eyes locked on me. Hungry. Waiting.
I should feel shame.
But I don’t.
I feel powerful.
Sting kneels between my thighs. Leans in. His tongue drags slow up my center, deliberate, unhurried. I gasp, hands flying to his hair.
Armen turns my face to the glass. “Keep watching.”
I do.
Sting’s mouth works me expertly, tongue circling my clit, fingers pushing inside. I moan, hips rolling. The watchers lean forward.
Rogue moves behind the couch, hands sliding down to cup my breasts. He pinches my nipples, hard enough to make me cry out. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let them hear you.”
I come fast, hard and sudden, body locking, cry echoing off the walls. The watchers don’t look away.
Sting pulls back, wipes his mouth, stands. “Good girl.”
Armen lifts me, turns me, bends me over the arm of the couch. My face is inches from the glass now. I can see every detail of the watchers’ faces. Every flicker of want. A woman on the other side presses her fingers to the glass as if she wants to connect.
I feel Armen line himself up behind me. Then he pushes in, one hard thrust. I cry out, hands clawing for purchase on the couch.
He fucks me like this, rough, deep, right in front of the glass. Every thrust drives me forward, closer to the watchers. They see everything. My face. My body. The way I take him.
And I love it. I fucking love it.
Sting moves in front of me, frees himself. Guides my mouth to him. I take him eagerly, moaning around him while Armen pounds into me from behind.
Rogue watches from the side, stroking himself, eyes dark with approval.
I come again, muffled around Sting, body shaking. Armen follows, thrusting deep, spilling inside me with a low groan.
They don’t stop.
Rogue takes Armen’s place. Sting moves to the side. Armen kneels in front of me, cock still hard.
They rotate, coordinated, relentless. One in my pussy, one in my mouth, one watching. Over and over until I lose count of how many times I come.
The watchers never look away.
I don’t want them to.
Later, I don’t know how much later, I’m collapsed on the couch, trembling. The guys are cleaning me up, wiping me down with the towels, dressing me with steady hands.
Armen flips the switch. The glass goes opaque again. One-way.
The watchers can’t see us anymore.
But I can still see them. Still feel their eyes on me even through the barrier.
I’m breathing hard, skin flushed, mind spinning.
“How do you feel?” Rogue asks.
I laugh—breathless, a little wild. “I don’t know.”
Sting’s hand finds mine. “That’s okay.”
Armen crouches in front of me, eyes steady. “You did well.”
I swallow. “I didn’t know I could... that I’d want...”
“Now you know,” he says simply.
I look at the glass. At the shadows beyond. At the space where I just let strangers watch me get fucked.
And I feel alive. Not trapped. Not owned. Alive.
“We’re not going back to the Rot tonight,” Armen says, standing. “There’s a place nearby. Safe. Where we can stay.”
I blink. “We’re staying outside?”
“For now.” Sting pulls his coat on. “There’s something we need to handle tomorrow. And you’re part of it.”
My pulse kicks. “What kind of something?”
“You’ll see.”
Rogue helps me to my feet, steadies me when my legs wobble. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”
We leave the room, move back down the hallway. The music is quieter now. The doors we pass are closed.
We step out into the night. The city is cold, dark, mostly empty. But the air is cleaner than the Rot, no surprise there. Sharper. Real. We walk a few blocks in silence. My knee aches, but I keep pace.
Then Sting stops in front of a building. Taller than the club. Windows mostly intact. A door with a faded sign I can’t read.
“Here,” he says.
We go inside.
The lobby is gutted, old furniture pushed against walls, floors cracked but swept clean. Stairs ahead of us.
Armen takes my hand. “Third floor.”
We climb. My knee protests every step, but I don’t complain.
The third floor has a single door at the end of the hall. Rogue pulls a key from his pocket, unlocks it.
Inside is a room. Small but intact. A bed, real bed, not just blankets on the floor. A window with actual glass. A chair. A table with a lantern already burning.
“This is yours,” Armen says. “Ours. When we need to be outside.”
I step inside slowly, looking around. “How long have you had this?”
“Long enough.”
I turn to face them. “Why bring me here now?”
The three of them exchange a glance.
Then Sting speaks. “Because tomorrow, someone’s coming to meet us. Someone who knew your father.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“The older woman, the one who approached you in the hub, she reached out. Said she has something to show you. Something your father left behind.”
My heart pounds. “You said I couldn’t—”
“We said you couldn’t dig alone,” Rogue interrupts. “We didn’t say we wouldn’t help.”
I stare at them, processing. “You’re going to help me find the truth?”
“We’re going to help you decide if the truth is worth dying for,” Armen corrects. “Tomorrow, you’ll see what she has. Then you’ll choose.”
My throat tightens. “And if I choose to keep digging?”
“Then we dig with you,” Sting says. “But you don’t do it alone. Not anymore.”
I exhale shakily, sit on the edge of the bed.
They’re helping me.
After weeks of telling me to let it go, to stop asking, to forget—
They’re helping.
“Why?” I whisper.
Armen crouches in front of me, hand on my knee. “Because you’re ours. And we protect what’s ours.”
Rogue sits beside me on the bed. “Besides, if your father really did try to expose the city’s crooks, we want to know who killed him. Before they come for you.”
Sting leans against the wall. “And if Mara’s in the Rot, we need to know that too. Before it becomes a problem.”
I look between them. “You think they’re connected? My father and Mara?”
“We don’t know,” Armen says. “But we’re going to find out.”
I lie awake long after they’ve settled around me, Armen beside me on the bed, Sting in the chair by the window, Rogue stretched out on the floor.
Through the window, I can see stars. Real stars. Not filtered through clouded glass. Just open sky.
Tomorrow, I’ll meet the older woman.
Tomorrow, I’ll see what my father left behind.
Tomorrow, I’ll choose whether to keep digging or walk away.
But tonight, tonight, I’m here. Outside the Rot. In a room with a real bed and real stars.
With three men who just fucked me in front of strangers and are now offering to help me uncover the truth.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
I can’t sleep.
Because just as sleep starts to pull me under, I hear it. A sound from the hallway outside. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Stopping right outside the door.
Then a knock. Three sharp raps.
Everyone goes still.
Sting is on his feet instantly, hand near his belt. Rogue rolls up silently. Armen’s hand finds my shoulder, firm, grounding.
“Stay quiet,” he whispers.
Another knock. Harder this time.
Then a voice. Low. Female. Familiar.
“Vi. I know you’re in there.”
My blood runs cold. I know that voice. I’ve known it my whole life.
It’s Mara.