Chapter 15 Keira
KEIRA
Icollapse onto my bed, every muscle screaming. It’s been ten hours since the Hunt ended, since medical staff examined me and sent me home. My body is covered in marks from fingers, teeth, and restraints. Evidence of what I let them do to me. What I begged them to do.
The ceiling blurs as tears fill my eyes. I should shower again. Scrub harder. But what’s the point? The Dexter twins are carved into me now, deeper than skin.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whisper to the empty apartment.
My foster father’s voice echoes in my head.
You like this. I can tell. Such a little slut.
I was thirteen. Then fifteen in another home with another monster. Both times, I disappeared inside myself until it was over.
But with Ace and Cyrus, I didn’t disappear. I was horrifyingly present. Wanting. Begging.
I curl onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest, making myself small like I used to after those nights in foster care. My phone lights up on the nightstand.
Marco is checking if I’m coming to rehearsal. I can’t even think about dancing right now.
How can I face my dancers? They don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done. What I’ve become.
The twins’ voices tangle in my head.
Our perfect little slut. Ours. No one will ever fuck you the way we do.
And they’re right. I’m ruined for anyone else. Worse, something in me doesn’t want anyone else.
I press my face into the pillow, shame burning through me. They systematically broke me down, used me in ways I never imagined, and instead of feeling violated, I feel like they found something inside me I’ve been running from my entire life.
The contract said seventy-two hours. Twenty-four-hour cool down. And then up to a year of claiming. But we all know what this was—a rich man’s game where women are prey. The fact that I willingly signed up makes me hate myself even more.
I’m hollow with want, aching for the very men who treated me like property, waiting for them to come and get me when the twenty-four hours are over.
My phone rings with a shrill intensity that cuts through the haze of my thoughts. I lift my head from the pillow, wincing as soreness ripples through my body, a reminder of everything that happened over those seventy-two hours.
Unknown number. My heart kicks against my ribs. I shouldn’t answer. I should let it ring through to voicemail.
But my hand moves of its own accord, swiping to accept the call before my brain can catch up.
“Hello?” My voice comes out raspy, broken.
“Miss me already, little dancer?”
Cyrus.
His voice sends a jolt through me—part fear, part something I refuse to name. I sit up abruptly, ignoring the protest of my muscles.
“Why are you calling me?” The words tumble out, sharper than I intended. “It’s the cool-down period. No contact for twenty-four hours. That’s the rules.”
A low chuckle travels through the line, and I can almost see the predatory smile spreading across his face. That perfectly sculpted mouth has been everywhere on my body. I press my thighs together, hating myself for the response.
“Rules?” There’s amusement in his voice, as if I’ve said something particularly naive. “Do you honestly think I’m the kind of man who plays by rules, Keira?”
The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. Not little dancer, but my actual name. Somehow, that feels more intimate than anything they did to my body.
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because we both know the truth.
He waits, the silence stretching between us, patient in a way Cyrus rarely seemed to be in the Hunt. He’s waiting for me to admit what we both know—rules don’t apply to men like him.
Men who take what they want.
Men who saw something in me that I’ve tried to deny my entire life.
“You know what I think?” Cyrus’s voice drops lower, rougher. “I think my cock is missing its sleeve.”
My breath catches in my throat. The crude words shouldn’t affect me this way, but my body betrays me instantly.
“Is that what I am to you? Just a... cocksleeve?” I manage to say, even as heat floods through me. Despite my attempt at indignation, I can’t stop the soft moan that escapes my lips. My thighs clench together involuntarily, seeking friction, relief, anything to ease the sudden ache between them.
The sound must carry through the phone because Cyrus goes quiet for a beat.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Sounds like my sleeve is missing its cock, too.”
He chuckles, the sound dark and knowing. It washes over me like a physical touch, making my skin tingle with awareness.
I’m mortified by how easily he can reduce me to this—wanting, needing, despite everything that happened during the Hunt. Despite knowing better.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice weaker than I intend. The question hangs between us—heavy, loaded.
“Just want to see how my pussy is doing,” Cyrus purrs through the phone. “And my ass. Video call. That’s all.”
I groan, pressing my face into my pillow for a moment before responding. My body is still tender, still recovering from their relentless attention. “Cyrus, you’re going to be the death of me. I need to rest. I can barely move as it is.”
“Can’t help it, little dancer.” His voice drops lower, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “You’re fucking addictive. Every inch of you. Been hard since I woke up thinking about you. Just need to see you.”
I shouldn’t agree. I know this. But my finger hovers over the video button anyway, my body making decisions my brain protests. I tap it before I can talk myself out of it.
His face fills my screen—those hazel eyes that shift between amber and green, the sharp jawline, those full lips curved into a predatory smile. But my gaze immediately drops lower as he tilts the phone down.
He wasn’t exaggerating. His cock stands rigid against his stomach, the tip glistening with precum. The sight of it—so recent in my memory, the weight and feel of it still imprinted on my body—pulls a moan from my throat before I can stop it.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice a rough caress. “Let me hear how much you miss this cock and show me my pussy,” Cyrus demands, his voice rough with need. “Need to see what I’m coming home to.”
I shouldn’t. This breaks every rule of self-respect I thought I had. But my body isn’t listening to those objections anymore. With trembling fingers, I prop the phone against my pillow and slowly peel my underwear down my thighs.
“Spread your legs,” he orders. “Wider.”
I comply, exposing myself to his hungry gaze. The vulnerability of it makes my breath catch, but there’s power in his desperation, too.
“Fuck,” Cyrus groans. “Look at those marks. Still red from my cock.”
A second groan—deeper, from somewhere off-camera—makes me freeze.
“Who was that?” I ask, my fingers instinctively moving to cover myself.
Cyrus grins, wicked and unashamed. “Ace, of course.”
My stomach drops. “Ace is there? With you?”
As if on cue, Ace’s voice cuts through, clearer now. “What the fuck are you doing, Cy?”
Heat flushes through my body—embarrassment tangled with something else entirely. I pull my underwear back up, fumbling.
“Why is Ace in your bed?” I ask, confused.
Cyrus shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We’ve shared a bed since we can remember. Why change what works?”
My mind races with sudden, forbidden images—their identical bodies tangled together, hands on skin, lips on lips. The thought is taboo, wrong, but undeniably arousing. My pulse quickens as I wonder if they’ve ever crossed that line with each other.
Even as the thought forms, I dismiss it.
During those seventy-two hours, I’d been between them constantly, watched them move in perfect synchronization, and never once detected any hint of sexual tension between the brothers.
They touched me, not each other. Their focus had been entirely on breaking me apart and putting me back together in the image they wanted.
“Did you really call her?” Ace’s voice again, closer now.
The phone shifts in Cyrus’s hand, and suddenly Ace’s face appears in frame, his expression a mix of irritation and hunger. Unlike his brother’s playful demeanor, Ace’s eyes hold that calculating intensity that makes my stomach clench.
“Since my brother’s already broken protocol,” Ace says, his voice controlled but tight with tension, “show me.”
It’s not a request. It never is with these men.
“Show you what?” I challenge, though we both know it’s pointless resistance.
His jaw tightens. “Show me my pussy too. Now.”
My body responds before my mind can argue, heat flooding between my legs at his possessive tone. I watch as the brothers position the phone between them, both sitting up against the headboard of what must be an enormous bed. The camera angle widens, revealing them both from chest to mid-thigh.
They’re naked, identical in their perfection—broad shoulders, tattooed skin, defined abs, and impossibly hard cocks standing rigid against their stomachs. The sight of them together like this, side by side, hits differently.
“You heard my brother,” Cyrus says, stroking himself lazily. “Show us what belongs to us.”
I shouldn’t. Every shred of dignity I have left screams at me to end this call, to reclaim some dignity. But I angle the phone between my thighs, exposing myself completely to their hungry stares.
“Spread wider,” Ace commands.
I comply, my face burning with shame as I reveal how embarrassingly wet I am—slick and swollen, my body a traitor to my pride.
“Look at that,” Cyrus groans. “Already dripping for us.”
“Good girl,” Ace murmurs. “Our perfect little slut, even when we’re not there to remind you.”
I watch, transfixed, as they grip themselves in unison, two identical cocks sliding through tight fists. Their breathing grows heavier, synchronized like everything else about them.
“Touch yourself,” Ace commands, his voice strained as his hand moves faster. “Show us how wet our little dancer gets watching her owners.”
My fingers find my clit without hesitation, circling the sensitive bud as I spread my legs wider for the camera. “Like this?”
“Fuck yes,” Cyrus groans, his head falling back against the headboard. “Tell us what you’re thinking about.”
My eyes lock on the narrow space between their bodies—mere inches separating them as they pleasure themselves. The forbidden thought that’s been circling my mind slips out before I can stop it.
“I’m thinking about you touching each other.”
Their rhythm falters for a split second. Cyrus recovers first, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Watching me stroke my brother’s cock instead of my own?”
Heat floods my face, but I can’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Such a dirty little slut,” Ace murmurs, his calculated control slipping as his hand moves faster. “Getting off on taboo fantasies.”
“I bet she wishes we’d kiss while we fuck her,” Cyrus adds, his voice dropping to something darker. “Would you like that, little dancer? Our tongues in each other’s mouths while our cocks stretch you open?”
I moan, unable to form words as the forbidden image burns through my mind. Their identical bodies pressed together, hands exploring each other while I watch. It’s wrong, so wrong, but my fingers move faster at the thought.
“She’s close,” Ace observes, his eyes locked on my movements. “Make yourself come with us.”
“Fuck, I’m gonna—” Cyrus tenses, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum shoot across his stomach, some landing on the sheets between them.
Ace follows seconds later, his release just as powerful, cum spattering across his chest and abs. The sight of them coming together, their bodies glistening with sweat and release, pushes me over the edge.
Pleasure crashes through me in violent waves as I arch off the bed, my legs trembling uncontrollably. “Ace! Cyrus!” Their names tear from my throat, a desperate confession I can’t hold back.
My vision blurs as the orgasm rips through me, but not before I catch the identical expressions on their faces—that dark twinkle in their hazel eyes, a dangerous gleam that tells me they’ve just collected another piece of me. Another weakness to exploit.
The humiliation hits as the pleasure subsides. What did I admit to them? The twisted fantasy of them together—brothers crossing a line that should never be crossed, all while I watch. Heat blazes across my cheeks, burning with shame yet unmistakably aroused by the taboo of it.
“Look how red she gets,” Cyrus laughs, his voice rough. “Embarrassed by your own dirty mind, little dancer?”
Ace studies me. “Interesting.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” Ace interrupts, his tone leaving no room for denial. “And now we know exactly how depraved our little slut really is.”
Cyrus leans closer to the camera, his satisfied smirk making my stomach flip. “Get some sleep, Keira. We’ll be there in fourteen hours to collect what’s ours.”
“Rest up,” Ace adds, wiping the evidence of his release from his stomach. “You’ll need your energy to keep up with both of us.”
“And trust me,” Cyrus says, his voice dropping to that dangerous purr that makes my insides clench, “we have plans for you that will make the Hunt seem like foreplay.”
The call ends abruptly, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the darkened screen. For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, lips parted in what could be horror or desire or some twisted combination of both.
I let the phone slip from my fingers and collapse back onto the bed.
There’s this undeniable current of energy running through me. A humming, vibrating aliveness that makes every nerve ending spark and tingle. I press my palms flat against the mattress, feeling my heartbeat thrum through my fingertips, racing with adrenaline and anticipation.
Fourteen hours.
I should pack a bag and run as far as my legs will carry me. Instead, I’m lying here, shattered and spread open like a book they’ve decided to read cover to cover, and somehow feeling more awake than I have in years.
I press my hands over my face, a muffled laugh escaping between my fingers. What is happening to me? Who is this person I’m becoming? This woman who doesn’t just submit but craves the submission, who offers up not just her body but the darkest corners of her mind?
My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, too aware of every point of contact with the sheets beneath me. I’m exhausted and electrified all at once, hollowed out and yet somehow more filled with sensation than I’ve ever been.