Chapter 49 Cyrus
CYRUS
Iwake before the sunrise, my body already attuned to the significance of this day.
The pale light filtering through our bedroom window casts soft shadows across the bed where Keira and Ace still sleep deeply.
They’re tangled together—Ace’s arm thrown protectively across her waist, her back pressed against his chest, her hand reaching back to touch his thigh even in sleep.
Three hundred and sixty-five days since we first claimed her.
I prop myself up on one elbow, watching them breathe. Ace’s face, usually so guarded and calculating, looks younger in sleep, the sharp lines of his features softened. And Keira—fuck, she’s beautiful even with her hair a mess and yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
A year ago today, I was stalking her through Purgatory’s industrial maze, blood pumping with the thrill of the hunt, focused only on capturing our prey. Back then, she was just a target—a prize to be claimed and used for our pleasure, meant to be discarded once the Hunt ended.
How fucking wrong we were.
I reach out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She doesn’t stir, exhausted from last night.
The marks we left on her skin—bite marks on her shoulder, finger-shaped bruises on her hips—tell the story of our possession.
But they’re different now. Not just about ownership, but about belonging.
A year ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of feeling anything beyond physical hunger for our prey. The thought of needing someone other than Ace was incomprehensible. Now I can’t imagine a life without her between us, completing something I never knew was missing.
The Hunt was supposed to be seventy-two hours. We’d claimed women before, used them for the duration, then walked away without a second thought. But Keira—she got under our skin from the moment we cornered her against that concrete wall.
One year later, and she’s still here. Still ours. But we’re hers too, in ways I never thought possible for men like us.
I lie back down, watching as Ace’s fingers twitch against her skin, instinctively pulling her closer even in sleep. The three of us bound together, not by contracts or fear, but by something far more permanent.
Keira stirs beneath my gaze, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks before those violet-blue eyes open and meet mine. For a moment, she’s disoriented, then recognition floods her features, followed by a soft smile that still fucking wrecks me every time.
“Good morning,” she whispers, voice husky with sleep.
Two simple words, but they hit me like a physical blow.
Good morning. Like we’re normal people who wake up together every day, not trained killers who tortured her abuser together and claimed her in a twisted hunt.
This casual intimacy, this quiet moment—it’s so far from the life I was trained for that sometimes I can’t believe it’s real.
I reach out, tracing the curve of her jaw with my fingertips. “Morning, beautiful.”
Her skin is warm beneath my touch, alive and vibrant.
Behind her, Ace shifts, his eyes opening instantly as if some invisible current passed between us.
This has always been our way—one wakes, the other follows within moments.
Ever since we were kids in those cold dormitories, sensing each other’s consciousness across the room.
“One year,” Ace says quietly, his voice still rough with sleep.
I meet my twin’s eyes over Keira’s shoulder. One year since we hunted her through Purgatory’s industrial maze. One year since we claimed her as ours. One year of discovering that possession could transform into something deeper, more permanent than we’d ever imagined possible.
Keira rolls onto her back between us, looking from me to Ace and back again. Her smile grows wider, genuine happiness lighting up her face despite the marks we left on her body last night.
“Best year of my life,” she says simply.
I freeze, caught off guard by the raw honesty in her voice.
After everything—the Hunt, the kidnapping, killing Henderson, the constant danger of our lives—she still considers this the best year she’s ever had.
And fuck if that doesn’t make my chest tighten with emotions I never thought myself capable of before her.
I slide out of bed carefully, signaling to Ace with a quick glance. We’d planned this moment for weeks. As Keira stretches between the sheets, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.
“Stay in bed. We’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Keira’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t argue. “Mysterious morning activities?”
“Something like that,” Ace says, already pulling on his sweatpants. “Just give us fifteen minutes.”
In the kitchen, we move with practiced coordination.
Ace pulls ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs, heavy cream, gruyère cheese, fresh chives—while I grab the French press and start the water boiling.
Keira’s favorite breakfast has been the same since we discovered it three months ago: Ace’s decadent cheese omelettes with chives and the ridiculously expensive coffee beans we special order from some small-batch roaster in Seattle.
“Think she has any idea?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I pull three place settings from the cabinet.
Ace shakes his head, whisking eggs with precise, measured movements. “No way. Felix kept everything completely compartmentalized.”
I arrange the silverware, positioning each piece with more care than usual. My hands feel strangely unsteady, which is fucking ridiculous. I’ve dismembered people without this level of nervousness.
“The portfolio’s in the safe?” Ace confirms, sliding the first perfect omelette onto a warmed plate.
I nod, setting out three linen napkins. “Got it last night while she was in the shower.”
Ten minutes later, the table is set with steaming omelettes, fresh fruit, and French press coffee. The leather portfolio sits at my place setting, unassuming but containing something that took months to arrange.
“Keira,” Ace calls. “Breakfast.”
She appears in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of my T-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh. Something tightens in my chest at the sight.
“What’s all this?” she asks, taking her seat between us.
“Anniversary breakfast,” I say, pouring her coffee exactly how she likes it.
We eat, making casual conversation, though I can feel the tension building. Finally, when we’re on our second cups of coffee, I reach for the portfolio and place it in front of her.
“We got you something,” I say. “Open it.”
She looks between us, curious, then unties the leather binding. Her expression shifts to confusion as she reads the first document, then her hand flies to her mouth.
“The Keira Valentino Foundation?” She looks up, eyes wide. “What is this?”
“Full scholarships,” Ace explains. “For dancers aging out of foster care.”
I watch Keira’s hands tremble as she turns the page and finds the mission statement. Her fingers brush over the words as she reads aloud, voice barely above a whisper.
“The Keira Valentino Foundation provides comprehensive dance scholarships to young adults transitioning out of the foster care system, giving them the opportunity to pursue artistic expression while building stability and independence.” She pauses, her breathing uneven.
“Many beneficiaries have experienced trauma and abuse within the system, leaving them without resources or support when they age out at eighteen.”
She stops reading, her eyes fixed on a particular paragraph.
I know exactly which one—the section describing a young dancer who survived foster care abuse at thirteen, spent years working through trauma, and eventually transformed her pain into artistry.
Her story, carefully anonymized but unmistakably hers.
“This foundation believes that dance can be both healing and empowering, providing not only artistic training but a pathway to recovery and self-discovery for those who have been silenced...”
Keira looks up, tears streaming down her face, her mascara creating dark rivulets on her cheeks. Her lips tremble, and for a moment, she can’t speak.
“You did this? For me?” she finally chokes out.
I reach across the table, taking her shaking hand in mine. “For you. For the girl you were. For every kid who needs what you needed.”
Something breaks in her expression. Her face crumples completely, shoulders shaking as she doubles over. The portfolio slides from her lap as violent sobs tear through her body.
Ace and I move simultaneously, chairs scraping against the floor as we rise. I pull her from her seat into my arms while Ace wraps around her from behind. We create a fortress of bodies around her, holding her between us as she falls apart.
Her tears soak through my shirt as she clutches at me, fingers digging into my back with desperate strength. I press my lips against her hair, breathing in her scent.
“We’ve got you,” I whisper, feeling Ace’s arms tighten around both of us. “We’ve always got you.”
Keira’s sobs eventually subside, her breathing steadying against my chest. She pulls back slightly, her face tear-stained and vulnerable in a way that still makes my heart clench.
Even after a year together, seeing her raw emotion feels like a privilege I never earned but desperately want to deserve.
She looks between us, her eyes red-rimmed but clear, shifting from my face to Ace’s and back again. The naked emotion there hits me like a physical blow.
“I love you both so much,” she says fiercely, her voice hoarse from crying but stronger now. “More than I ever thought possible to love anyone.”
The words hang in the air between us, powerful and undeniable. A year ago, I would have scoffed at such a declaration—dismissed it as weakness or manipulation. Now, hearing those words from her lips makes me feel invincible and completely exposed at the same time.