6. Rue #2
"Let's finish up here." Roman squeezes more water from the sponge over my shoulder, and warmth trickles down my back.
They work in silence after that—Reed washing my hair with careful hands that seem too large for the task, Roman rinsing the soap from my skin.
Their touch stays gentle, clinical almost, as if they've flipped some switch from the men who took me apart in the dungeon to the men who want to care for me after.
I don't know which version unsettles me more.
"Arms up." Reed helps me stand on shaky legs, steadying me with one hand while Roman wraps a towel around my body. The soft fabric feels like heaven against my raw skin.
They dry me off together—patting, not rubbing—until my skin glows pink and warm. Reed reaches for a thick white robe hanging on the back of the door, holds it open.
"In you go."
I slip my arms through the sleeves. The fabric swallows me whole, the hem pooling around my feet, the sleeves dangling past my fingertips. Reed's scent clings to it—sandalwood and smoke and something darker I can't name.
"Much better." His large hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs stroking my collarbones through the terry cloth. "Now bed."
Before I can protest, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. My head spins from the sudden movement, and I grip his shoulders to steady myself.
"I can walk," I mumble into his neck.
"Not interested in watching you try." His deep voice rumbles through his chest. "You'd fall on your face halfway there."
Roman follows us out of the bathroom, down a hall lined with art I'm too tired to focus on. Reed shoulders open a door, and I catch a glimpse of a massive bedroom—all dark wood and masculine lines, a king bed that could fit four people dominating the space.
He sets me down on the edge of the mattress. The sheets feel cool and expensive under my bare thighs.
"Let's get you dressed." Roman opens a drawer, pulls out one of Reed's shirts—soft gray cotton, well-worn. "Arms up again, little one."
The robe falls away. For a second I'm naked between them again, and heat flares in both their eyes. Roman tugs the shirt over my head, helps guide my arms through. The fabric hangs to mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.
"Fuck." Reed's voice goes rough, dropping to that gravelly register that makes my stomach flip. "She looks..."
He trails off, but I can feel his gaze burning into me like a physical touch. The way he's staring makes me hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin, of how the soft cotton clings to my curves and barely skims the tops of my thighs.
"I know." Roman's jaw flexes, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble-darkened skin. His dark eyes drag over me with predatory intensity, lingering on where the shirt's hem teases the junction of my legs. When he swallows hard, I can see the bob of his Adam's apple. "Too fucking good in your clothes."
The possession in his voice—the way he says 'your clothes' like Reed's shirt on my body is some kind of claiming—sends heat spiraling through my core despite my exhaustion.
Reed steps closer, closing the small distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off his massive frame. His large hand slides to my waist, fingers spanning nearly my entire side, thumb brushing just under the curve of my ribs. "We could?—"
"No." Roman cuts him off sharply, though his voice sounds strained, like the word costs him. His hands clench into fists at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of restraint. "She needs sleep."
I can see the war playing out on both their faces—want battling with something softer, more protective. The same instinct that made them carry me to the shower, that makes Reed's touch gentle even as his eyes devour me.
"Morning, then." Reed's thumb traces a slow, deliberate path along the underside of my breast through the thin cotton, and I have to bite back a whimper. The touch is barely there, but it ignites every nerve ending. "First thing when you wake up, little girl, we're filling you again."
My breath catches. The promise in his words makes my core clench despite the soreness.
"Promise us you'll still be here." Roman crouches in front of me, his dark eyes searching mine. "That you won't try to run."
"I promise." The words come easier than they should.
They climb into bed on either side of me—Reed at my back, Roman facing me. The mattress dips under their combined weight, and suddenly I'm cocooned between two walls of muscle and heat.
Reed's arm drapes over my waist, his large hand splaying possessively across my stomach. Roman's fingers trace idle patterns on my shoulder.
"Sleep," Reed commands against my hair.
The room's still dark when my eyes open. Pre-dawn gray filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the ceiling.
Reed's breathing stays deep and even behind me, his arm a heavy band across my waist. Roman's face relaxes in sleep, younger without the intensity burning in his dark eyes.
My phone.
The thought jolts through me like ice water flooding my veins, freezing me from the inside out.
I was supposed to call last night—check in, report progress on the "mission" they'd forced me into.
My parents demand contact every single day, their paranoid need for control extending even to this nightmare they've orchestrated. Missing that call...
My stomach clenches so hard I nearly double over, bile rising in my throat.
What if they hurt Kurt? What if they're already making him pay for my failure?
I can picture Dad's cold fury, the way his face goes blank right before he strikes.
Mom's vindictive satisfaction as she withholds Kurt's medication, claiming it's a "natural consequence" of my disobedience.
The images cascade through my mind—Kurt's frail body curled in pain, his confused whisper asking why I'm not there to protect him, the way he tries so hard to be brave even when everything hurts.
He trusts me. He depends on me. And I let him down because I got distracted by Reed's gentle touches and Roman's protective embrace.
No. I have to fix this. I have to make this right before they take their anger out on my brother.
Moving inch by careful inch, I ease out from under Reed's arm. He shifts, a low rumble in his chest, and I freeze. But his breathing stays steady.
Roman doesn't stir as I slide off the mattress.
My legs shake as I tiptoe across the carpet. Each step feels too loud in the quiet room. The door handle turns with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot to my ears.
I slip into the hall and run.
My room—the maid's quarters they gave me yesterday—sits at the far end. My bag's there, everything I brought shoved hastily into a corner before Roman found me trying to seduce him.
I dig through it with trembling hands until my fingers close around the cheap burner phone. The screen's too bright in the dark room. Three missed calls. Seven texts.
"Call NOW"
"Where are you"
"CALL"
My finger hovers over Dad's contact. Every instinct screams not to do this, but Kurt's face flashes through my mind—pale and thin, dark circles under his eyes, the way he tries to smile even when he's exhausted from dialysis.
The call connects.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Dad's voice cuts through the line, sharp enough to make me flinch.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't?—"
"Couldn't what? Can't follow simple fucking instructions?"
My throat tightens. "I just got here yesterday. Reed had me on a schedule right away, cleaning until late. I couldn't sneak away without raising questions."
The lie tastes bitter. I was too busy getting claimed by them, filled with their seed, promised things I don't understand but want anyway.
"You had one job, Rue." His voice drops lower, more dangerous. "Get close to them. Make them want you. How hard is that?"
I press my palm against my stomach, where Reed's shirt hangs loose. Where their combined release still sits deep inside me, kept there by Roman's careful fingers.
"I'm trying, but?—"
"But nothing. You think I don't know how men like that operate?
" Papers rustle in the background. "Rich, powerful, probably haven't touched a virgin woman who looks like you in years.
All you have to do is strip naked, show them those tits of yours, and they'll give you everything we need for Kurt's medication.
Hell, they'll probably set you up as a mistress if you play it right. "
Bile rises in my throat. He talks about selling my body like it's nothing—like I'm nothing.
"I can't do that."
The words come out before I can stop them.