22. Cloe
CLOE
I woke aching.
Not the kind that fades after sleep. The kind that sits in the ribs. In the thighs. In the space between skin and memory. My body was heavy. Tender. My breath still shallow from the way he bent me.
The way he rubbed me. From the way he said “mine.”
My throat burned.
Not from crying.
From silence.
From what I hadn’t said when he unbuttoned my blouse, when he pressed my own hand to my chest, when he pushed me over the desk and filled me like he’d been holding back a decade of possession.
Barron .
He hadn’t kissed me. Hadn’t whispered anything sweet. But his touch still lived on my skin like something sacred. Or shameful.
I sat up slowly, careful not to shift too much. The corset still hugged my ribs, loose from earlier. My panties clung to my skin, damp with aftermath. My thighs pressed together.
Reflex.
And I hated how it still made me feel good.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it with a shaky hand. No messages from Wolfe. Nothing from Barron. Just silence. Until a new notification appeared.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
He’s asking about you again.
I stared.
My stomach dropped.
Another ping.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
He says you owe him something. I told him you were clean. Don’t make me a liar.
I froze.
My fingers went numb.
Selene.
She didn’t sign it.
She didn’t need to.
Another message followed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Get the black book. Or I can’t stop him next time.
I couldn’t breathe. Not because I didn’t know what she meant. Because I did. I knew exactly what black book. And I knew exactly who “he” was.
And if Selene was afraid? Then I should be terrified. I sat up slowly. The ache flared again. Between my legs. In my stomach. In my throat. But it wasn’t just physical. This was something deeper. Something like grief.
Camille’s voice filtered in from a part of me I hadn’t touched in months. You’d never let them turn you into one of us, right ?
I’d laughed when she said it. Sworn I was different. Stronger. More self-aware. And now?
Now I was lying naked in a bed that still smelled like Wolfe’s cologne and Barron’s grip. I reached down. Traced the outline of the bruise on my hip. A small mark. Purple-blue. Tender. Proof. That I let them claim me. That I wanted it. And that if I wasn’t careful?—
I was going to break something much bigger than myself.
I got dressed slowly. Not for seduction. For silence. For survival. The hallway outside Barron’s office felt colder than it should’ve. Everything was polished. Ordered. But it felt like walking through a graveyard.
I moved slow. My heels didn’t click this time. I wasn’t trying to be seen. I just needed to see it. To know if the code worked. To know if Camille’s birthday still lived inside something that should’ve been sealed shut.
The keypad was still there.
Same brushed steel. Same polished buttons. Same number of digits.
I typed them before I could talk myself out of it.
Click .
Unlocked.
The metal groaned softly as it gave way. Like even the vault didn’t want to be opened. My breath caught in my chest. I didn’t exhale until I leaned in—and even then, it was shallow. Shaky.
There was no alarm. No red light. No siren screaming, traitor .
Just quiet.
And inside, lined in black velvet, the contents sat waiting. Like they’d always known I was coming. The pistol was polished. Wiped clean. The envelope was thick. Stamped. Heavy. The USB flash drive sat coiled beside a key.
And below all of it?—
The book.
Black leather.
Worn smooth at the edges.
No markings.
No title.
Just presence.
It looked like it belonged in Barron’s hand. Heavy. Private. Final.
I didn’t touch it at first.
Just stared.
And for a second, I could almost hear Camille’s voice.
Don’t let them make you into something you’re not.
But I already was. They’d already made me. I reached in. Fingers grazing the leather. But I didn’t pull it out. I closed the safe slowly. Buttoned the keypad. Wiped the handle with my sleeve. And walked away.
I didn’t take it. But I didn’t say I wouldn’t.I stood in the bathroom stall again. Same one where Wolfe knelt. Where I bled. Where I’d never be the same. The black book wasn’t in my bag. But the weight of it was. Still inside me. Still pressing.
I opened the message thread.
CLOE:
I got it open.
The code worked.
SELENE:
Where is it.
CLOE:
Still in the safe.
I didn’t have a chance to grab it.
Barron came in. Almost saw me.
I can’t risk that again so soon.
… Three dots .
She was typing.
And typing.
I didn’t respond.
Not yet.
I closed the thread. Swiped to Wolfe’s name. Hovered. I thought about texting him. Just one line.
I opened the safe. I’m scared.
But I didn’t. Because he’d come. And I didn’t know what was worse?—
Facing Selene alone, or facing Wolfe with the truth.
I locked the screen. Reopened Selene’s thread.
Typed.
SELENE:
You’ve had weeks.
CLOE:
You want it clean, right?
No flags. No audits.
You want out, and I can give it to you.
SELENE:
You have 48 hours.
CLOE:
I need 72.
He’s watching me too closely.
All of them are.
SELENE:
60.
Make it look like an accident.
You get caught, don’t text again.
I locked my phone. My heart felt like it was going to crack in half. But I’d bought time. Two and a half days. And all I had to do? Was survive inside a house full of men I was already betraying.
I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell her how much I wanted to stay. I didn’t hear him until it was too late. The soft click of polished shoes behind me. The silence between breaths. I turned too fast, heart in my throat.
Wolfe.
Standing just down the hallway. Hands in his pockets. Jacket half buttoned. Watching me. Like he’d been watching me.
“Long morning?” he asked.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just… still.
Like he already knew the answer.
I nodded too quickly.
Swallowed.
“Yes.”
My voice cracked on the second syllable.
I hated that.
His eyes moved over me—slow. Not the way a man checks a woman out. The way a predator checks for weakness.
“Red looks good on you.”
I blinked.
Looked down. Realized my blouse was too tight across the chest. My lips flushed from biting them. My pulse high. I looked guilty. Because I was guilty.
He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that I had to hold my ground.
“I thought you’d stop shaking after last time,” he murmured.
“I’m not shaking.”
“You are.”
He reached out. Not to touch me. To tuck my hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed the edge of my jaw. Soft. Measured. But it felt like heat bloomed straight through my skin.
I didn’t lean in. But I didn’t pull back. I just stood there. Breath caught. Stomach turning. And in that moment, I didn’t know what scared me more?—
That he might guess what I’d done.
Or that he wouldn’t.
His thumb skimmed a strand of hair that fell again.
“Do you need something?” he asked.
The words were gentle. But his eyes weren’t. They were waiting. Like he already knew something was buried in my purse. Like he wanted to see if I’d flinch when he said it out loud.
“Do you need something?”
“No,” I said too fast.
His eyes narrowed.
“Then why do you look like you just opened a grave?”
I didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
The black book still felt like it was burning through the lining of my purse—even if it wasn’t there. Even if it was still locked away.
He stepped even closer.
I stopped breathing.
“You know,” he said, voice low, “if something’s wrong?—”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just nodded once. Then?—
“You have until the end of the week.”
I froze.
“To what?”
“To figure out who you belong to.”
And then he walked away.
Leaving me there.
Shaking.
Still.
Seen.
I stood there long after Wolfe left. Frozen in the hallway like my body had forgotten how to move. Not because of what he said. But because of what he didn’t. He hadn’t asked what I was hiding. He hadn’t threatened to search my bag.
But he didn’t have to.
Wolfe didn’t need brute force. He only needed time. Because the longer he stared, the more I fractured. The more I wanted to confess just to make it stop. And part of me wanted to give it to him.
The truth.
The book.
The fear.
Because Wolfe doesn’t forgive. He takes. And some dark part of me? Wanted to be taken.
Fully.
Burned.
Emptied.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, but nothing made sense. Every number blurred. Every word meant less than the last. Because all I could hear was his voice?—
You have until the end of the week.
That wasn’t a deadline. It was a line in the sand. And no matter which side I chose, someone was going to bleed. Maybe it would be me. Maybe that’s what I wanted.
Because at least if I bled, I wouldn’t have to choose.