Chapter 18
Annabelle
Iknow he’s watching me, standing over me. I don’t want him to know I’m awake. I keep my eyes closed and my breathing slow and shallow. My heart doesn’t get the message. It pounds too hard, too fast, giving me away.
The room is quiet enough that I can hear fabric shift. A soft movement. Then a hand slides into my hair.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
“Awake, then,” he says softly.
My eyes open.
He is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at me like he has every right in the world to be here. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Beautiful face. One of three.
Ethan.
I can tell from the black shirt.
My stomach turns.
I move fast, pushing myself upright and scrambling back until my spine hits the headboard. The room comes into focus around him in ugly pieces. White walls. Expensive bedding. A chair by the window. Not my room. Not my house.
Not safe.
His expression does not change much, but something tightens around his eyes. “You fainted.”
“I remember.”
I remember too much. The lift. The penthouse. Three identical faces. My mother. Their mother. Lies stacked so high I cannot see the top of them.
I look at the door. Closed.
He notices. “It isn’t locked.”
“Am I meant to be grateful?”
“Not particularly,” he says.
I stare at him, hatred and fear tangling in my chest until I can’t tell one from the other.
He sits there so composed, as if I am being difficult instead of reacting exactly how any sane woman would react after finding out the man she trusted is actually three men who have been passing me between them.
“I want to go home.”
“This is where you are for now.”
“For now,” I repeat, my voice going thin.
I throw the duvet off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, he stands. Not fast enough to startle me. Just enough to make it clear that every movement I make is being tracked.
I hate that I notice the shirt first. Black. Fitted. Sleeves rolled. A dark lines of ink disappearing under the fabric. My mind is trying to recognise him. Separate him. Learn him. It feels like another violation.
I push to my feet. My knees wobble, but I stay upright.
“Move,” I say.
He doesn’t. “You need a minute.”
“I need you to get the fuck out of my way.”
His eyes flick to my face and then down to my bare feet. He took my shoes off.
“I’m not going to let you fall over just to prove a point.”
“Fuck you.”
“Not right now.”
Heat flashes through me, sharp and humiliating. My hand lifts before I can think better of it. I slap him across the face.
The sound cracks through the room.
He doesn’t move. His head turns a fraction with the impact, then comes back. A red mark blooms over his cheekbone. His eyes go colder, not angrier. More careful.
My palm stings.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“No.”
I try to shove past him anyway. He catches my wrist. Not rough. Worse. Controlled.
“Let go of me.”
“If I do, you’ll hit the floor.”
“Maybe I want to.”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why? Because then you can’t pretend this is helping me?” I yank against his hold. “You dragged me here. You lied to me. All of you.”
“We did.”
“You fucked me and then let your brother fuck me thinking it was you.”
“You blame me.”
“I do!” I screech, then stop, because I sound like a fucking lunatic.
“I do blame you. You were the one I met in the club. You were the one who rescued me from that creep. You were the one I invited home. Not Aidan, not Callan. You. You betrayed me.” Exhausted, I fall back to the bed and drop my head in my hands.
After a beat, he crouches in front of me and places his hands on my knees. I let him be because he still feels safe.
And that is a me problem that isn’t going away.
“I’m sorry I betrayed you, Annabelle. I understand everything.
We have all wanted you since we saw you.
We thought you would bolt from three of us.
Not even give us the time of day. We each wanted to get to know you, and have you know us.
It wasn’t meant to end up this way. At least, not entirely.
The night in the club forced us to move when we weren’t really ready. We fucked it up.”
“No shit,” I mutter, blinking back the tears. “You were helping me exist, and you threw it in my face.”
His hands tighten on my knees for a second, then ease. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” I lift my head and look at him. “You don’t get it. I let myself stop thinking because you were doing it for me. I let you into everything. My bed. My house. My job. My fucking head. And all that time, it wasn’t even real.”
“It was real.”
I laugh, and it comes out wrong. “Which bit? The part where there are three of you? The part where one of you watched me at work like a psycho? The part where one of you put his hands on me while I thought he was somebody else?”
His jaw hardens. “All of it was real. The way we feel about you is real.”
“I don’t care how you feel about me.”
That one lands. I can see it in the way he stills.
Good.
I want him hurt. I want all of them hurt. I want them to feel even half of the panic and humiliation ripping through me, and I hate myself because under that rage is the same ugly truth that has followed me since this started.
I miss him.
Them.
The care. The structure. The horrible relief of not having to carry myself.
It makes me feel sick.
He sees it on my face. I know he does.
The disgust. The grief. The fact that some rotten part of me still wants to crawl into his lap and let him tell me what happens next.
His eyes stay on mine. “You care.”
“I care that you manipulated me.”
He rises slowly, like he knows any sudden movement will send me bolting for the door. I hate that he is probably right. My body is wound so tight I can barely feel my fingers.
“I’m hungry,” I say, because the room is getting smaller and I need something practical. Something ordinary. “And I need the loo. Am I allowed to do that, or do I need one of you to supervise?”
“You can use the bathroom, Annabelle. It’s through there.”
I get up and push past him. He lets me. He doesn’t follow.
I flick on the light and close the door to the en-suite and then grimace. It has no fucking window. Of course it fucking doesn’t.
I brace my hands on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
I look like shit.
My hair is a mess. My eyes are swollen. My skin is pale enough to make the bite marks stand out even more. Their marks. Their hands. Their mouths. Their lie. My surrender. My twisted surrender to them.
The toilet is beside the shower. I use it quickly, hating that even this feels loaded now. Every ordinary thing has been contaminated by them. I wash my hands for longer than necessary, because it gives me another minute with a locked door between us.
“Annabelle,” Ethan calls out. “Do you need help?”
“I’ve got it,” I grit out and then inhale sharply. My tampons. I don’t have my tampons. Or my clothes, or anything that’s mine. I close my eyes for a second and hate myself for the dread that hits first, not because I need them, but because I know what comes next.
Me asking.
Them providing.
Another line crossed.
I open the door with my jaw tight. Ethan is exactly where I left him, standing a few feet away, giving me space that still feels fake because it only exists as long as he allows it.
“I need… stuff,” I say, the words scraping on the way out.
His eyes move over my face, reading too much. “Callan is bringing everything you need.”
I blink. “What?” Cold slides through me. “You sent him to my house.”
“I did. He isn’t back yet, but he shouldn’t be long.”
“You are unreal,” I hiss.
“You need your things. You aren’t going back there. Not yet.”
I hear the not ever. It hangs between us and my palms sweat.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, wringing my hands. “Why?”
Ethan takes a step toward me. He stops just shy of my space. “Because we decided you were worth the effort.”
I let out a harsh breath. “The effort of what? Ruining me?”
“Saving you.” His voice is a low vibration.
I look at my hands. They are still shaking. The truth about my mother feels like a cold weight in my gut. They know. They have known for years. Every time I cried at her grave, one of them might have been watching. I feel exposed. Naked.
There is a knock at the door, and Callan walks in without waiting for an answer. He is laden down with my stuff. I glare at him as he places it all on the bed. “Sort your shit and then eat,” he says and leaves.
I nearly gape at him for being so callous, but then ask myself why I care. “What’s his deal?” I mutter.
“He’s Callan. You’ll get used to him,” Ethan says, backing towards the door.
“Make yourself at home, Tinks.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.
If I had the strength, I’d lift the bags and throw them at the closed door, but I don’t.
I really don’t. Instead, I stare at the heap of my life on the duvet.
My frayed bags look pathetic in this room of perfection.
My stomach gives a treacherous grumble. I wish I didn’t have to eat, but not eating is making myself weak.
I can’t be weak. Not now. I open the door and walk down the long hallway with my head held high.
The penthouse is vast. It is a gilded cage with a view of the city.
Aidan is at the kitchen island, plating up food.
He looks up. His eyes are identical to Ethan’s, yet the fire behind them is more volatile.
“Sit down,” he says.
I don’t argue. I pull out a stool and sit. I notice the split across his knuckles. It is a mirror of the injury I saw on the man I thought was Ethan. My stomach twists.
“Where are the others?” I ask.
“Giving you space.”
“Bullshit. Callan is probably hiding, and Ethan is probably checking his perfect fucking face to see if I marked him when I slapped him.”
Aidan’s eyes widen, and he smiles. It’s genuine amusement. “You slapped him? Feisty, I like it.”
“I’ll slap you too if you get close enough. You fucking deserve it.”
“Now you’re just turning me on.” He pushes a plate of pasta towards me and fills one for himself. He stays standing on the other side of the island as I pick up a fork.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out? Did you all really think I was stupid?”
“We didn’t think you were stupid,” Aidan says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. “We knew you were fucking desperate. Drowning people don’t check the brand of the life vest. They just put it on.”
I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth. It tastes good, and I want to hit him even more now. “I didn’t put it on. You tied it around my neck.”
He doesn’t look away. Those blue eyes are relentless. “Maybe. But you’re still breathing, aren’t you?”
“Barely.” I set the fork down.
He stares at it and moves around to pick it up. He shovels some pasta on it and holds it up in front of my mouth.
I press my lips together.
“Don’t make me hold you down, little bell.” His eyes flash a warning that gives me pause. He would do it. I know he would.
“Why do you do this? Why do you feed me, dress me, clean, change my fucking tampons? What kind of people are you?”
“Ones that enjoy taking care of what belongs to us.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Yes, you do. Get used to it.”
“You are infuriating.”
“And yet you haven’t slapped me yet, so I guess I’m winning the triplet race.”
“You fucking wish.” I open my mouth and let him feed me the pasta. I mean, why the fuck not? He wants to do it, I don’t, but I’m hungry. So here we are. I chew slowly and swallow, glaring at him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“No, I don’t suppose it does. But it’s a start.”
“Why am I not as mad at you as I am at Ethan? I should be trying to gut you. You were the one who fucked me while I called you your brother’s name.”
“Because you liked it,” he says, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly note that shouldn’t make my skin prickle with heat.
He doesn’t look ashamed. He looks hungry.
“And because I wanted you so badly, I would’ve crawled through broken glass to get inside you.
I didn’t care whose name you said as long as it was me you were feeling. ”
The prickle turns to a spark of arousal deep in my belly. “You’re a monster.”
“I never claimed to be a saint, Annabelle.” He feeds me another bite, and I take it like a well-trained pet. “None of us are.”
I look at his split knuckles again. He did that because he was angry. Because he wanted me to scream out his name while he fucked me. That gives me power.
“Aidan,” I murmur, lifting my gaze to his.
His eyes darken.
“Aidan,” I say louder. “Aidan!” I pant into his face.
The fork clatters to the marble top, and he lifts me by my waist, taking two strides to slam me against the nearest wall. It jars my bones, and I cry out.
“Again,” he says, unzipping my jeans. “Fuck, Annabelle. Say my name.” He pushes my jeans and knickers down my thighs until they bunch around my ankles. I let him yank them off because I’ve lost my fucking mind. But it’s more than that. There is power in his name, and I have it.
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around him. His hand is already releasing his cock from his pants.
“Say it,” he rasps, wedging his hand between my thighs and pulling out my tampon.
“Jesus!” I gasp as he drops it on my discarded clothes.
“Wrong name, little bell.”
“We can’t!”
“Oh, but we are,” he says and drives into me with one hard thrust.
“Aidan!” I cry out in mortification as he drives into me. I’ve never in my life had sex while I was on my period. He doesn’t care. He isn’t turned off by it. If anything, he seems even harder because of it. “Aidan…” My voice has turned to a whimper.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down.
He hammers into me with a primal, messy desperation that makes the room spin.
The cool of the kitchen wall is a shock against my back, but the heat of him is a furnace.
I should be disgusted. I should be fighting him off.
Instead, I’m clinging to his neck, my fingers digging into his flesh as I find the rhythm.
“That’s it,” he growls, his face buried in the crook of my neck. “Say it again. Let me hear it.”
“Aidan,” I gasp, the name a jagged plea.
He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body.
Each thrust is heavy, relentless, claiming space I didn’t know I had left to give.
For the first time since I woke up in this gilded cage, the noise in my head has stopped.
There is only the friction, the pressure, and the terrifying weight of him.
He’s a monster, and I’m letting him consume me because the alternative is to face the wreckage of my life alone. I’m not alone. I’m being broken apart by the very thing I should be running from, and I’m begging for more.