Chapter 26
26
T he tension in the room is suffocating. The command center’s table is buried in blueprints of the Waldorf Astoria, with security feeds flickering across the monitors. Beckett stands stiff, arms crossed. Whit leans against the wall, his expression unreadable, but his clenched jaw gives him away. Quinn paces. No grin. No joke. Just a restless energy that sets my nerves even more on edge.
“This is insanity,” Beckett says finally, breaking the silence. “He might as well be the president with how well he’s protected. Every step we take will be a risk, and if this goes sideways, there’s no coming back.”
Quinn stops pacing and throws his hands up in frustration. “So what’s the alternative? Let him keep funneling money into people like Voss?”
I sit quietly, listening to them go back and forth. My heart pounds, knowing what I’m about to say. It’s not that I disagree with their concerns—it’s that I see the solution, and I know it’s not one they’re going to like.
Alaric Hawthorn isn’t just a financial powerhouse—he’s a predator in every sense of the word. A man who’s built his empire on manipulation and exploitation and who views people as nothing more than tools to be used and discarded. His reputation precedes him. I know he lives for the thrill—taking whatever or whoever he wants, simply because he can.
“He’s a known womanizer, right?” I cut in, breaking up their argument.
All three heads snap toward me. Whit’s eyes narrow. “What are you getting at?”
I take a steady breath, knowing this won’t go over well, and meet their gazes head-on. “We use that to our advantage.”
“How do you suggest we do that?” Quinn asks, suspicion lacing his tone.
“Simple. I’ll be the bait.”
“Not a fucking chance,” Beckett snaps, his voice like stone.
“It’s the only way,” I argue. “You’ve been going in circles trying to figure out how to get him alone. He’s not going to meet you in some dark alley without his guards. But if I can get him to take me to his room, you guys can handle the rest.”
Whit shakes his head. “No. Out of the question.” Now they’re just making me mad. They’ve spent all this time training me and telling me how strong I am, yet they don’t believe it?
Quinn’s jaw tightens, and for once, he seems to be taking something seriously. “Celest, you don’t know what kind of man?—”
“I know exactly what kind of man he is.” My voice cuts through his. I stand, locking eyes with him. “And I know what I’m capable of. I thought y’all did too.” My words make them flinch. “Look, he likes a challenge, right? If one of you shows up flaunting me on your arm as a possession—an accessory—he’ll want to steal me away from you. I’ll play along, get him to his room, and y’all take it from there.”
“You don’t understand,” Beckett says, his voice quieter but no less firm. “He’s going to touch you. He’s going to?—”
“I do understand.” I glare at him. “This isn’t about me—it’s about stopping him. If it means putting up with his hands for a few minutes, then so be it. And I’m telling you, I can handle it.”
Whit’s expression hardens, fists clenched at his sides. “There has to be another way.”
“There’s not,” I say firmly. “This is the best shot we have, and you know it. Look, I know you hate this. I hate it too. But if we don’t take this chance, more people are going to get hurt. And I’m getting really tired of the three of you telling me what I do and don’t understand.”
Beckett exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But it has to be airtight.”
“Would we ever do anything less than perfect?” I ask, breaking the tension, and give them a moment of silence to let the idea sink in.
“Promise me that if we say it’s time to abort—you’ll listen,” Beckett demands.
“I will.” But none of them look convinced. “I promise!”
“We’ll arrive as guests,” Quinn sighs, finally sinking into his seat. “I should be able to use my family’s name to get us an invitation.” His tone is still tense, but he’s more focused now. “Celest will go by a different name. I’ll introduce her as someone I met recently—someone I just couldn’t resist showing off. Hawthorn won’t be able to help himself. He’ll take the bait.”
“Meanwhile, Beckett and I will act as Quinn’s personal guards,” Whit adds reluctantly.
“Yeah—but disguised in case any of our parents are there,” Quinn says, all three of them flinching at the word parents .
“What about the cause of death?” I ask, thinking it over. “It has to look natural.”
“Poison,” Beckett replies. “A delayed neurotoxin—something that mimics a heart attack but leaves no trace after a few hours.”
“Subtle,” Quinn says, nodding. “We’ll slip it into his drink before they head upstairs.” He grimaces, as if those last words left a foul taste in his mouth.
For the next few hours, we go back and forth on the plan until Beckett lays out the final details. “We’ll take the helicopter into the city. Quinn and Celest will arrive at the gala as high-profile hotel guests. Whit and I will stay in the background as security, keeping an eye on the room.”
“Once I get him upstairs, y’all need to be there waiting. That means you’ll have to get into position before we arrive. We’ll need a signal.” I finish, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my stomach.
“When you hand him my drink—dosed with the neurotoxin—that’s our cue to move,” Quinn says, his voice edged with reluctance.
None of them look happy, but they nod—we’re all in agreement. Whit’s gaze lingers on me, eyes full of unspoken worry. “We’ll be close the entire time,” he says quietly. “The second you need us, we’re there.”
“I know,” I reply, forcing a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“It’s not you we don’t trust,” Beckett grumbles.
“It’s going to be all right, you’ll see,” I say, my tone brighter than I feel.
As the discussion winds down, everyone scatters to finalize their preparations. I call the Waldorf, slipping into the role of Quinn’s personal assistant. Within minutes, they’ve booked us a penthouse. Then, I request a gown befitting Mr. Delaney’s guest for the Christmas Eve Gala. I give my measurements and coloring, and the woman assures me that several options will be waiting in the master closet. It’s amazing what money—and a name—can do.
I take a slow breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling. This is the riskiest mission we’ve ever attempted. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared, but fear’s nothing new—and this cause is far worthier. If letting Hawthorn put his hands on me means stopping him, then so be it.
I watch them work, never tiring of the quiet precision in their movements—there’s something undeniably attractive about the way they operate, all skill and certainty. For all their grumbling, they trust me—and I trust them. Whatever happens tomorrow night, we’ll face it together.
The hum of the monitors and the faint rustle of papers are the only sounds as we finalize the plan—again. I know the repetition comes from fear, and I don’t blame them. My body is just as tense. I pace the Batcave, running through every step I’ll take tomorrow night—on repeat. It’s the kind of focus that leaves no room for anything else.
Finally, feeling like I’ve exhausted my mind, I glance up and find them watching me. Their expressions are unreadable, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface—a heat in their eyes that makes my pulse quicken.
Beckett’s the first to move, stepping away from the table and crossing the room to stand in front of me. His usual hard-edged demeanor eases—just enough to make my chest ache.
“You’re ready,” he says, his words quiet but confident. “You’ve proven that over and over, and we should’ve remembered from the moment the idea left your lips. But I need you to remember something tomorrow night.”
“What’s that?” I ask, the words barely more than a breath.
His hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “That you’re ours. Not his. Not anyone else’s. Ours. Only ours.”
Whit steps behind me, his broad chest pressing against my back. His hands settle on my shoulders, his touch warm as he kneads the tension away. “You’re not in this alone, princess,” he murmurs, voice rough, and my eyes close as I lean into his touch. “We’re with you every step of the way. And when you’re out there playing your role, when his hands are on you, just remember who you really belong to.”
Quinn clears his throat. When I glance over, he’s leaning casually against the table—but his usual grin is still missing. It hasn’t made a reappearance since before we started planning this mission. His gaze flicks over me, dark and intense, making my skin erupt with chill bumps.
“We know you can handle him,” he says. “Hell, you’ll probably have the fucker wrapped around your finger before the first drink is gone. But we’re not letting you walk into this without a reminder—without making damn sure that every time he touches you, it’s us you feel.”
My breath catches, their words igniting an inferno inside me. “You don’t have to remind me,” I say softly. “I could never forget.”
“Good,” Beckett says, his hand coming to rest against my neck, fingers curling just enough to cause shivers. “But we’re going to make sure anyway.” Then his lips are on mine, commanding my submission—that I willingly give.
Whit’s hands slide beneath my shirt, skimming up my body before dragging my thin bra with them. His palms cup my breasts, fingers kneading, teasing. My nipples are already stiff, and he rolls them between his fingers—pinching, pulling—sending a sharp gasp from my lips. Beckett steps back as Whit tugs my shirt over my head and tosses it aside.
Quinn—never one to be left out—drops to his knees, hands gripping my thighs. When he looks up, that cocky smirk I’ve been missing is back, full of promise. His lips graze my stomach as he unbuttons my jeans, his mouth following every inch as he eases them down my legs.
“You’ve got no fucking idea what you do to us,” Quinn murmurs, his voice low. “Watching you take charge, and putting us in our place when we underestimate you… It’s the sexiest damn thing in the world.”
Whit’s hands glide down my arms, pulling me tighter against him. “We want you to feel that power. To know exactly what you do to us. Tomorrow, he might have your attention. But it’ll be our touch burned into your skin.”
Beckett’s hand slides back to my throat, his grip possessive. “He can look, and the bastard might touch, but that’s all he’ll ever get—and he’ll fucking die for it,” he says with a growl. My eyes flash open, trailing down his naked body—all hard lines and raw strength, like a sculpture carved by the gods themselves.
“Who do you belong to, Celest?” he demands, as his grip tightens.
“You—the three of you.” My voice is breathy, caught between his grip on my throat and the heat searing through me.
“And we belong to you,” Whit responds, his voice rough. “Don’t forget that.”
Quinn’s lips brush over my knee, and I can feel his grin against my flesh. “Not that we’d let you.”
My heart pounds as their touches and words consume me, the heat of their presence chasing away the nerves twisting my stomach. I’m drowning in them—so lost in sensation that I barely notice Quinn lifting my leg over his shoulder. But I sure as hell notice when his mouth finds me, licking, sucking—devouring—until I’m nothing but a trembling mess, pleading for more.
“Fuck princess, you’re making a mess all over me,” Quinn says, giving one last, long lick before standing. Whit picks me up and carries me to his room.
“You’re going to be such a good fucking girl for us, aren’t you, Celest?” Beckett growls the moment my back hits the bed. Before I can answer, he grabs my ankles and drags me to the edge. His grip shifts to the back of my neck, forcing me sit up and rise to my knees—his face so close, I feel the heat of his breath.
“What do you think, Celest? Can you fit two of us in that tight, dripping cunt of yours?” His words should terrify me—but instead, heat floods my core, slick and undeniable.
“Fuck yeah, she can,” Quinn drawls. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we won’t break you—much.”
Whit smirks, reaching into a drawer for the lube. “And if we do? We’ll just put you back together.”
Beckett releases his grip, hooks his arms around me, and lifts me effortlessly—tossing me onto my back. Before I can catch my breath, he yanks me to the edge again, throws my legs over his shoulders, and drives into me—one brutal thrust, bottoming out. No warning. No mercy. Just raw, relentless force as he pounds into me, over and over, until all I can do is grip the sheets and scream.
“Whose name is all over this pussy?” Beckett demands.
“Yours,” I whimper.
“Say it.”
“Yours, Beckett!”
His groan is pure satisfaction. “Good. Fucking. Girl.” He pulls out, tossing my legs aside before delivering a sharp slap to my rear. Then he steps back, making room for Quinn.
Still on my side, Quinn lifts my top leg, draping it over his chest, the bend of his elbow locking it in place. Then he thrusts into me—deep, so deep I swear I see stars. I grip his arm as he uses my leg for leverage, pulling me to him with every sharp snap of his hips.
“Tell me, sweetheart, whose cock is buried so fucking deep inside you, you’ll never forget the way it feels?”
“Your’s, Quinn. Oh, God… Quinn… I can’t.”
“You can. And you’ll take every fucking inch I give you.” He slams into me, hard and unforgiving, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge—until, just as the cord inside me is about to snap, he pulls out.
I cry out, wrecked, denied.
Before I can beg, strong hands lift me, shifting my body until I’m lowered onto Whit—impaled, my back flush against his chest. His arms wrap around my center, locking me in place as he thrusts up, deep and deliberate. I grip his forearms, my nails sinking into his skin, but he doesn’t stop. A guttural moan rips from my throat as my head falls back against his shoulder.
One of his hands slides between my legs, fingers pressing hard and fast against my clit, sending me hurtling back to the razor’s edge. “That’s it, princess, you’re so close—I can feel your walls clenching around me. Now tell me… whose name are you going to scream when you come?”
“Y—” I start, and then shatter, screaming, “Oh, God, Whit!”
“Mmm, I love hearing my name screamed from your lips.” His pace slows, teasing, drawing out my torment. Beckett steps in front of me, his gaze dark with intent. He slicks himself with lube, then lifts my legs, propping my feet on Whit’s thighs—positioning me exactly how he wants.
“I’m going to go slow at first,” he murmurs, his gaze locked onto mine. “But I’m not stopping. Do you understand?” His eyes bore into me, unwavering. I know—if I told him to stop right now, he would. No hesitation. But I don’t. I nod, trusting them to take care of me. His lips curve, approval dark in his eyes. “That’s my good girl.”
I feel his slick tip press into me—slow, deliberate. It’s tight, almost too much, but he doesn’t stop. Just like he said he wouldn’t. A whimper slips from my lips as my head falls back onto Whit’s shoulder. He’s there instantly, his mouth trailing along my neck, kissing, nipping—claiming.
“Look at you, princess,” Whit rasps, his voice rough with hunger. He grips the back of my neck, tilting my head forward—forcing me to watch as he and Beckett stretch me wider than I thought possible. The sight alone wrecks me, my body tightening, pleasure surging. I don’t know why it pushes me closer to the edge—but it does.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Quinn groans, stroking himself as he watches. Beckett starts slow, pushing in with shallow thrusts until my body gives way, stretching around him. Then he’s driving into me—hard, possessive—while Whit holds me still, keeping me locked between them, taking everything they give.
“Goddamn, I’m not gonna last much longer,” Whit grits out, his voice tight with restraint. “So fucking tight.” A few moments later, pleasure crashes over me—I clench hard around them, free-falling into bliss, shattering at the bottom. Whit curses, his grip bruising as he thrusts deep one final time, spilling inside me. Beckett doesn’t slow—he just keeps driving into me, relentless.
I feel them both slide out before Beckett lifts me, effortlessly passing me into waiting hands. For only a moment, I’m suspended—before I’m placed back where they want me. Beckett grips my hips, lines me up, and drives me down onto him—filling me in one sudden, overwhelming thrust. A deep groan rips from my throat at the intrusion.
“Not done yet, princess,” Quinn says, pushing me down onto Beckett’s chest. I barely have time to catch my breath before I feel him nudge my entrance—before he forces his way in alongside Beckett. A cry rips from my throat, a sharp mix of pleasure and pain. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t give me a second to adjust. “Fuck, I can’t go slow.”
“Oh God,” I moan, my body already spiraling, flying higher at breakneck speed.
“Fuck, she’s taking you both so well,” Whit murmurs, awe thick in his voice. He lies beside us, eyes locked on where his best friends are buried inside me.
Beckett’s breath shudders. “I’m close.” His voice is tight, strained.
“Just a few more minutes,” Quinn grits out, his thrusts unrelenting. “I’m almost there.”
“Come on, good girl,” Beckett whispers against my ear, brushing my hair from my face. “Give us one more.”
I want to tell him I can’t—that I won’t survive another—but my brain refuses to form words. Yet, even as I think it’s impossible, my clit rubs against Beckett’s pubic bone, unraveling me, the tension inside snapping like a live wire.
This time, when I scream, Beckett and Quinn fall with me—dragged under by the same oblivion. We lie there, bodies tangled, breathless. I don’t know how it’s possible, but every time I take all of them, I end up like this—spent, nearly comatose. My eyes flutter shut as Quinn pulls out, only to collapse beside Beckett.
“Don’t ever forget who you belong to,” Beckett whispers against my ear, his voice the last thing I hear as exhaustion drags me under. I sink into their embrace, knowing that no matter what happens tomorrow night, forgetting them is impossible.
Because I’m theirs.
And they’re mine.