Chapter 32
32
E verything feels different now.
Lighter. Warmer. Safer.
Maybe it’s because Josiah is gone—a nightmare finally put to rest. Maybe it’s because, for the first time, I know I’m free.
Even if my father is still out there.
The moment we boarded the jet, the weight on my chest eased. Even with the lingering cough, I could finally breathe.
Once we were in the air, Whit led me to the shower—because, of course, their jet has a shower. I nearly cried when the hot water hit my skin, thawing me from the inside out, rinsing away the filth that had clung to me like a second skin.
Dressed in a mishmash of their clothes, I was finally warm. The tight coil of cold that had lived in my bones for days had finally unraveled.
After taking the antibiotics and pain meds one of them had left out for me, I sank between Whit and Beckett on the lounge, tucked between their warmth. My body was exhausted, but my mind refused to quiet.
I needed to know.
So I asked them to tell me what happened after I disappeared.
It took effort to get them talking—each of them hating to relive the moment the elevator doors opened and I was gone. More than once, they had to stop mid-sentence, fists clenched, swallowing back the rage.
I understood why.
Because the more they talked, the more I realized just how close we had come to losing everything.
Things got messy after Alaric Hawthorn’s body was found in the elevator.
Security footage placed me as the last person seen with him—a flashing red flag that no one could ignore. Within thirty minutes, Hawthorn’s people were circling Quinn, demanding answers.
He had no choice but to throw up a shield of indifference, claiming I was nothing but a social climber—that I disappeared the moment he stepped away to speak with someone. The entire time, he masked panic with disgust.
But everything shifted when hotel security footage showed the handoff—me, passed straight into Josiah’s grasp.
That single revelation turned the entire narrative on its head.
It still didn’t stop Hawthorn’s people from trying to detain Quinn and his ‘security’ team, desperate to untangle the mess.
The guys weren’t willing to leave me in Josiah’s grasp a second longer than necessary. Waiting around—with their “thumbs up their asses,” as Quinn put it—wasn’t an option.
When the hotel staff hesitated to grant clearance for takeoff from their helipad, the decision was easy: fuck the clearance. Within minutes, they’d packed up, armed up, and were moving for the rooftop—expecting a fight.
And it was a good thing they were.
Josiah had mercenaries waiting, locked and loaded—ready to put Quinn in the ground before he could reach the helicopter. What they didn’t know was that Quinn wasn’t some fragile, trust-fund socialite.
And he wasn’t alone.
They fought their way out under a hail of gunfire, barely reaching the chopper before escape became impossible.
They knew who had me. But they didn’t know where. All they knew was that they needed to get home—to track me, to make a plan, to tear apart anything standing in their way.
“What was in the envelope Josiah handed Hawthorn?” I ask.
It’s the last thing I remember before everything went dark, and I couldn’t shake the thought—what price had Josiah paid to have me back?
“Hawthorn’s people kept it very hush-hush,” Beckett said, his tone edged with irritation.
“Yeah, and it wasn’t our priority,” Whit practically growls. “We didn’t give a fuck what was in there the second we knew who had you.”
Quinn clenches his jaw, staring at me, his nod slow and deliberate. The intensity in his eyes, combined with the distance, makes it seem like he’s reliving the moment they discovered I was back in Josiah’s clutches.
Beckett exhales, frustration tightening his features. “Whatever it was, it must’ve been explosive, because the moment it got out, no one gave a damn about you anymore. All the focus shifted to the contents.”
“People are so fucked. How does the contents of an envelope trump a missing woman?” Quinn mutters, pushing to his feet.
He starts pacing the aisle, restless, coiled with frustration. Where he found the energy, I’ll never know.
“This is why we do what we do,” Whit says, gripping my hand like he needs the contact just as much as I do. “People don’t become billionaires without making several horrific choices along the way.”
Beckett leans back, exhaling slowly. “Think of us as knights on a chessboard. We aren’t the ones playing the game. But the head of the syndicate we take jobs from? He sees the entire board—plays against multiple opponents at once.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him I have no idea what chess even is, so I just nod. I get the general idea of his analogy—for the most part, anyway.
“Who’s the head of the syndicate? Are they the ones who recruited you?” I ask, realizing I’ve never really given it much thought before.
“We don’t know his name. He just goes by ‘S’ whenever he communicates with us directly. Which isn’t often.” Whit hesitates, searching for the right words to answer my second question. “In a way, the syndicate is responsible. But not directly.”
He shoots Beckett a glance before continuing. “Mr. Ambrose was the one who put the idea in our heads—he was the connection. He’s the one who brought us to ‘S.’”
“Ultimately, we chose this life, sweetheart.” Quinn’s voice drops, his words heavy with guilt. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, it’s probably me.”
His fists clench, jaw tight, as if bracing for the weight of my judgment.
“Oh, I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand,” I say, my voice soft but clear.
I stand, moving toward him, and without thinking, my arms instinctively wrap around him. “I could never think poorly of any of you. Not when I love you.” The words are a whisper, fragile yet full of conviction.
I hold my breath, the fear of rejection heavy in the air. I know they must feel the same, but my heart pounds, desperate for their answer.
Quinn gently grips my chin, tilting my head back so I had no choice but to look up at him. “You love us?” His voice soft, full of wonder.
My voice seems to have fled, so all I can do is nod.
“Oh, thank fuck.” His grin’s possessive, his lips claiming mine with a force that steels my breath.
Hands grip my waist just before I’m being pulled back down between Whit and Beckett.
Whit cradles my head between his hands, pressing his forehead gently to mine. “We knew how we felt,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “But… we didn’t think you could ever feel the same towards us.”
When Whit finally releases me, Beckett pulls me onto his lap, his hands firm on my neck, gently forcing me to meet his gaze.
“The way we started wasn’t the kindest, and definitely wasn’t the most romantic,” Beckett says.
“I don’t know, I kind of liked it,” I smirk, desperate to hide my anxiety. We all laugh before Becket continues.
“We were willing to accept whatever affection you were ready to give us. Your love… it’s more than we ever allowed ourselves to hope for.” He murmurs the words softly, his thumb dragging across my bottom lip with a tenderness that cracks something deep inside me.
Quinn’s voice pulls my attention back to him. “In case you can’t tell, sweetheart, we love you too.” Quinn’s grin turns wicked, teasing. “Even though you like the wrong Batman movie.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, hiding my face in Beckett’s chest, the weight of their declarations of love crashing over me.
The anxiety coiling inside me drains away, leaving me utterly spent. Suddenly, it feels impossible to stay awake. There’s still more to the story, I’m certain, but it can wait.
I’m safe.
I’m happy.
I’m going home.
Later, I found out that we still don’t know what was in that envelope.
Beckett spoke to Wraith, who said he’s handling it. That tells me it must be pretty bad if he’s making it a priority. I wonder if it’s tied to the research we confiscated from the mad doctor.
Beckett also reported that Wraith made it clear he wasn’t pleased about the favor they called in to get me out—which Quinn found hilarious.
Apparently, explosives aren’t his thing. He’s more of a shadow, preferring digital warfare over anything in person. No one’s complaining though—he returned the favor he owed.
The guys have a bet going on whether or not Wraith will ever ask for another favor in the future. Personally, I think he will. Like Beckett said to him in the cellar, we have common interests.
There were some other details I found fascinating. When they were creating their plan, they knew that if Plan A failed, they’d have to let Josiah catch them on the way in.
Every other scenario they worked out put me at too great a risk—and would’ve likely meant at least one of them wouldn’t make it out alive. Considering how close we came to the worst-case scenario, I believed them.
Knowing they’d probably take a beating, they couldn’t figure out how to recover fast enough once the bombs went off. That’s when ‘S’ got involved.
The syndicate contacted them for a hit, but when they had to turn it down, ‘S’ made a call.
They told him the basics of what they were up against. When he heard where their plan hit a roadblock, he gave them something to give them an edge.
An experimental drug still in the testing phases. Designed to override exhaustion, push past pain, and enhance speed, strength, and focus. A supercharged version of adrenaline.
Beckett and Whit agreed it made them feel like fucking superheroes, and it was the only reason we all made it out alive. Quinn says it made him horny and homicidal in equal measure. Which, let’s be honest, totally tracks.
And now… we’re home. I’m at peace. I’m where I belong. It took a few days, but my cough is gone, my body’s well-rested, and my bruises are fading. More importantly, I’m surrounded by love, and my heart is full.
Life picks up right where it left off. I dive headfirst into the next assignment—tracking information, gathering intel, feeling useful.
It feels wonderful. Everything is running smoothly. Until, out of nowhere, it hits me.
I killed someone.
I took a life.
I’m a murderer.
The feeling washes over me like a wave—heavy, suffocating, disorienting.
It’s not guilt. Josiah deserved it—and then some.
The thought knocks the breath from my lungs. My fingers freeze over the keyboard as I stare at nothing, caught in the grip of the memory.
It replays in my mind—his knife at Beckett’s throat, his mocking words, the way I shut everything out, aimed, and fired.
Then there’s the gore I haven’t allowed myself to think about—the blood, the sickening spray of brain and bone that exploded out the back of his head.
I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
But I feel… something. Remorse, maybe. But not over killing him. I’m not sure what it’s for.
Shouldn’t I feel worse about pulling the trigger? Instead of… being equal parts disgusted by the memory and empty from the action?
The guys notice—they always do—the second something’s off. Within moments, they close in, a silent wall of steady hands and quiet concern.
I tell them what’s gnawing at me: the hollowness, the disgust. But not for the reasons I’m supposed to feel them. Am I a horrible person for feeling the wrong thing?
They cut the thoughts off before they can take root.
“If you didn’t feel something,” Beckett murmurs, rubbing warmth into my arms, “then we’d be worried.”
“It’s not about whether he deserved it,” Whit says. “Because he did. It’s about what it takes from you. The first kill… it buries something inside you. Something you don’t get back. And that’s worth mourning.”
Quinn’s voice is quieter than usual, gentler, as though he’s smoothing the edges of something raw. “But that doesn’t mean you have to let it eat you alive. Acknowledge it. Then let it go.”
They tell me they all felt it—the first time. How they know exactly what it does to you, how it settles under your skin.
It took time, but eventually, they decided the sacrifice was worth it—if it meant keeping the worst of humanity from hurting anyone else. Maybe it took something from them. But it helps to know they gained something too—the peace of knowing they’re doing good.
I nod. I understand. I do.
It doesn’t change the fact that I hate how numb I feel.
“Now that,” Whit says, lifting my shirt over my head and tossing it aside, “we can do something about.”
“It’s been hell waiting for you to get all better, sweetheart. Especially after what you told us on the plane.”
Quinn grins up at me from where he kneels, dragging my leggings down with deliberate care. He guides each foot free, his touch lingering just enough to make it known, before tossing the fabric somewhere near my discarded shirt.
I’m left standing in nothing but a dark-green lace bralette.
“Oh, princess,” Whit murmurs from behind, his breath warm against my neck. “Have you been bare under those thin little things you call pants this whole time?” He buries his face into my hair, inhaling the soft floral notes of my shampoo like he’s savoring it.
“Yes,” I gasp out as Quinn lifts one of my legs over his shoulder and buries his face into my heat. His tongue glides through my folds in slow, languid strokes, and I scream out his name when he sucks hard on my clit. I can feel his grin against me along with the vibrations from his hum of approval.
Beckett pushes my bralette up just enough to bare me, his mouth latching onto a hardened peak. Teeth sink in—just enough to sting—before his tongue soothes over the ache. A groan rips from my throat.
Behind me, Whit’s palm lands sharp against my rear—a quick sting before Quinn slides a finger in.
“Oh, God, please,” I gasp.
“Please what?” Whit asks, his tone dripping with satisfaction as his hand fists my hair.
“I-I need… please!” The words break from me, my core clenching around his finger, desperate for more.
“Come now, sweetheart,” Quinn purrs, “we want to hear you beg—with all the filthy words you’ve surely picked up from us by now.”
Two fingers press into me, stretching, filling—but he keeps them still. Waiting. Smirking at the frustrated sound that spills from my lips.
“What do you want my fingers to do, Celest?” His voice is all dark amusement. “Let me hear you be a dirty girl for us.”
“I—I want you to… to f-fuck me with them!” The words barely leave me before Quinn moves—fingers plunging deep, mouth closing over my clit.
I scream when his teeth graze the swollen nerve, his bite landing the second “fuck” spills from my lips.
Behind me, Whit grips my hip tighter, his other hand dropping, a finger teasing at the tight ring. “Come on, princess,” he murmurs, “tell us exactly what you want.”
The words catch in my throat, strangled by the sheer, aching need coiling deep inside me. “I want—” A sharp slap lands on my rear, Whit’s patience wearing thin.
“Use your words, Celest.”
Quinn hums against me, dragging his fingers slow and deep, keeping me teetering on the edge. “What do you want, sweetheart?” He presses a kiss just above where I need him most, his breath hot against my skin. “If you want to come, you have to say it.”
“My… my… oh God, it’s… I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” Whit’s voice is nothing but certainty, nothing but command. His grip tightens as he pushes in slightly, forcing a gasp from my lips. “In fact, you’re going to take two of us back here tonight—just like your sweet cunt did.”
I whimper, my body already betraying me, already wanting.
“Now, tell me, princess,” he purrs, pulsing his finger, teasing at the impending stretch, “where are you taking two cocks tonight? And who’s fucking it with me?”
I don’t respond.
They pause—all of them—as if some silent agreement has settled between them. A test. A waiting game.
It doesn’t take long for them to win.
“Quinn,” I whisper.
Still, they don’t move.
My breath shudders. “I want you and Quinn to fuck me in m-my ass.”
“Good fucking girl.” Beckett growls the words before his mouth crashes into mine, his kiss nothing short of possession. His teeth, his tongue—he devours me.
Quinn lowers my leg, stepping back just as Beckett moves. Sweeps me up. Instinct takes over—I lock my legs around his waist, my body yielding to the way he carries me through the hall, his grip unshakable, his intent unmistakable.
The world tilts as Beckett drops me onto his bed, flat on my back, hands already in my hair—already positioning me. His grip is firm, deliberate, dragging my head to the edge and cradling it in his palms—holding me exactly where he wants me.
Whit grips my legs, spreading them wide as he settles between my thighs.
A plastic cap clicks open.
I watch as he squeezes out a generous amount of the cool, slippery substance. A shiver rolls through me at the first slick press of his fingers—then, a few minutes later, the slow slide of two fingers inside my?—
My breath stutters.
My… ass .
I suppose I could start saying it. Even if the word still catches in my throat. Even if it feels wrong. Even if it stumbles in my mind.
“Hold on tight, princess,” Whit warns, pushing my bent legs toward my chest until I have no choice but to hook a hand around each one. His gaze locks onto mine—setting me ablaze “I’m not going easy on you tonight. You’re going to feel every inch of me buried deep as I ride you hard. Gotta make sure you’re stretched enough so Quinn can get in here too.”
Whit pushes into me—slow for only a breath—then all at once.
He worked me open, stretching me with his fingers, but it’s still not enough to dull the burn as he fills me in a single, merciless thrust. A cry rips from my throat, but Whit only smirks, watching me come apart beneath him before he pulls out and drives back in.
A few thrusts, and the pain fades, pleasure crashing over it, drowning it out. Even more so when Quinn’s mouth finds my clit again—hot, consuming.
“Tell Whit thank you for making you feel,” Beckett orders.
“T-thank you… oh God… f-for making me?—”
“Fuck!”
The word rips from me as Whit thrusts deeper, his slick fingers joining the stretch, forcing my body to take more.
Beckett laughs, dark amusement curling in his voice. “That’ll do just fine. Now, be a good girl and open wide.”
His grip eases, releasing my head just enough for it to hang over the edge of the bed. The moment my lips part, he doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, filling my mouth in a single, unstoppable motion.
I gag when he hits the back of my throat, but it doesn’t stop him—he forces his way deeper, claiming every inch.
“You’re stretching out so beautifully, princess. Won’t be long before Quinn can get up in this.” Each word is punctuated by the sharp, unyielding snap of Whit’s hips.
“I can’t fucking wait,” Quinn murmurs, dark hunger lacing his voice. “But first, let’s see how soaked we can make her.”
His fingers find my clit—too fast, too hard. The pressure is overwhelming, the sensation too much, too sharp, too consuming.
I try to squirm away, legs trembling, instinct screaming for escape, but it doesn’t matter.
They hold me open. Keep me still. Make me take it.
Between the lack of air and the pressure coiling deep inside me, there’s nothing left to do—nowhere to run—except let go.
The moment I do, humiliation slams into me. My body betrays me, the release so intense it feels like I?—
Oh God.
“Oh, fuck, she squirted,” Quinn groans, his voice thick with something that’s definitely not disgust. If anything, he sounds wrecked. His fingers don’t stop, don’t slow—they coax more out of me, more than I thought possible.
“Fuck yes, here she goes again.”
More wetness spills from me, unstoppable, undeniable. Whether I wanted it to or not.
“That’s so fucking hot, Celest. Look at you being such a good fucking girl for us.” Beckett’s thrusts grow fevered, restless, and I already know—my throat will be raw for days.
“She’s ready,” Whit says, and just like that, they both pull out, leaving me boneless, gasping, trembling.
I drag in a breath, but it barely registers.
Somewhere along the way, my mind slipped—untethered, floating. I’m still here, still feeling everything—but I’m also way up in the clouds, weightless and undone.
“Look at you,” Quinn laughs, voice thick with amusement. “You’re dicked out of your mind, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
I have no idea what he means, but it sounds right—so I nod.
Beckett lifts me effortlessly, holding me against him as Quinn and Whit shift up the bed, stretching out across it.
Quinn drapes his legs over Whit, and Whit slides his under Quinn, their bodies aligning so that their lengths press together, their backsides nestled close.
Without a word, Whit flips open the lube, squeezing a thick, glistening stream into his palm. He reaches down, wrapping his fist around both of them—stroking slow at first, then firmer, slicking them up in long, deliberate pulls.
Watching him stroke both of them makes me whine with need.
“Don’t worry greedy girl, just a few more minutes,” Beckett whispers against my ear before shifting me in his arms, turning me effortlessly before lifting me up, my legs wrapping around him.
With controlled strength, he crawls us up the bed, positioning me above Quinn and Whit—waiting, ready.
He holds me there, suspended, before slowly, carefully, deliberately lowering me down. My body stretches to accommodate them, the burn sharp, overwhelming—perfect.
“Breathe,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice steady, a grounding anchor for my scattered thoughts.
Each lift, each slow descent, is measured, controlled—his strength the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.
“It’s too much,” I rasp, my voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.
Beckett tightens his grip on me, his lips brushing my ear. “You can take it. And once you’ve got both of them filling you, I’m going to fuck your poor, neglected cunt at the same time.”
A helpless whimper escapes me, the sheer thought of it making my body tense, clench—anticipate.
Quinn and Whit groan as they finally sink in fully, stretching me to my limit, pushing past every last inch of resistance.
I’m panting, shaking—overstimulated to the point of madness.
Everything is too much.
Too deep.
Too sensitive.
And it’s only just beginning.
“See? I knew you could take it.”
Beckett eases me back against a pile of pillows, positioning me just how he wants. My breath hitches as he spreads me open and slides inside—stretching me, filling me like never before.
A shattered whimper escapes me.
The moment he’s fully seated, we all groan—bodies locked together, breath catching in unison. For just a few seconds, we exist in it—in the unbearable pressure, in the sheer, impossible fullness.
Then, all at once, they move.
I cry out, the sound ripped from my throat as my body is forced to take it—all of it, all of them, all at once.
Quinn and Whit thrust up in perfect sync, their rhythm precise, measured, devastating.
Beckett drives into me, fucking me with raw, merciless intensity.
It’s so much.
Too much.
And not just for me.
“God damn, I’m not gonna make it much longer,” Whit grits out, his voice wrecked, strained.
Quinn sucks in a sharp breath as I tighten around them, my body locking down, desperate to hold on.
“She’s so fucking stuffed—her ass is strangling my cock.”
I sob, trembling beneath them, every nerve frayed, overloaded, burning.
“Please… I can’t?—”
The words break apart as a fresh wave of sensation crashes through me—too much, too deep, too consuming. I already know—when I fall this time, it won’t just shatter me. It’ll eviscerate me.
“You will.” Beckett’s voice is steady, absolute. “Every time you say you can’t, you prove yourself wrong. Don’t hold it in, Celest.”
His hand slides down, fingers finding my overstimulated, swollen clit, pressing down with cruel precision. The contact is too much, too sharp—pleasure laced with pain.
I cry out, trembling, my body trying to escape but having nowhere to go.
“Nononono… no, I can’t,” I chant, shaking my head, panic curling into the pleasure.
Beckett moves without hesitation, his fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to steal most of my breath.
“Stop saying you can’t,” he growls, his grip firm, inescapable. “And come for us.”
Tears spill down my cheeks, my body torn between fighting it and surrendering completely. The tension pulls tighter than it ever has before—too much, too deep, too consuming.
“Stop fighting it, Celest,” Beckett growls, his nose nearly touching mine. “Come. Now.”
His demand overrides everything—my thoughts, my will, my ability to resist.
I shatter.
A silent scream parts my lips as my body locks up, clenches tight, pleasure detonating inside me like a star going supernova. I wouldn’t be able to say if they finished with me or after—because the world ceases to exist.
Everything vanishes.
I’m floating—adrift in a haze of bliss, unmoored, weightless.
I have no idea how much time passes before awareness gently pulls me back. A blanket tugs over my skin, warmth surrounds me, strong arms wrapping tight around my center.
Lips brush my ear, and the last thing my fading consciousness picks up is a whisper, low and reverent:
“I love you, my good girl.”