Ace tilts her chin up, and we both lean in simultaneously. Our mouths meet hers together—a kiss that seals our claim more permanently than any signature on the Hunt contract ever could.
When we break apart, reality crashes back. Twenty-four hours. We have to wait twenty-four fucking hours before the official claiming period begins. Twenty-four hours where she’ll be taken from us, checked by doctors, and given respite. As if there’s anything to consider.
I look at Ace over Keira’s head, and for once, I see my own impatience mirrored in his eyes. A year of claiming her, of losing myself in her body repeatedly, suddenly doesn’t sound like nearly enough time.
A year? We’re going to need a lifetime.
15
KEIRA
Icollapse onto my bed, every muscle screaming. It’s been ten hours since the Hunt ended, since medical staff examined me and sent me home. My body is covered in marks from fingers, teeth, and restraints. Evidence of what I let them do to me. What I begged them to do.
The ceiling blurs as tears fill my eyes. I should shower again. Scrub harder. But what’s the point? The Dexter twins are carved into me now, deeper than skin.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whisper to the empty apartment.
My foster father’s voice echoes in my head.
You like this. I can tell. Such a little slut.
I was thirteen. Then fifteen in another home with another monster. Both times, I disappeared inside myself until it was over.
But with Ace and Cyrus, I didn’t disappear. I was horrifyingly present. Wanting. Begging.
I curl onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest, making myself small like I used to after those nights in foster care. My phone lights up on the nightstand.
Marco is checking if I’m coming to rehearsal. I can’t even think about dancing right now.
How can I face my dancers? They don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done. What I’ve become.
The twins’ voices tangle in my head.
Our perfect little slut. Ours. No one will ever fuck you the way we do.
And they’re right. I’m ruined for anyone else. Worse, something in me doesn’t want anyone else.
I press my face into the pillow, shame burning through me. They systematically broke me down, used me in ways I never imagined, and instead of feeling violated, I feel like they found something inside me I’ve been running from my entire life.
The contract said seventy-two hours. Twenty-four-hour cool down. And then up to a year of claiming. But we all know what this was—a rich man’s game where women are prey. The fact that I willingly signed up makes me hate myself even more.
I’m hollow with want, aching for the very men who treated me like property, waiting for them to come and get me when the twenty-four hours are over.
My phone rings with a shrill intensity that cuts through the haze of my thoughts. I lift my head from the pillow, wincing as soreness ripples through my body, a reminder of everything that happened over those seventy-two hours.
Unknown number. My heart kicks against my ribs. I shouldn’t answer. I should let it ring through to voicemail.
But my hand moves of its own accord, swiping to accept the call before my brain can catch up.
“Hello?” My voice comes out raspy, broken.
“Miss me already, little dancer?”
Cyrus.
His voice sends a jolt through me—part fear, part something I refuse to name. I sit up abruptly, ignoring the protest of my muscles.
“Why are you calling me?” The words tumble out, sharper than I intended. “It’s the cool-down period. No contact for twenty-four hours. That’s the rules.”
