KEIRA
Iwake slowly, consciousness drifting back like morning fog lifting off water. My eyes flutter open to find sunlight streaming through massive windows, bathing the penthouse bedroom in gold. For a moment, I’m disoriented—weren’t we in a grimy motel? Then I remember: we flew back late last night, stumbled into the penthouse well past midnight.
Two pairs of stormy gray eyes watch me intently from either side of the bed. Ace and Cyrus, propped up on their elbows, examining me with identical expressions of concern.
“What?” I mumble. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You didn’t have nightmares,” Cyrus says, reaching out to brush hair from my face. “We expected screaming, thrashing...”
Ace’s finger traces the curve of my shoulder. “You slept like the dead. Not a single sound.”
I stretch, cataloging the sensations in my body. My muscles are sore, but in a satisfied way. The cuts from Cyrus’s blade have scabbed over, tiny lines of remembrance across my skin. But my mind feels... quiet. Peaceful, even.
“I thought I’d see his face when I closed my eyes,” I admit, staring up at the ceiling. “But I didn’t dream at all. It’s like... I’vebeen having nightmares for years without realizing it. And now they’re gone.”
My hands—these hands that tortured and killed less than twenty-four hours ago—feel clean. Lighter. I flex my fingers against the silk sheets.
“I’ve spent thirteen years carrying him with me,” I whisper. “Hiding from what happened in that basement. And now...”
“Now you’re free,” Ace finishes for me.
I nod, unexpected tears pricking at my eyes. “I’ve never slept better in my life. Isn’t that fucked up?”
Cyrus leans in, pressing his lips against my temple. “It’s not fucked up. It’s justice.”
I turn my head to find both twins still watching me like I might shatter. There’s something so tender in their vigilance that it makes my chest ache.
“I’m okay,” I tell them, meaning it for perhaps the first time in my life. “Really.”
“We thought you might need to talk,” Ace says carefully. “About what happened.”
I push myself up against the headboard, studying both their faces. There’s no judgment there, no disgust or fear—just concern. They’re waiting for me to break down, to regret what we did. To need comfort or absolution.
“I killed a man who destroyed my childhood,” I say slowly, tasting the truth of the words. “I don’t need therapy for that. I need to celebrate.”
Something flickers across their identical faces—surprise, then dark understanding.
I reach out, placing one hand on Ace’s chest, the other on Cyrus’s. Their heartbeats thunder against my palms, strong and synchronized. “I want to feel alive with you both. Right now.”
I pull them close, one on each side, their bodies bracketing mine.
When Cyrus’s mouth finds mine, there’s no punishment in his kiss, no need to break me down. His tongue traces mine with reverence. Ace’s lips brush the healing cuts along my collarbone, so gently I shiver.
Their hands move over my body without the usual urgency, mapping every curve with slow appreciation. When Cyrus slides inside me, he watches my face with wonder, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Ace guides my hand to where Cyrus and I are joined, his fingers tangling with mine.
“You’re ours,” Cyrus whispers against my lips, but the words lack their usual edge of possession.
“And you’re mine,” I answer, wrapping my free arm around Ace’s neck, drawing him closer. “Both of you.”
Ace’s breath catches, and he’s looking at me with such raw emotion that tears prick my eyes. When we shift positions, and he takes his brother’s place between my thighs, he moves with deliberate tenderness, his fingers interlaced with mine.
This isn’t about claiming or being claimed. It’s about choosing each other. About three broken people finding something whole in their jagged edges.
Ace and Cyrus take their time with me, trading places. Cyrus pulls out of me, rolling to the side as Ace slides between my legs. The change in rhythm, in pressure—it’s intoxicating. Where Cyrus is raw power and barely contained emotion, Ace is precision and control, his movements calculated to draw out my pleasure.
“More,” I gasp, nails digging into Ace’s shoulders as he works inside me. “I need both of you.”
Ace’s eyes darken. He exchanges a look with Cyrus over my shoulder.
