9. Vogue

Thayer isn'tgentle with me. With all this fucked-up tension hanging in the air, he's like a storm waiting to break. I try not to flinch as his hand comes down again, a stinging reminder of my fuck-up. Each slap echoes around the room, ricocheting through my skull, mingling with memories of Westfield and that seedy flat and killing Leonard. His blood is still on my hands, dried and flaking off as Thayer doles out a punishment that is just. He has taken this harder than the others, even though they all have walls, his were fragile. Begging almost to be pulled down, and I did, and then I hurt him without meaning to.

"Say you're sorry," Thayer growls behind me, his voice thick with something dark and heavy.

"I'm sorry," I gasp, my voice a broken whisper.

He shoves his fingers inside my pussy and crooks them, making me moan, but he withdraws, making me pant for more.

But what he does next shocks me.

He runs his wet fingers over my asshole before inserting his finger, stretching me, prepping me. I've never done anal before. The clients had asked me multiple times in the past and I always refused.

I stiffen up in response to the invasion in my virgin hole.

"Thayer," I rasp, hoarse with alarm.

"Shut up and take my cock in your ass like a good little pet, baby girl."

He rams his cock inside me, and I whimper as the pain burns. He grabs my hair and pulls my head back.

"I'm riding your ass hard, baby girl. Don't you want me to enjoy fucking you?"

"Fuck," I sob as his words hit me hard this time. "Thayer."

But there's this fucked-up part in my soul that doesn't ask him to stop. It's painful and perfect, and I fucking hate that I love it.

He doesn't slow down, his cock thrusting into me with brutal precision. Every thrust is a claim, every grunt from his lips a silent promise that things will be different after tonight. That if we survive this shitstorm, we'll come out the other side stronger—or more fucked up. It's a toss-up at this point.

I feel his fingers digging into my hips, sure to leave bruises that will match the ones on my soul. "You belong to us," he repeats. "To me. I marked you. That means you come to me if you have a problem. Do you understand me, baby girl?"

My answer is choked when it eventually spills from my lips. "Yes."

His rhythm doesn't relent, and I'm lost in the disconnectedness of pleasure and punishment. Each thrust is a reminder of my place in this twisted world we've woven together. It's sick, and it's twisted, but as Thayer pounds into my ass, there's a fucked-up sense of homecoming—that I belong here with these men who are just as damaged as me.

It's right.

The room is silent except for the sounds of my choked sobs that turn into moans and Thayer's visceral grunts. We each wear our pain for the others to see and it feels like we're shedding layers, exposing the raw wounds beneath. Maybe we'll heal; maybe we'll bleed out. Fuck knows, but that's the savage beauty of it.

Thayer finally groans, a low, guttural sound from deep within him as he dumps his cum into my ass, marking me in yet another way. He has taken my anal virginity, and no one will ever be able to do that again. He claimed me in ways no one else can. His grip on my hair loosens, and he pulls out slowly—too slowly—making me feel every inch as he leaves an ache behind, with cum spilling down my thighs.

He collapses next to me on the couch, his breaths ragged as the room fills up with heavy silence again.

"Do you see what happens when you hurt us?" Quen murmurs, crouching down next to me as I stay on all fours, his hand on the back of my neck, over where he chipped me.

"Yes."

"Will you ever do it again?"

I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes.

"Words, little kitty."

"No," I whisper.

"If anyone threatens you, blackmails you, or even looks at you in a way you don't like, it's our job to make that fucker pay. Not yours. Do you understand that, little kitty? You are ours. We own you, body and soul. That means we protect you because no one touches or hurts what's ours."

I nod because I'm not capable of words. But while his words sends rockets of deep, messed up lust shooting through me, something doesn't sit right with me. It's not the chipping, it's not the punishment, it's not the ownership. It's that this goes both ways.

"Let us love you now," he murmurs before I can voice my thoughts.

He scoops me up in his arms before I can sort through the emotions swirling inside me. He's gentle as he carries me to my room, Callum following while the other two hang back.

Quentin places me on the bed and goes off to start the shower. Callum stands in front of me and stares down at me, messy, sweaty and crying. He pulls out a knife and gently lifts my bound wrists, slicing through the zip tie before he replaces the knife in his back pocket. "Look at me," he murmurs, placing his fingers under my chin to tilt my head back.

His gaze locks with mine, a storm of emotions swirling in those soulful eyes that could drown me if I let them. "You're going to be okay," he says, his voice steady but layered with a concern that wrenches at my insides.

I can't hold his gaze; I don't deserve it. Not after what I've done, not after the bloody chaos I've caused. He lifts my chin again, forcing me to meet his eyes. "We're here for you, Vogue. All of us. Even when you fuck up."

The door to the bathroom swings open, and steam pours out as Quentin steps back into the room. Callum doesn't move away from me, his fingers still gentle under my chin. He drops them to my wrists to help rub circulation back into my hands. He helps me up and leads me to the bathroom.

"Leave us, yeah?" he mutters to his twin.

Quen gives him a hard glare, but nods once. It's the first time I've been alone and naked with the leader of his gang of next-gen mafia princes, and it twists my guts in a way that makes me sweat with nerves.

"We're moving forward now, Vogue. This will never be thrown back in your face or used against you to win an argument or to make you feel bad. It's forgotten. Okay?"

I nod.

"But you need to understand that we are not average guys. We fight for what's ours, and you are ours. We will bleed for you, kill for you, and die for you if it comes to that. It's loyalty that most people cannot comprehend, that I don't even think you can comprehend."

I gulp and shake my head, looking up at him, towering over me as steam from the shower curls around us. "Not true. I know. Everything Quentin said to me applies to you four as well. I will kill anyone who hurts you."

He takes a second to process that, not giving anything away as he stares down at me. "That's a big declaration, Vogue."

"I know. Doesn't make it any less true."

He grips my chin, tighter this time, and skims his lips over mine. "You're so precious, sweet girl. I adore you. I know we haven't spent much time together one-on-one, but there is a reason for that. I hope you don't think that I'm not as invested as the other guys."

Shaking my head, the motion is deliberate and slow. "I never thought that," I rasp, feeling raw in more ways than one. "I know each of you has their own way."

Callum's thumb strokes my cheek softly, a contrast to the iron grip he had moments ago. "I'm not…" He sighs, and the intensity of his stare increases. "None of us are good with feelings and shit. But this isn't about that. It's about letting them love you, about letting them find their place with you because once I give in to the ache clawing at me to possess you completely, it will be all-consuming. Do you understand that, Vogue? I need them to be secure in your love for them before I allow myself to consume you."

My breath catches at his words. I do understand, I think. I have to. It's a twisted kind of love, demanding and violent in its need to protect and own, but it's the love they're offering me, and despite every fucked up turn my life has taken, I want it—crave it like a drug that I've become addicted to without ever having a taste. In that weird way that revelations have, I see now why drugs destroy lives. It's not an option. Once you've had the taste, you have to go back, or you will die without it. Will these guys destroy me? Ruin me? Maybe, but they might also end up saving me, and that's the risk I'm jumping into the fire for.

"Callum," I whisper, and the tremble in my voice matches the quake in my limbs. "I'm scared."

He softens at that, just for a second, before the mask is back in place. "You don't need to be scared of us."

"Not of you," I say quickly. "Scared because I'm starting to feel things that terrify me. You, all of you, have wormed your way into places inside me I didn't know existed."

Callum's lips curve up into a half-smile, but there's something dark lurking in his eyes, something hungry and desperate and maybe just as scared as me. "Then we're doing something right," he says and leans in.

His kiss is tender this time, a promise of protection and passion.

He strips off, letting his clothes drop to the floor, forgotten before he guides me into the shower. The water washes over us, cleansing away the blood and grime, but the stains on our souls are harder to wash off. We stand there, letting the water trail down our bodies as we embrace silently.

In this moment, with him, I feel a fragile sense of peace. The chaos outside this bathroom, the danger that lurks at every corner—it all waits for us. But right now, it's just Callum and me and the promise of something unbreakable forming between us.

The hot water becomes soothing when Callum lathers soap over my body with a tenderness that's at odds with everything else that has happened tonight.

"We've got you," he says softly, his hands gentle as they trace over my skin.

Once I'm completely clean, he drops to his knees and presses his face to my pussy, flicking his tongue over my clit as the water rains down over us.

The sensation jolts a rush of heat through me, competing with the warmth of the water. I gasp, steadying myself against the tiled wall, my fingers tangling in his wet hair. Callum's mouth works magic, unyielding and insistent. His tongue delves into me as though he's unravelling every secret I've ever held close.

There's no room for thought, just feeling—uninhibited and overpowering. Every lick stokes the fire building inside me.

My legs tremble as the pleasure mounts. The water cascades over us like a waterfall, cutting us off from reality. His hands grip my hips, steadying me as I ride out the waves crashing against the shore of my sanity.

"Fuck, Callum," I pant.

This isn't just about sex; it's him claiming me, showing me that despite the shitstorm outside, in here we have control. We have each other.

When I come, it's with a force that nearly buckles my knees. He rises, his lips glistening from his efforts and his eyes blazing with something fierce and possessive. "No one gets to touch you like that ever again—only us, understand?"

I nod because words are beyond me at this point. He wraps his arms around me and lifts me up and onto his cock before slamming me up against the cold tiles, and I cry out, the sensation almost too much to bear. The way he fills me, the power in his thrusts—it's overwhelming. He's relentless in his pursuit of my pleasure, each movement designed to drive us both mad with need. He's a fucking inferno, and I'm willingly getting burned, over and over again.

"Fuck, Vogue," he groans into my neck, his breath hot against my damp skin. "I can't get enough of you."

His hands roam over me, claiming every inch. His touch is possessive but carries a hint of tenderness that's just as intoxicating as his dominance.

"You belong to us," he grunts, "to me."

I meet each of his thrusts with urgency. With him, I'm not just the girl from Westfield—I'm someone powerful, desired, protected.

A mafia princess in the making: Vogue Jameson McGowan.

He drives into me harder, faster, the clenching deep inside me signalling the approach of another earth-shattering climax. It builds rapidly, and I hold on to him as if he's the only solid thing in a world that keeps trying to throw me off balance.

With a final deep thrust that hits just right, I shatter around him, and he follows soon after with a vibration that runs through his body.

"Fuck," he rasps. "You're fucking perfect."

Neither of us moves. The water cascades over us like a benediction. After moments or an eternity, he withdraws from me and shuts off the water. He helps me out, wrapping me in a large towel. Droplets still cling to our skin, but the warmth from his body is enough to chase away the chill. He carries me out of the shower and sets me on the edge of the sink as he reaches for another towel, which he slings around his waist.

I can barely meet his eyes because with clarity comes realisation—I've crossed lines today that there's no turning back from. But strangely, I don't want to. The thought terrifies me as much as it anchors me.

Callum watches me, his gaze intense and searching. "You did what you had to do," he says firmly. "No regrets, Vogue. You can't, or it will eat you alive."

"I've killed two people," I whisper, the words tasting like bile.

"They were dead anyway," he says in that controlled tone that terrifies me.

"Doesn't make it any less scary."

"I know." He doesn't flinch from the truth. "That guy has been taken care of. No one will ever know it was you."

"I took his phone," I blurt out. "Won't they be able to track it?"

"Is it switched on?"

"I don't know," I say, panic rising. "I don't know!"

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Where is it?"

"It was in my joggers' pocket, but I think it fell out in the van."

"We'll take care of it." He cups my face, running his thumb over my bottom lip. "We've got you, Vogue. Always."

I nod, unable to form words again now, filled with stress and worry that Leonard's phone will somehow lead back to me.

He dries me off with gentle strokes before starting on himself. There's a methodical calmness to his movements that soothes me as much as it gives me anxiety at the pace. I need to know about that phone.

"Do you have any more secrets, sweet girl?"

"No," I murmur.

"Secrets always have a way of coming out, and when they do, they hurt worse. I will give you twenty-four hours to come clean about anything else you think we need to know. If you don't come forward and something jumps out at us, we won't be so forgiving next time." He cups the back of my neck and taps the tender spot where the chip is buried into my skin, sending out a signal of my whereabouts at all times to these four men. "If you think this is bad, sweet girl…" He gives me what appears to be a sad stare. "You don't know what we're capable of."

I gulp and nod.

"Twenty-four hours," he repeats and kisses me deeply, swirling his tongue against mine in a hypnotic rhythm. "Get some rest now. We'll check the van."

He steps back, leaving me trembling and trying to rack my brain for anything I've done or said in the past that might come out. But I can't think of anything. The prostitution was the one thing I wanted to keep buried. But now that it's come to light with these four men, it feels like a dead weight has been lifted off my shoulders. The burden is gone, and I smile as I cross over to my bed, slipping under the covers and closing my eyes. Leonard's face flashes in my mind, but I shove it aside.

They were dead anyway.

I truly believe that. If I'd come clean, the guys would've taken care of it for me. That is a power that is frightening in its intensity but makes me groan into the pillow as I turn over because fuck if it doesn't arouse me beyond anything I've ever experienced.