Page 66 of Wicked Court

Kaspian left me. Alone, panting and bent over cold, gray stone like a broken doll. Time blurs as I try to catch my breath and command my trembling legs to steady again.

I don’t know how long I had to compose myself until Axe strides back in, carrying a navy cashmere blanket over his shoulder and a damp cloth in his hand.

Without a word, he uses the cloth to clean me, the warmth soothing against my back, the jagged impression of teeth marks, my chapped, burned nipples.

When he reaches between my legs, I yelp—shock twining with pain.

Softly, carefully, Axe continues until he eases the ache and I go quiet.

When he’s done, he swoops the blanket over my shoulders, the incoming billow of fabric sending a fresh wave of trembles through my over-used body. He catches me as I buckle, wrapping me in a soft cocoon, and lifts me into his arms and carries me out of the basement.

His touch doesn’t feel like duty. It carries an unspoken assurance of comfort, my first human connection after being led down here like a lamb to slaughter.

And yet I dragged the torture out as much as I could, reveling in the various ways they wanted to sexually torment me, curious about who would do what.

What does that make me? A masochist? A child with a secret trauma she never dealt with? Fucked up? Or is it just that I’m more sexually free than I ever realized?

Once Axe climbs three sets of stairs, his arms a constant, secure pressure under my body, he passes me on to Wilder, whom I side-eye the entire time Axe sets me down and gently pushes me forward.

I’m almost certain Wilder’s going to take me into his bedroom and use me as his personal plaything for the rest of the night.

Turns out, I’m right about him guiding me into his room, which is almost as raw and untamed as himself.

Rugged, yet strangely welcoming, with the large wrought-iron bed that seems too small to contain the chaos within its rumpled sheets.

There’s no headboard. Instead, the bed is positioned to face the room openly.

Large, curtainless windows offer a view of the estate’s untended areas, thorns growing so tangled, they press against some of the panes. In one corner, there’s a custom-built, heavy-duty punching bag, well-used, hanging from a metal chain.

That's all I manage to document before he rips the soft protection of the blanket from my body and pulls scented cotton over my head.

My head pops out, cutting short my muffled scream, and I realize it's just a shirt—an oversized, plain black one that smells like cut grass and pine. He settles it over me with a teasing tug at the hem and then drapes the blanket back over my shoulders.

“Damn, sweetwitch, you look good in my clothes.”

With a firm hand on the small of my back, he takes me out of his room and into a common area on the same floor, complete with a professional kitchen.

“Sit.” He jerks his chin to the long table at the center. “Our chef is making you some tea.”

I’m unable to hide my quizzical expression. “Tea?”

“Yeah.” Wilder reclines in the chair across the table, threading his hands behind his head. “Your throat must be parched.”

My lips purse to the side. In any other situation, I’d think of a proper retort, but my mind is too addled by the past few hours—and what I’ve given up to these men.

I told them where the necklace is.

I can’t believe I did. Their torture was relentless, but couldn’t I have held out? What more could they have done to me?

As if in answer, Cav appears in the doorway, his hands nonchalantly tucked away in his pockets, though experience has taught me that there is much more to those hands than just muscles, tendons, and bones.

With Wilder and Cav now so close, the space around me pulses with an energy that makes my skin tingle and my breath catch.

Wilder’s shirt caresses my frame, both as an oath and a reminder.

You are not in control here.

“Elara,” Cav’s voice is a low thrum. My posture goes rigid.

---