Page 27 of Their Dark Rose

My attitude is the only armor against them. One that won’t stand long.

One that their heat slowly but surely disintegrates.

Their need is potent. Whether it’s to fuck me, humiliate me, or kill me, I’m not sure.

Maybe the three combined.

I’ve gotten familiar with their coldness. With Finn’s sinister smirks.

I could read them before they uttered a word.

This new mood—this strange, heated behavior I’ve been desperate to draw out of them day and night—is a whole different playing field.

“Her poem.” Mason gestures to the piece of paper in Falk’s hand.

“Which you’ll read for us.” Finn slams my laptop shut, leaning toward me. The corner of his mouth hikes up, and I scoot back in fear. “On your knees.”

A week ago, I would’ve flipped them off. Would’ve told them to get fucking lost, that I’d never kneel to them.

Unfortunately, they’re not the men they were last week. Each one of them cages me, holds me captive by their sheer will.

My lust wins over my self-preservation.

I wouldn’t run, even if I could’ve.

“After I read to you, will you leave?”

Falk tsks. “You’re forgetting something.”

“On my knees,” I growl, maintaining the act. Looking strong regardless of how fragile I feel around them. “Then will you finally leave?”

“She woke up feisty today.” Finn taps my nose. There’s nothing affectionate about the gesture. He’s toying with me. Testing how far he can take this. “Falk, did you remind her again that her eighteenth birthday means shit to us? That she’s still ours?”

“She purposefully decided to ignore it.” Falk pushes the poem back into my hand. “She’s being a brat. Hence, the punishment.”

“On your knees, flower,” Mason demands from above me. “Then we’ll go.”

His baritone rumbles through my body. It lands in the hot, wet center between my thighs, sending a cold chill up my spine.

I’m lost. I long to do what they say. I also know how wrong it would be. Humiliation awaits me on the other side of this invisible barrier. Revenge too, maybe.

A million threats whisper around me.

Red flags appear everywhere I look.

I ignore them all.

Or more like my body does. My nipples poke through my T-shirt. My heart jackhammers.

I’m drunk on fear and excitement. Stuck. Froze. A statue.

“You make us wait a second longer,”—Finn grips my chin, tipping my head up to him—“we’ll see to it that you have your dinner in this exact. Same. Position.”

I don’t gasp. Don’t do anything voluntarily to show him I’m either aroused or scared.

“Go on.” Mason comes up to me. His fingers wrap around my biceps, lifting me off the chair.

I blink as he kicks the chair behind him. I am speechless as he pushes me subtly to the space between Falk’s spread legs.

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