Page 143 of Claiming Pretty

Sweat slicked my skin, cooling as it mingled with the cold air of the tomb.

Every instinct screamed to move, to reassure him, to break the sick tension in the air, but I fought to keep my face slack, my limbs loose, my body convincingly limp. The effort was excruciating.

Then the beep of the video recording being shut off pierced the silence like a blade. It was a splash of cold water dragging me back to reality.

I’d almost forgotten where I was—forgotten that this wasn’t just Ciaran and me. For one desperate, deluded moment, I’d let myself believe the room was empty but for us, and that our pleasure wasn’t being watched, dissected, and judged.

Ciaran made this sound in my ear—a low, guttural noise, raw and unfiltered. It wasn’t just pain; it was agony, shame, and the unbearable weight of what they were forcing him to do.

My heart ached in ways I couldn’t describe.

He shook against me, his breath hot and uneven on my shoulder, and it took everything in me not to wrap my arms around him, not to shatter the illusion. I wanted to whisper that I was fine, that there was nothing wrong with him, nothing broken, that I wasn’t hurt.

But I couldn’t.

Instead, I focused on my breathing, forcing it to stay slow, steady. My heart hammered anyway.

Ciaran withdrew from me, his cum trickling down my thighs making me feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly filthy. But beneath it all, a flicker of triumph burned. I’d done it. I’d come without moving, without screaming.

Anticipation flooded me, a sickening wave of hope anddread all tangled together. Did we do it? Had we fooled them? Or was the next second going to be my last?

The dean’s slow clap echoed through the chamber, deliberate and mocking, and my chest constricted. He was pleased, the sadistic bastard.

His voice followed, cruel and cutting. “Well done, son. Your father would be so proud.”

A chill ran through me. The words were poison, laced with malice, and I wanted to scream at the injustice of them.

Ciaran was everything his father wasn’t. Every fiber of my being knew this.

Beneath his shadowed layers lay a core of goodness, a stark contrast to his father’s heart, rotten to its very core.

Ciaran was strong, driven by a relentless fight for what was right, even when his path was paved with blood. His father had been weak, hiding behind power and control, wielding cruelty as a means to an end to satisfy his twisted selfish desires.

But I feared, in the horrible silence that followed, that Ciaran didn’t know it. Not truly.

What if he saw himself as his father’s reflection? A monster wearing his face? What if he believed the dean’s vile words? The thought gutted me, leaving a void of helplessness in its wake. What would Ciaran allow to happen to himself if he believed that? What would he become?

My chest tightened, panic rising. I couldn’t lose him—not to them, not to himself, not to this. I wouldn’t.

My body may have been still, a facade of unconsciousness, but my heart screamed the truth. I couldn’t let them corrupt him.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” came Ciaran’s bitter response.

I felt a cloth swipe over my inner thighs, the tender motion at odds with the bitterness in his tone.

My heart clenched, a war of emotions waging inside me. What was he using as a rag? His shirt? His pride?

“Now, if you’ll please come with me,” the dean said smoothly, his voice a sinister calm that made my blood run cold. “It’s time to get fitted for your robe, Mr. Donahue.”

The grating screech of stone against stone filled the chamber, signaling the opening of another door. The sound was as much a warning as it was an invitation, and my heart leaped into my throat.

Two equally overwhelming thoughts flashed through my mind.

We did it. We fooled them.

And, God, Scáth, please don’t leave me here alone.

Ciaran’s hesitation was a physical thing, his hand lingering on my thigh for a beat too long.

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