Page 67 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“No!” I say emphatically, bewildered by the direction this interrogation has taken. “No, I wasn’t hired by anyone. It was just... it was a horrible accident. I told you, he tried to force himself on me, and I fought back. That’s all.”

The red mask stares at me for what feels like an eternity, the blank face of the mask revealing nothing of the thoughts behind it. Then, with a flick of his hand, he signals to the others.

Without a word, they begin to file out of the room, their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. I watch them go,desperately searching for any clue, any hint of Thatcher among them. Their builds, the way they move, anything that might be familiar. But there’s nothing recognizable about any of them.

And then they’re gone, the heavy door closing behind them with a definitive thud, leaving me alone in the dim room, still bound to the chair.

Silence settles around me like a physical weight. I strain my ears, trying to catch any sound from beyond the door—voices, footsteps, anything that might give me a clue about what happens next. But there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of the light bulb overhead and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time loses all meaning in this windowless room, with nothing to mark its passage but the steady throb of pain in my wrists where the restraints have rubbed them raw.

Exhaustion tugs at me, the adrenaline crash leaving me hollow and drained. But I can’t relax, can’t let my guard down. Not here. Not now.

So I wait, alone with my thoughts and the creeping fear that this silent solitude might be worse than whatever came before.

Chapter 14

The monitor casts a bluish glow across my face as I watch Rhea alone in the chamber, her chest rising and falling with rapid, panicked breaths. She looks small in that metal chair, vulnerable yet somehow still defiant—chin raised, back straight despite the restraints binding her wrists and ankles. Even in her fear, she refuses to break, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.

Mine.

The word pulses through me with each beat of my heart. Mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to save.

The door behind me opens, and I don’t need to turn to know it’s Noah. His footsteps are measured, deliberate—the walk of a man who knows exactly where he stands in the world and what power he holds. The leather of his expensive shoes whispers against the concrete floor as he approaches, stopping just behind my right shoulder.

“She’s said everything,” he says, his voice low and certain as he glances at the monitor. “And seems innocent enough.”

I nod, watching as Rhea tugs uselessly at her restraints, frustration evident in every line of her body.

“I know,” I reply, my own voice rough from the beating earlier. My ribs still ache with each breath, a constant reminder of Noah’s lesson.

Noah moves to stand beside me, his eyes fixed on the screen. “We’re willing to set someone else up to take the fall. If the police need someone.” His tone is casual, as if discussing the weather rather than framing an innocent person for murder. “But we might be able to just call it foul play. Accident during a party. Tragic but not criminal.”

Relief floods through me, though I’m careful not to let it show on my face. This is what I wanted—Rhea free, safe from the consequences of that night. But I know Noah well enough to recognize that his offer comes with strings attached. Nothing is ever free with the Reapers.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, finally turning to face him.

Noah’s expression is carefully neutral, his eyes calculating as they meet mine. “We’re only willing to do this if she agrees to be part of the Reapers.”

The statement hangs in the air between us, so unexpected that for a moment I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly. “The Reapers?” I repeat, confusion clear in my voice. “You want a woman in the Reapers?”

Noah’s mouth curves into a slow, cold smile. “She’s got a pretty fucking mouth.”

Something hot and sharp twists in my gut at his words, at the way his gaze lingers on the monitor, on Rhea’s lips as she nervously runs her tongue across them. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, towering over him, my body coiled tight with a possessiveness so intense it borders on rage.

Noah doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink at my sudden movement. Instead, he laughs—a soft, knowing sound that only heightens my anger. “Relax, Thatcher,” he says, leaning back slightly to look up at me, his posture deliberately casual despite the tension crackling between us. “You can have her. But she needs to agree to stay quiet. About Jack, about the Reapers, about all of it.”

I don’t step back, unwilling to cede even an inch of ground. “She will.”

“I need to witness it,” Noah continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I need to see the control you have over her.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “Go out there right now and make her admit it. Make her show us all that she belongs to you. Make her submit. Fuck her.”

The command should anger me further, but instead, a different kind of heat begins to build at the base of my spine. The thought of going to Rhea, of claiming her in front of Noah, in front of all of them—it sends a rush of adrenaline through my veins, a heady mixture of power and anticipation.

I’ve dreamed of this moment, imagined it in countless variations during sleepless nights. Rhea, bound and at my mercy. Rhea, finally acknowledging what we both know—that she’s mine, completely and utterly. And now I have a solid reason, something tangible to offer her: protection. Freedom. A way out of the nightmare she’s trapped in.

As long as she submits.

Noah sees the shift in my expression, the darkening of my gaze, and his smile widens.

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