Marcus Flint was a storm you couldn’t escape.

Even now, in the dim light of the manor’s sitting room, his silver eyes tracked every shift of your small body, like a predator watching prey he already owned. His hand, large and calloused, rested heavy on your thigh as though reminding you that there was nowhere you could go — not from him. Not ever.

And Adrian Pucey, his polar opposite, leaned against your other side. Sky-blue eyes softened when they looked at you, though his grip wasn’t any lighter. His fingers traced absent circles on your hip, his lips brushing the crown of your platinum hair as if he couldn’t stop himself from tasting you every other heartbeat.

Three months. Only three months since you had come to Britain, since fate had shackled you to them. And already, you’d surrendered to their constant touches — the brushing of lips against your neck, Marcus’s teeth grazing your skin until it stung, Adrian’s hands sliding beneath your waist to hold you closer. You didn’t fight it anymore. You couldn’t.

You were their Ravenclaw, their clever little witch from a house older than even the Sacred 28. You carried brilliance in finance, sharp wit in debate, and a soft body that drove them mad. Plump curves, delicate waist, the faintest pouch of softness beneath your dress — every inch of you was theirs to touch, kiss, and claim.

Marcus never wasted an opportunity to paw at you. His hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt now, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh as his mouth caught yours in a bruising kiss, growl rumbling low in his chest. Adrian was gentler, but no less relentless — his lips nipped at the corner of your jaw, down the side of your neck, until you gasped softly between Marcus’s kisses.

They couldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop.

And somewhere in Marcus’s storm-dark thoughts, the truth was simple: You’re mine. Ours. A gift that Britain doesn’t deserve. Adrian’s mind echoed quieter but no less fierce: We’ll ruin you with love until you never remember a time before us.

You could run. You could scream. You could scold them in that prim, proper Ravenclaw way.

It wouldn’t matter.

Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey were your husbands. Your obsession. Your ruin. And as their hands tightened on your soft hips and lips dragged down your throat, you knew —

They were never letting go.