The train rocked gently, a steady metallic hum filling the cramped compartment, broken only by the soft hiss of steam, the groan of iron, and the ever-present weight of their touch.

It was always like this now. You, curled up in the corner seat of the booth, knees pulled close, glasses slipping down your nose as your messy ponytail stuck out like wild vines, and all four of them on you. Always. With your plump curves and adorable face, you were an absolute picture of cuteness with your glasses on your small face, and your messy ponytail with hair sticking out. God, he was thinking. What was this woman? A gift sent from heaven? You were a prim proper little thing. You were not at all slim though you were not over weight either. More in the middle, though the excess fat had gone to your legs and hips, making them fuller and a bit chubby, with a little tummy pouch which was barely visible under the dress. You had huge boobs.

Dieter’s hand was the first, of course. It always was. Cold fingers sliding under your skirt, dragging up the soft, plush skin of your thigh, brushing over the gentle curve where your stockings ended. His calm, cold blue eyes fixed on your face—not on your leg, no—on you. Watching the flush rise on your cheeks with that same sharp, calculating amusement he wore like armor.

“You’re such a soft little thing,” Dieter murmured, tone flat, biting, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you whole. “They don’t deserve you.”

His other hand was fisting the fabric of your skirt, scrunching it carelessly as his thumb circled that dimple of flesh on the inside of your thigh like he owned it.

On your other side, Amon was pressed close—too close—the sharp line of his jaw brushing your temple as he breathed you in. He did that all the time, like a wolf smelling its mate. His gloved hand slid up under your cardigan, palm splayed across the soft swell of your stomach, fingertips dangerously close to the underside of your bra.

Possessive.

Silent.

That blue gaze darted over to Dieter’s hand like a strike about to happen. But instead of saying anything, Amon bit you. Right on the shell of your ear. Sharp, quick, not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a mark. You squeaked despite yourself, half fury, half something else, and his hand clenched tighter around your soft tummy like he was staking a claim.

“You are mine,” he muttered, his German thick, rough, breaking through gritted teeth.

As if the noise had summoned him, Hans leaned in from the seat opposite, legs spread wide, one boot tapping against the side of your foot. His knuckles brushed under your chin, lifting your head like you were some delicate porcelain figure he was inspecting.

“Now, now—play nice, gentlemen,” Hans crooned, eyes glinting sharp and hungry. His fingers trailed feather-light down the line of your throat, teasing over the pulse fluttering there. “We wouldn’t want to frighten our precious little wife, would we?”

Then, with infuriating grace, he leaned forward, brushing the softest of kisses—like silk—against the corner of your lips, his thumb already tugging the neckline of your dress lower to expose the pale, untouched skin above your breasts.

“Gott im Himmel…” he whispered reverently. “A walking contradiction. Nobel laureate, atomic queen, but soft as a milk-fed lamb.”

And then came Klaus.

Klaus didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He did. Moving like a shadow, he reached out, one large, scarred hand cupping the heavy weight of your breast right over the fabric of your dress, palm firm, steady, like he meant it. His cold, royal blue gaze bore into yours, silent, commanding.

This wasn’t flirtation.

This was ownership. Worship twisted with possession.