You’re in his lap, back pressed to his chest, Ghost sitting at the edge of the hotel bed. One arm cages your waist while the other works mercilessly between your thighs. The mirror in front of you shows everything—his gloved fingers sliding deep, curling just right—then stopping the instant your body seizes on the edge.

You whimper, nails digging into his arm, but he only tightens his grip and waits until the heat drains away. Then he starts again. Slow. Cruel. Relentless. Over and over, dragging you up the cliff just to let you fall.

His voice rumbles against your ear, low and furious: “You thought it was me at the club?” “You’ll come when I say you do. Not before.”

The memory burns through your haze: flashing lights, too much vodka, a stranger’s mouth stealing what belonged to him. The crack of Ghost’s fist against the sergeant’s jaw. The fury in his eyes when he dragged you here.

Now his reflection is the only thing that matters—grey eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he holds you open, denying you over and over until you admit your fault, until you break, until you beg him for the release he won’t give… not until you’ve learned exactly who you belong to.