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I built an entire adult life hiding this hunger. I wrap myself in custom Tom Ford suits. I flash a dimpled, effortless smile at society galas. I play the wealthy, untouchable operative who treats relationships like disposable accessories. I construct an impenetrable fortress of charm and sarcasm to keep most people away. Liv got closer than I intended. I still hid things from her. Letting a person see the truth feels like a death sentence. The attraction to absolute power, the desperate urge to relinquish control, the fantasy of a man strong enough to break my will—it all registers as a fatal weakness. Vipers do not submit. We conquer.

But Jax sees the cracks. He studied my surveillance files for months. He unraveled the playboy persona and found the starving, hollow man underneath. He understands my desires better than I understand them myself. He is systematically tearing down the walls I spent decades erecting, leaving me exposed to the harsh, blinding light. I am exhausted. The performance drains my blood drop by drop. I am tired of pulling the strings, tired of keeping the world at a safe distance, tired of the crushing loneliness that follows me into every empty hotel room.

The heavy electronic lock on my door beeps. A shrill, piercing tone.

My heart instantly slams against my ribs. Anticipation floods my veins, hot and thick, chasing away the dread before my brain can process the reaction. I shoot up from the cot. I stand at attention, bracing for the dark, commanding presence of the cartel leader.

The door swings inward.

A guard steps across the threshold. He carries a plastic tray. He does not speak. He sets the tray on the small metal table bolted to the wall, turns on his heel, and walks out. The heavy steel door clicks shut. The deadbolt engages with a dull thud.

I stare at the plate. Slices of grilled chicken, rice, a plastic fork. Real food. A normal meal meant to be consumed without an audience.

Relief should wash over me. I should celebrate the small shred of regained dignity. I should take the fork and eat like a human being.

Instead, a cold, hollow disappointment settles in my gut.

The realization strikes me with the force of a physical blow. The absence of Jax’s looming figure feels incorrect. The normal plate of food feels inadequate. The twisted, broken pieces of my mind—the pieces Jax carefully waters and cultivates—want the ritual back. I crave the structure. I want to kneel on the rug. I want his large, calloused fingers pressing food against my tongue. I want his low, rumbling voice praising my obedience.

I cross the cell and pick up the fork. I force a piece of chicken into my mouth. I chew mechanically. The meat tastes like sawdust.

My thoughts drift back to the morning routine. I picture Liv kneeling beside me. She did not just comply with the degradation. She existed comfortably within it. She looked content resting at his polished shoes, acting as if the floor was the only place she ever truly belonged. And the look in her hazel eyes when I hesitated—when I almost refused to open my mouth—it lacked any desire for a rescue. She radiated terror that I would disrupt her safe, constructed world. She begged me to comply so she wouldn’t lose his provision.

She is no longer an ally. Jax molded her into a vital component of the machine designed to crush my spine. She stands as both fellow victim and the ultimate weapon. Her conditioning runs so deep she cannot separate the two roles. She needs Jax to breathe. And Jax wields her desperate need to dictate my every movement.

The true horror lies in my complete understanding of her devotion. I saw the genuine affection in the way Jax stroked her blonde hair. I witnessed the authentic care in his feeding rhythm, the protective pride shining in his dark eyes. Jax does not simply use her body. He provides a twisted, ironclad stability. He grants her purpose. He makes himself the absolute center of her survival.

A violent shiver races down my spine. The exact same pattern is wrapping its invisible tendrils around my throat. The fear remains. The Viper training still screams at me to fight. But underneath the panic, a new root takes hold. The desire for Jax’s dark approval grows stronger with every passing hour. I crave the heavy weight of his touch. I hunger for the certainty he brings into the room. I fight the erosion with every ounce of willpower I possess, but the sand slips through my fingers faster than I can catch it.

I drop the fork. It clatters against the plastic tray. I abandon the half-eaten meal and walk to the small reinforced window.

Thick, bulletproof glass separates me from the isolated estate grounds. Rain slashes across the pane, blurring the distant tree line. No tactical teams crouch in those shadows. No rescue helicopters circle the gray sky. I went into the cabin without waiting for backup. Grayson knew where I was, but Jax moved us before anyone reached us. Hunter and Aurora have been searching ever since. I do not know how close they are, or whether they have any trail left to follow. Striking the King estate requires a full-scale war. I am an operative. Operatives die in the field. I am a tactical loss on a much larger board.

The knowledge of my abandonment should ignite a fiery, desperate rage. I should tear the plumbing out of the wall and fashion a weapon. I should plot my escape until my brain bleeds.

I rest my forehead against the cold glass. A hollow, sweeping resignation crashes over me, drowning the rage before it even sparks.

I do not want them to come.

The thought paralyzes me. I stare blindly at the rain. I am relieved Hunter has not found this house. I am relieved no one is breaking down that door. A terrifying, consuming part of my soul wants to stop fighting. It wants to give in. It wants to let Jax King carve out the rot and fill the empty space with his own brutal authority.

Hours bleed into the late afternoon. The gray light dims, casting long, warped shadows across the concrete floor. I lie on the cot, staring at the ceiling, fighting a losing battle against my own body. My skin aches for contact. My mind loops the memory of his thumb brushing my jawline.

The electronic lock chimes.

I shoot up, my pulse instantly hammering a frantic, eager rhythm.

The door opens. Jax steps inside.

He comes alone. The dark suits and crisp white shirts are gone. He wears a pair of faded black jeans and a tight, dark T-shirt that molds to the thick muscles of his chest. He looks casual. Approachable. The visual shift is incredibly disarming, but he still radiates that same suffocating, absolute command.

My body reacts without a single conscious command. Heat rushes to my face. My breathing turns shallow. A heavy, pooling warmth gathers low in my groin.

Jax pulls the door shut. He leans his broad shoulders against the steel, crossing his arms over his chest. He studies me with dark, omniscient eyes.

“How was lunch?”

The casual inquiry throws me off balance. I brace my hands on the edge of the mattress.