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Callum growls. Sloane laughs. That sound has already become dangerous. She turns her back and lifts her wet hair.

“Wash me.”

Three men reach for the soap. Our hands collide. Sloane looks over her shoulder.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

“I had it first,” I say.

Rhys takes the soap from me.

“You dropped it.”

“Temporarily.”

Callum removes it from Rhys.

“Move.”

Sloane turns around.

“No.”

Callum looks down at her. She points toward the tiled bench.

“Sit.”

He obeys reluctantly.

“Rhys, wash my hair.”

Rhys moves behind her.

“Dante, wash the rest.”

“And Callum?”

“He watches.”

The Scarecrow’s eyes narrow.

Sloane looks pleased.

I pour soap into my palm.

“Cruel.”

“He enjoys it.”

“He absolutely does.”

Callum leans forward, his forearms braced against his thighs while I spread soap across Sloane’s shoulders. Rhys works shampoo through her hair with strong, careful fingers. Her eyes close. A soft sound leaves her. Contentment. It affects me more than the screams did. I wash down her arms, across her stomach, and over her hips. My hands avoid the places left sensitive by the night. Sloane opens her eyes.

“You’re behaving.”

“I hate it.”

“Liar.”