Chapter 1
The warehouse smelled like rust, old oil, and the copper tang of blood that never quite washed out of concrete.
Isolde Quinn pressed her back against the cold steel support beam and forced her breathing to stay slow. Three years of hunting had led her here. Three years of dead ends, bribed cops, and nights spent staring at crime-scene photos of her brother’s body until the edges blurred. Tonight the trail ended with Severin Black’s name on a shipping manifest and a single guarded loading bay on the industrial side of the city.
She had a gun, a knife, and a burner phone with one number programmed in—her own failsafe. If she didn’t check in by dawn, the files would go public.
She never got the chance to use any of it.
A shadow moved behind her. A gloved hand closed over her mouth at the same moment an arm like an iron bar locked around her waist and lifted her clean off the floor. She kicked, twisted, tried to drive an elbow back. The man holding her didn’t even grunt. He carried her deeper into the dark like she weighed nothing.
They dropped her onto a steel table under a single swinging bulb. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Before she could roll, thick leather cuffs snapped around her wrists and yanked them above her head. Another pair locked her ankles wide. A spreader bar clicked into place between them. Cold metal kissed the insides of her knees.
Three men stepped into the light.
Severin Black stood at the foot of the table, black shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, expression unreadable. Tall, lean, dark hair pushed back from a face that looked carved from something unforgiving. His eyes were the color of wet slate and just as warm.
To his right, Lucien Crowe—silent, pale, a thin scar cutting through one eyebrow. He held a coil of black rope in one hand and a folding knife in the other, the blade already open. He watched her the way a man watches a locked door he already has the key to.
On the left, Gage Thorne. Bigger than the other two, shoulders stretching a dark henley, knuckles scarred. He cracked his neck once and smiled without humor.
“Isolde Quinn,” Severin said. His voice was low, almost conversational. “You’ve been digging in places that don’t belong to you.”
She strained against the cuffs. “You killed my brother.”
“We did,” Severin answered without hesitation. “And now you’re here. That makes you ours.”
Gage stepped closer, reached up, and tore her shirt open down the front. Buttons scattered across the concrete. He didn’t bother with the bra—just sliced the center with a knife that appeared in his hand and peeled the cups aside. Cool air hit her bare breasts. Her nipples tightened instantly, traitorously.
Lucien moved to the head of the table. He slid a thick leather collar around her throat and buckled it snug. A metal ring hung from the front. He clipped a short chain to it and locked the other end to the table so she could only lift her head a few inches.
Severin walked around her slowly, eyes tracking every inch of exposed skin. “You came looking for blood. You’ll get something else instead.”
He nodded once.
Gage’s big hands went to her belt, yanked it open, and dragged her jeans and underwear down her legs in one rough pull. The denim caught on the spreader bar; he cut it free with the knife and tossed the ruined clothes aside. She was naked except for the collar and the cuffs.
Severin stepped between her spread thighs. He didn’t undress. He simply looked down at her open cunt, already glistening under the harsh light, and pressed two long fingers against her.
“Already wet,” he murmured. “Interesting.”
He pushed inside without warning—two thick fingers sinking deep in one steady stroke. Isolde’s back arched off the table. A broken sound tore out of her throat. Severin curled those fingers and rubbed hard against the front wall of her cunt, finding the spot that made her thighs tremble.
“Count,” he ordered.
Lucien switched on a small wand vibrator and pressed the head directly against her clit. The lowest setting was still enough to make her hips jerk. Severin worked his fingers in slow, deliberate circles while the vibration buzzed against the swollen bud.
“One,” she gasped when the first orgasm hit—sharp, unwanted, rolling through her in waves that left her shaking.
Severin didn’t stop. He added a third finger, stretching her wider, and kept pressing that same ruthless spot. Lucien turned the wand up one notch. Gage leaned over her, one heavy hand wrapping loosely around her throat above the collar—not choking, just holding—while the other freed his cock. He rubbed the thick head across her lips.
“Open.”
She did. He pushed into her mouth, heavy and hot, until he hit the back of her throat. Isolde gagged; he held there a second longer before easing back just enough to let her breathe, then started fucking her mouth in shallow, controlled strokes.
Severin’s fingers never stopped. The wand stayed locked against her clit. The second orgasm ripped through her harder than the first. She tried to scream around Gage’s cock and only managed a muffled, wet sound.
“Two.”
They kept going.
By the fourth she was crying, tears sliding into her hair, cunt clenching helplessly around Severin’s fingers while Lucien held the wand steady and Gage used her mouth like he owned it. Severin finally pulled his hand free, shiny with her release, and wiped it across her stomach.
“Enough for now.”
Gage pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop. Lucien shut the wand off. Isolde lay there panting, wrists and ankles still locked, collar tight, body still twitching with aftershocks.
Severin leaned down until his mouth was close to her ear.
“This is only the beginning, Isolde. You’re going to learn what it means to belong to us. Every hole we decide to use. Every mark we decide to leave. And you’re going to thank us for it.”
He straightened and looked at the other two.
“Take her upstairs. Clean her. Then we start again.”
Gage unclipped the chain from the table but left the collar on. Lucien unlocked the spreader bar and the ankle cuffs. The moment her legs were free, Gage scooped her up like she weighed nothing and carried her toward the stairs at the back of the warehouse, Severin and Lucien following in silence.
Isolde’s head rested against Gage’s broad chest. Her body still pulsed. Her mind screamed that she should be fighting, planning, looking for an exit.
Instead she felt the collar around her throat like a promise, and the residual ache between her legs like a brand.
They had taken her.
And they were nowhere near finished.
