Page 45 of The Unexpected

I cross the room to the tiny closet and find a mirror nailed to the back of the door, old and warped, but brutally honest in the morning light. I look like a different species. My hair is a snarl, stuck to my forehead and shoulders in ropes, wild as hay. My lips are bruised, upper swollen into a pout, a faint abrasion at one corner from someone’s stubble. The whites of my eyes are bloodshot, lashes clumped together. Yes, I’m a woman well-fucked, and proud of it too.

But the savagery doesn’t stop there. My chest is a map of last night: dark marks at my collarbones, streaks of faded lipstick, a single bite at the base of my throat turning purple already. My big breasts are scratched, the nipples impossibly red and swollen, one still glistening with spit. I touch them, and a small moan escapes, unexpected, as a thrill runs straight from my tip to my cunt. My hips, as predicted, are ringed with handprints—Hunter’s, I think, judging by the size and placement. There are more bruises at the tops of my thighs, where Lachlan held me open for him as Hunter rammed his cock inside. My stomach is sticky, and there’s a trail of something—dried come or spit or both—across my left hip. My pussy is angry, lips swollen and shiny, with a faint pink tinge that means I bled a little. My asshole is red, stretched, and more than a little sore. A pale, milky streak is still smeared on the inside of my thigh, running down toward my knee.

I run my tongue over my teeth, and again, there’s the taste of them left in my mouth. It’s the best surprise to date.

I stare at my reflection, at the wreckage, and I don’t feel shame. I feel owned, and I feel powerful, a woman in full.

I turn, scanning the mess for something to wear. The room is strewn with clothes, most of them men’s. I find one of Lachlan’s shirts—white, button-down, heavy with his scent—and shrug it on. It’s too big, sleeves swallowing my hands, hem falling almost to my knees. The cotton is soft and warm, comforting in a way that makes my chest ache a little.

I pad back to the bed, sit on the edge, and watch the two of them again. They look less dangerous in sleep, but only barely. I imagine waking them both up by climbing between them again, hovering my pussy over their faces and begging for a morning kiss. They’d give it to me for sure, before pulling me down on their cocks. But something inside me is shifting, changing the calculus. For the first time in years, I wonder what it would be like to stay here, in this moment, forever. To never go home, to never answer my phone, to never return to the real world where I am someone’s daughter, someone’s best friend, someone’s employee.

I sit there, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and let the thought linger. I imagine the next night, and the next, waking up between the two of them every morning, always sore, always sated, always with new marks to show for it.

It would be glorious.

Hunter shifts in his sleep, mouth twitching in a half-smile, like he’s dreaming of eating me alive. Lachlan’s hand flops from his chest, palm open, fingers twitching as if reaching for something lost.

I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them, the hem of the shirt falling over my thighs. I watch them, and I feel the slow, inevitable draw of gravity. Not the force that keeps you on the ground, but the force that makes planets collide, makes stars burn brighter than they should, makes black holes. I know that if I stay here, I’ll never escape.

And for the first time, the idea is not terrifying.

It’s perfect.

After a little while, Hunter and Lachlan roused. It was like watching two bears, one dark and one golden, stumble out from a winter hibernation, drowsy and still dazed. But soon enough, they got dressed and we headed out to a nearby diner for breakfast.

Patsy’s is a time capsule: the kind of diner where nothing changes but the color of the pie in the rotating case. The walls are tiled in pink and gray, the booths patched with strips of silver tape, the fluorescents so cold and bright that everyone looks like a suspect. I’m still in Lachlan’s borrowed shirt, a size XL men’s trench coat over it, which is so long that I look like I’m wearing a smock. I sit opposite both my men, sandwiched into one side of the booth, shoulder to shoulder, my back to the window where an ice-spattered Ford idles at the curb.

The waitress—late fifties, hair sprayed into a helmet, name tag: BARB—drops three chipped mugs on our table, sloshes coffee into them without a word. The pencil behind her ear is chewed to a nub. She doesn’t glance at us twice, but when she moves on, I see her clock the two men at my side: one slab of dark, carnivorous intent, one golden and chiseled like an avenging angel, but with visible tattoos. We make a tableau, me in the middle, hair up in a messy bun, both men bracketed around me like bodyguards.

My legs are still weak. Every step here, I felt the burn. There was a patch of bulging sidewalk outside Patsy’s that looked treacherous, but I crossed it without a hitch, my focus split between the dull throb in my crotch and the low electric pulse that lives in my ass now, a permanent souvenir of last night. The men flank me, one hand each at my elbow, and the walk is a slow-motion parade of what-the-fuck-are-they-doing, every morning jogger and postal worker and old guy in a camo parka gawping as we passed.

Now, in the antiseptic glare of Patsy’s, it’s impossible to pretend last night was a dream. I have slight hickeys just barely hidden by the collar of the trench coat; my knees are scuffed, my lips still taste faintly of bleach and sin. Most of all, it’s the possession. I know I look like a woman who’s been claimed ruthlessly by two ravenous alpha males, and that they’re here with me now, flanking me on each side.

No one says a thing for the first three minutes. We drink coffee, black for Hunter and Lachlan, but I dump so many sugar packets in mine that the sludge at the bottom could fuel a diabetic coma.

“Are you aiming for a sugar rush?” Lachlan asks with humor in his voice.

“No, I just need calories,” I retort. “You guys wore me out last night!”

Hunter grins but then lowers his voice.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice pitched low. His blue eyes are so clear they look backlit. “I know we were a little rough with you last night. Okay, a lot rough.”

I want to bristle, but he’s not wrong. Instead, I just laugh, a soft, broken thing. “Yeah. I got hit by a truck driven by two maniacs. Or two trucks, if we’re nitpicking.”

Lachlan smiles at that, teeth flashing. He stirs his coffee, doesn’t drink. “So you’re not okay? We got a little carried away.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen him look even a tiny bit uncertain, and the sight makes my chest clench up. I set my mug down, steeple my fingers, and meet his eyes.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve never been better. I mean, I’m a little sore, but that’s what I wanted. So no one needs to call 9-1-1.”

Both men relax. I see Hunter’s shoulders drop, the tension easing. He glances at Lachlan, and it’s not hostile, more like a brief detente. Last night, they were rivals, then co-conspirators, and now—what? Teammates? I don’t have a word for it yet. Maybe there isn’t one.

Barb comes back with three plates: a mountain of hash browns, two eggs with crispy edges, a stack of pancakes taller than my face. She slings the dishes onto the table without breaking stride, and for a second, I wonder how many fucked-out love triangles she’s seen in this town. Judging from her deadpan expression, probably a lot.

We eat in silence for a while, until most of the hash browns are gone. I mop up a run of yolk with toast, rip it in half, and pop it into my mouth. Both men devour the food like hungry wolves while also watching me, eyes hooded and intent.

Finally, Hunter clears his throat. “I want to make something clear, sweetheart,” he says, voice like gravel. “I know last night was rough for you and you did great. But we’re not going to push you into anything you don’t want. That’s not what I want, nor what he wants,” he says with a meaningful look at the blond man.