Page 775 of End Game

I know that look.

It is not suspicion. It is verification.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Still want everything we discussed?”

Fuck.

My stomach flips.

“Yes.”

That answer comes considerably faster.

Dex laughs from somewhere behind me. “She's suddenly processing at full speed.”

I turn my head.

He has removed the gag, obviously, and his hair is a mess from, I assume, Ronan's hands. His mouth is red around the edges where the ball sat.

He looks fucking wrecked.

I like that more than I probably should.

“Did you survive your cuck chair?” I ask.

His eyes narrow. “You don't get to call it that.”

“You called it that.”

“That was before I suffered.”

“You were there for like twenty minutes.”

“It was an emotionally significant twenty minutes.”

Micah snorts.

Ronan stands and starts loosening some of the rope still around my wrists. “He's fine.”

“I was objectified and silenced.”

“You volunteered for both,” Micah reminds him.

“Details.”

I laugh again, and somehow that does more to bring me back into my body than any of the careful questions.

The suspension rope is gone from my legs, but my wrists are still secured in front of me. Not tightly. Just enough that the position remains intentional.

I realize Griffin is staring at them.

Then at me.

Something has changed in his face.