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The penthouse goes quiet in the aftermath, the speaker cutting off, the cell screen dimming. My hand lowers, and for a second I stand there with my pulse hammering, tasting the word kidnapped and Chicago in my mouth.

I check the time, we’re running late. Lana’s hair is still damp, she’s still wrapped in that towel. Her eyes are wide, alert. She waits for instruction.

“Lana,” I say, my voice clipped. “Go get ready. You’re working tonight, don’t forget.”

She turns immediately, obedient, and walks back down the hall toward her bedroom. The towel edge swings at her thighs. She doesn’t look back, not once.

Rio doesn’t move at first. He stands in the living room with water still rolling down his chest, his towel low on his hips, his eyes fixed on me in a way that feels too calm for what we just heard.

I hate that calm. I hate the way it makes my anger feel messy.

“What are you looking at me for?” I snap. “Go get ready, Rio. For fuck’s sake.”

Rio’s mouth curves faintly, not amused, not soft. It’s a look that says he understands my rage, yet he refuses to let it drive the night.

“We have time,” he says, steady. Then he saunters to the bar. He moves with that lazy grace he uses when he wants to show control. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, pulls it free, sets it down with a soft thud, then pours.

A glass for him. And a glass for me. He pushes mine across the kitchen counter. The glass slides and stops near my hand.

I take it. I drink it in one pull.The burn hits my throat, then my stomach. It doesn’t calm me. It only gives my fury a sharper edge, a cleaner outline.

“Get yourself together.” Rio fixes me with a look. “It’s Lana’s night tonight.”

“We’re going ahead with it?”

“Yes. She has to be thrown in the deep end to find her way out.” Rio nods, whisky sliding down his throat.

CHAPTER 15

LANA

I spend almost a week with them before it finally settles into my bones.

Not the luxury. Not the penthouse. Not the way the city looks from this height. It’s their rhythm.

Rio and Brox move through my days–directing, adjusting, deciding. I wake when they want me awake. I eat when they decide I should. I rest when they think I’ve earned it. Even when they’re gentle, there’s an underlying structure to everything we do, a framework I didn’t get to see before.

I hear them sometimes saying I need more training when they think I’m not listening. Training. As if I’m something that needs correction. As if I haven’t already learned how to survive, how to endure, how to give exactly what’s asked of me.

I don’t need training. I’m already good. I tell myself that while I lie awake at night between them, their bodies bracketing mine, the weight of their presence pressing me into the mattress. I tell myself that when Brox’s hand closes around my neck to still me, when Rio’s fingers lift my chin to set my gaze where he wants it. The way they strip everything of mine down to sensation and obedience and need. I love the clarity of it. No guessing. No pretending. Just rules and reward.

They waited for me to finish dressing, whisky glasses in hand, both of them grim—no doubt because of what their lawyer, Waddington, had said. Now that I’ve joined them, ready for the night at the Boarpit, we stand in silence before the elevator. The doors open, then close behind us, sealing the penthouse off from the world. I turn slightly and catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.

Rio and Brox stand on either side of me, dressed to kill. Three-piece suits, black jackets fitted perfectly to their frames, crisp white shirts, black ties knotted with precision. They look carved out of intent. Rio’s dark sleek hair, Brox’s sky-blue eyes. Dangerous in a way that leaves my body wired and my mind ruined for sleep.

And then there’s me.

Lana. My blonde hair falls over my shoulders, the black roots visible. Shiaou noticed them yesterday. He brought me hair dye without being asked, offered to color it for me.

The dress on me is the one the pets wear. The same black halter neck that bares my shoulders, paired with a skater-style mini skirt that flares just enough to remind me how little it covers. My heels are new. Twelve-inch stilettos that force my posture into something deliberate. They push my chest forward. Lift my body higher. Make every step intentional.

If I straighten my back, my breasts rise, my hips shift, my body becomes exactly what they want it to be. I’m told I must walk like that. It’s all part of the training.

“Are you ready for tonight?” Rio asks, catching me off guard.

I lift my chin and smile at them, trying to keep it light. “Sure. Fucking. Working. Training. What else is there?”

The smile earns me nothing.