Page 73 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

Like he sees it.

Hank, as always, cuts straight to the truth. “Does that scare you, luv? That we see a future with you?”

I should lie. I should laugh it off, make a joke, and keep it light.

But I don’t.

“No. It does not.” I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.

A quiet settles between us, something weightier than physical attraction. I take another sip of my coffee, and Hank pushes back his chair.

“Alright, breakfast is done,” he says, standing. “Time to clean up.”

I grab my plate, standing as well. “I’ll help.”

But before I can take a step, Gabe shakes his head. “Nope. Not your job.”

I arch a brow. “Excuse me?”

He gestures toward the sink, where Hank is already rinsing plates. “Hank cooks. I clean. That’s how it works.”

Hank glances over his shoulder. “We’ve got a system. Been this way for years.”

I cross my arms, giving him a look. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit around like a spoiled princess while you two do all the work?”

“Yes.” Hank smirks. “Glad we’re on the same page, luv.”

I huff, shoving my plate into his hands. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Why don’t you use this time to work on your thesis?” Gabe collects the remaining mugs. There’s something in his tone—not quite a question, more of a directive wrapped in the illusion of choice.

My spine straightens in response to his subtle command beforemy mind registers it. It’s becoming a pattern—this easy slide into compliance when either speaks with that edge of authority.

And they’ve noticed. Of course, they did. Each time I yield and follow their lead, they take another inch of control. The way Gabe’s eyes linger on me now, assessing, approving—sends a flutter through my stomach that has nothing to do with the coffee.

“Get some actual work done while we handle this,” he adds, and despite the casual words, there’s no mistaking it now. This is not a suggestion.

“Fine,” I say, moving toward my computer. “I should organize some of my research notes anyway.”

I settle onto one of the barstools, opening my laptop. It wakes from sleep mode, the screen brightening to reveal the document I was working on last night before…distractionshappened. The display glitches for a second, flickers, then returns to normal.

Last night. The memory of their hands on me, how they took turns, and how they worked together. It was intense, passionate, and consuming—but still just scratching the surface of what they described over breakfast.

My fingers hover above the keyboard, but my mind is miles away from my thesis. What they’d spoken about—the “illusion of force,” the intensity, the edge that Gabe craves and Hank facilitates—was something else entirely. Something darker. Something more primal.

I stare unseeing at my document, remembering the heat in Gabe’s eyes when he talked about taking a woman, about the dance on the edge, and the restraint in Hank’s voice when he described binding a woman and then delivering her to Gabe’s mercies.

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

Am I brave enough for that? Brave enough to let them push me past where I’ve ever gone before? To trust Gabe to take me to that edge, to trust Hank to keep me safe while I’m there?

Even more terrifying—am I brave enough to admit how much I want it? How the thought of being completely attheir mercy, of being taken, of being made to endure, ignites something inside me I’ve never fully acknowledged?

I glance over my shoulder. Hank is on the phone, his voice low and commanding as he speaks with someone about security protocols. Gabe is typing on his tablet. His brow furrows as his screen suddenly flickers, turns off, and then flicks back to life.

The cursor on my screen blinks patiently, waiting for words that won’t come. Instead, I find myself wondering what it would be like to fully surrender to them. To give them not just my body but my fear.

My trust.

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