Page 72 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

As she gathers her scattered clothing, I adjust my own, making myself presentable again. By the time she’s fully dressed, I’ve composed myself completely, my expression controlled once more, betraying nothing of the storm of emotions still swirling inside me.

I move to the door, holding it open for her, gesturing for her to follow. “After you, Dove.”

She hesitates for just a moment, searching my face for... something. Reassurance, maybe, or a hint of what comes next. Then she straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and walks through the door, her dignity intact despite everything.

I follow, feeling the weight of Noah’s gaze on us as we pass the surveillance room. Let him see. Let him understand. Rhea is mine now, completely and irrevocably. And I protect what’s mine.

Chapter 15

My body still tingles in places I didn’t know could tingle, the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin like a brand. The concrete floor is cold beneath my feet as I adjust my clothes, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, my mind still foggy from what just happened.

What the fuck did I just do?

Thatcher watches me dress, his eyes tracking my every movement with that predatory focus that should terrify me but somehow doesn’t. Not anymore. Not after what we just did. His own clothes are already back in place, not a hair out of line, as if the last twenty minutes never happened.

But they did. The ache between my thighs confirms it.

I’m smoothing down my shirt when he steps toward me, closing the distance between us in two long strides. His hand catches my chin, tilting my face up to his. There’s something different inhis eyes now—an intensity, yes, but softened somehow by what we’ve just done.

“Do you understand now?” he asks, his voice low, intimate in the silence of the chamber. His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, still sensitive from his kisses. “Do you understand that you’re mine and there will be no more retaliating? No more fighting me?”

The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with significance beyond the words themselves. This isn’t just about sex or control or even protection. It’s about surrender—complete and absolute.

I should hate him for this. I should hate myself for what I’ve just done, for what I’m about to agree to. But the strange thing is, I don’t. Because for the first time since this whole nightmare began, I don’t feel alone.

“I need to hear you say it, Dove,” he presses, his fingers gentle but insistent on my skin. “I need you to verbally agree, and then we can leave.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry, the words sticking like gravel. But I need this to be over. I need to get out of this place with its cold concrete and watching eyes. And more than that, I need what he’s offering—protection, safety, a shield against the consequences of a single terrible night.

“I understand,” I whisper, the admission more difficult than I expected. “I’m yours.”

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, satisfaction, maybe hunger. His thumb strokes my cheek once, a gesture almost tender in its restraint, before he steps back.

“Good girl, Dove,” he murmurs, and though I should bristle at the condescension, some traitorous part of me warms at the praise. “Now let’s go.”

He takes my hand, his palm warm and dry against mine, and leads me toward the door. I follow without resistance, eager to leave this room, this building, whatever the hell this place is.

The hallway outside is dimly lit, the concrete walls closing in on either side. My footsteps echo in tandem with Thatcher’s as we walk, our joined hands swinging slightly between us. It’s such a normal gesture, so at odds with everything that’s happened tonight, that I almost want to laugh.

We pass a series of closed doors, each one identical to the last, before reaching a staircase that leads upward. The steps are steep, my legs still shaky from exertion and adrenaline, but Thatcher’s grip on my hand is steady, his pace slow enough that I can keep up without stumbling.

At the top of the stairs, another door—heavier, metal, with a complex-looking lock that Thatcher opens with a code punched into a keypad. It swings open to reveal a large, empty space that might once have been a warehouse. Moonlight filters through high windows, casting everything in shades of blue and silver.

And then we’re outside, the cool night air hitting my face like a benediction after the stale confinement of below. Stars pepper the sky above us, a canopy of distant light so vast and indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath it.

The parking lot is nearly empty, just a few cars scattered across the cracked asphalt. Thatcher leads me to his Tesla, the sleek vehicle gleaming under the security lights. He opens the passenger door for me—such a jarringly normal, gentlemanly gesture—and I slide in, the leather seat cool and smooth beneath me.

As he walks around to the driver’s side, I take a moment to breathe, to process what’s happened. I just agreed to belong to someone—to Thatcher. The same man who blackmailed me, threatened me, had me kidnapped and questioned. And yet, ashe settles into the seat beside me and starts the engine, I find myself oddly grateful for his presence.

For the first time since I’ve known him, I’m glad to have Thatcher on my side. There’s a strange peace in this surrender, a relief in no longer having to fight every step of the way. Whatever else he is, whatever else he’s done, he’s protecting me. And right now, that’s all I need.

The building recedes in the rearview mirror as we drive away, a silhouette against the night sky. I finally gather the courage to ask what I’ve been wondering since they dragged me here.

“Why are you a part of something like that?” I turn to face him, studying his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “What is that place? Who are those people?”

Thatcher keeps his eyes on the road, his expression unchanged, but I see his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel. For a long moment, I think he won’t answer.

Then he glances at me, his eyes reflecting the intermittent flash of streetlights as we pass beneath them. “You’re part of it now too, Dove,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “Whether you like it or not.”

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