Chapter 4 Missing them

The morning light sliced through the yacht’s floor-to-ceiling windows like it was trying to cut me in half. I woke slowly, disoriented, the gentle rock of the water beneath me reminding me exactly where I was. Silk sheets twisted around my bare legs, the faint throb between my thighs, the heavy, musky scent of cologne, salt air, sweat, and raw sex still clinging to every inch of my skin.

Vincent was sprawled on my left, one thick arm thrown possessively across my stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, dark hair a mess. Zane slept on my right, on his side, the sheet low enough to expose the sharp V of his hips and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the fabric. Both of them looked relaxed. Sated. Like last night had been inevitable.

I stared up at the polished teak ceiling, pulse already racing. Every second of the night before crashed back in high definition: Lucien pinning my wrists above my head against the headboard, Vincent’s cock sliding deep into my mouth while I moaned around him, Zane’s tongue relentless between my thighs until I was crying, begging, coming so hard my vision blurred. The way they’d taken turns, rotated, filled me again and again until I lost count of how many times I shattered.

I’d let my brother’s best friends have me. All three. Together. Repeatedly. On a yacht that cost more than most people’s houses.

Panic surged hot and sharp. I had to get out. Before they woke up and decided round four was on the menu.

I moved inch by agonizing inch. Slid Vincent’s arm off me—he grumbled something sleepy, brow furrowing, but his breathing stayed deep. Zane shifted, the mattress dipping, but his eyes remained closed. I held my breath, eased to the edge of the bed.

My black dress lay in a crumpled pool near the sliding glass door to the private deck. Heels scattered like evidence. I snatched the dress, yanked it over my head—no time for underwear—and padded barefoot across the cool teak floor.

The balcony doors were ajar. Fresh sea air slipped in, carrying the faint cry of gulls and the distant hum of the city waking. Escape.

I was two steps from freedom when the door slid wider.

Lucien stepped in from the deck, shirtless, gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. Morning sun painted every carved line of muscle, every faint scar I hadn’t noticed in the dark last night. He held a steaming mug of coffee like he’d been up for hours, watching the harbor come alive.

“Going somewhere?” His voice was soft, amused, but the steel underneath made my stomach clench.

I gripped the doorframe. “Last night… that can’t happen again.”

He lifted one dark brow. “It already did. Multiple times.”

“It was a mistake.” The lie tasted bitter. “One night. Done. We forget it ever happened.”

Lucien laughed—low, lazy, completely unbothered. “We’ll see you tonight, Sarah.”

“No.” I shook my head too fast. “You won’t.”

I turned to bolt. His hand caught my wrist—gentle, but unbreakable.

“I’m texting you the address later,” he said.

“You don’t have my number.”

His smile was slow, predatory, beautiful. “Doesn’t matter.”

I yanked free, heart slamming against my ribs, and hurried down the corridor. The private elevator whisked me to the main deck. A crew member in crisp white gave me a polite nod, like disheveled women in evening gowns leaving at dawn was standard procedure.

At the gangway, a black town car idled at the curb. The driver—broad shoulders, dark suit—opened the rear door the second he saw me.

“Miss Sarah? Mr. Voss sent me.”

“I have my own car parked here.”

He didn’t blink. “They’d have my head if I let you walk.”

I got in.

The ride back to the city was quiet. Twenty minutes later he pulled into the underground garage of our building. My little hatchback looked pathetic next to the rows of gleaming luxury SUVs. I slid behind the wheel, hands trembling, and drove the last few blocks home on muscle memory.

Lucas was in the kitchen when I walked in—still in yesterday’s shirt, hair mussed, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. His eyes flicked up, narrowed.

“Where the hell were you all night?”

I dropped my keys on the island with a clatter. “Out. You know—open marriage and all.”

He snorted. “You look like you got railed by the entire football team. Pathetic. Slutty little mess.”

The words hit like ice water. Tears stung, but I swallowed them. Turned. Climbed the stairs without a backward glance.

In the bathroom I locked the door, stripped the dress, and stood under the shower until my fingers pruned and the water turned cold. I scrubbed hard—neck, breasts, thighs—but I could still feel them. The bite marks blooming purple along my collarbone. The faint bruises on my hips shaped like fingerprints. The ache inside that wasn’t entirely pain.

I should hate it. Hate them.

Instead my body warmed at the memory.

My phone buzzed on the vanity.

Lucien: Package en route. Be ready.

Another text, almost immediate.

Vincent: Hope you like it, kitten.

The doorbell rang.

Lucas never answered doors. I sighed, pulled on a robe, went downstairs. He was still at the island, scrolling, ignoring me like I was furniture.

I signed for the box, tipped the courier, carried it upstairs.

Black tissue paper. Inside: deep emerald lace lingerie—bra that lifted more than it covered, thong so thin it was obscene, garter belt and sheer stockings. Vincent’s handwriting on the card:

Wear this tonight. Nothing else.

My pulse kicked.

Another buzz.

Vincent: Like it?

I didn’t reply.

The doorbell again.

Smaller box. I opened it on the bed. A sleek rose-gold vibrator, slim and curved, with a tiny remote engraved with a tiny crown. Zane’s note:

Use it. Think of me.

I shoved both boxes into the nightstand drawer, slammed it shut.

Third delivery.

Velvet pouch. Heavy onyx cufflinks, engraved with delicate interlocking V, L, Z. No note. Just the weight of possession in my palm.

My phone rang.

Zane’s voice—warm, teasing, dangerous. “Two hours, princess. We’re coming for you.”

“No.” My voice cracked. “Last night was a mistake. You’re my brother’s best friends. This can’t—we can’t—”

He laughed softly. “You already did. And you loved every second.”

“Watch me walk away.”

Vincent’s voice came on speaker, lazy drawl. “You can try, kitten. Won’t get far.”

They hung up.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the gifts scattered across the comforter. Lingerie. Vibrator. Cufflinks. All screaming claim. All screaming mine.

I buried everything under folded sweaters in the bottom drawer. I had a life. Work. Meetings. A husband who didn’t deserve me and three men who wanted me too much.

I dressed for the office—tailored navy trousers, white silk blouse, hair in a tight knot.

Halfway down the stairs my phone buzzed.

Lucien: Cufflinks are in your glove box. Don’t make me come find you.

I froze on the landing.

How did they know?

I glanced toward the kitchen. Lucas was gone—probably already at the office or with her.

In the garage, I opened the glove box.

The cufflinks sat there, gleaming black against the leather.

I slammed it shut.

I wasn’t going back.

I wasn’t.

But as I pulled out of the driveway, the emerald lace whispered in my mind. The vibrator’s shape lingered like a promise. And somewhere deep, a small, traitorous voice answered:

You already want them again.