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The elevator ascends with a drowsy murmur, pausing at intervals as strangers enter and depart—fleeting intersections of lives briefly contained in this metal box. You press your shoulders against the cool wall, lost in the private universe between your earbuds, your attention captured by the harsh blue light of your phone. The screen illuminates yet another article eviscerating the Hunter's Association, its words sharp as thrown knives.
Something tugs at your hair.
You shift slightly, absently sweeping the strands over your shoulder without looking up. The article's bitter thesis demands your full attention; whatever clumsy invasion of your space has occurred is trivial by comparison.
It happens again—this time unmistakably intentional, a sharp pull that sends a prickle of warning down your spine. Still, you refuse to acknowledge it, your stubbornness a shield against interruption.
Then the elevator shudders.
Not a complete halt—just a tremor, brief but unsettling. Your gaze scans the control panel for anomalies. You jab at the emergency call button, then press another floor from instinct. The elevator remains unmoved, indifferent to your commands.
Only then do you lower your phone.
Your focus falls first upon a pair of boots, polished to such perfection they seem to absorb the fluorescent light rather than reflect it. Military precision in every stitch and seam. Your middle contracts as you trace them upward—past the crisp lines of the uniform, the dark blue fabric that has been starched and pressed into submission, to the insignia that speaks of authority without need for words. Caleb. Colonel Caleb now. Of all the elevators in all the buildings in all the world, he had to walk into yours.
And then your inspection continues its journey.
Rafayel. Zayne. Xavier. Sylus.
All five of them. Here. Surrounding you in this suspended metal chamber. With nowhere to run.
Of course. Because why would fate grant you the simple mercy of an awkward elevator ride with just one of your complicated entanglements? No, it had to deliver the complete set. A collector's edition of your current indecisions, all conveniently gathered in one six-by-six metal box.
Your headphones suddenly feel like a noose, so you reach up and slowly, carefully, pull them off.
The silence is deafening.
The elevator doesn't move. The doors don't open.
You're trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
And if the way Sylus is already curving his lips into that knowing smirk is any indication, you won't be getting out of this unscathed.
The elevator's mechanical hum has died, replaced by a heavy stillness. Your attention darts to the control panel again—lifeless. No lights, no response. Just the faint, flickering glow of the overhead lamp casting dancing shadows across five faces you'd rather not see.
You're not sure how long you've been standing there, but it feels like centuries. The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of your own treacherous breathing. And then, with mounting horror, you realize they're all watching you.
Your heart beats a relentless rhythm as you scan their faces one by one, desperately trying to read the situation. Trying to figure out how much they know. How much they've pieced together about each other.
Caleb stands like a blueprint of controlled tension, hands clasped behind his back like he's addressing troops rather than trapped in an elevator. His visage is impenetrable, but his presence suffocates—not the teasing warmth of your childhood friend, but the unyielding command of a man who expects answers before you've figured out the questions.
Zayne's scrutiny locks onto you next, keen as a surgeon's scalpel and twice as exact. He tilts his head slightly, his bearing analytical as he dissects your every micro-expression. His stare narrows with something dangerously perceptive.
"I can feel your pulse from here," he murmurs, speech smooth as polished marble. "Breathe."
You realize—you aren't.
Your breath had hitched somewhere between Caleb's icy inspection and Sylus' slow-building amusement, trapped in your throat with the rising panic. You exhale sharply, blinking rapidly as if you might magically teleport elsewhere.
Rafayel's low chuckle ripples from the other side of the elevator as he shifts his weight against the railing. Of course, he's enjoying this. His long digits drum idly against the metal, his grin feline and predatory.
"Yeah, but I'd be more worried about your knees, sweetheart," he quips with artificial sweetness that barely masks his sarcasm. "They don't look too steady right now."
Oh. Oh.
Your breath catches. You glance down—just for an instant—and realize your legs are trembling. Not dramatically, just enough to be noticeable. Enough for Rafayel to notice. Enough for all of them to notice.
"Now, now," he drawls, his cadence lilting with theatrical concern. "No need to look so trapped, Miss Bodyguard. Unless you have a reason to be nervous?"
You force your features into neutrality, but your jaw tightens. Rafayel's words probe like a needle, searching for weakness, and you'd rather die than give him the satisfaction.
Sylus remains silent, but that smirk—God, that smirk. It curves unhurriedly, purposefully, the ruby glow of his right eye flickering in the dim light. He observes you like a cat that's already calculated the mouse's every possible escape route. It's infuriating. It's terrifying.
And then there's Xavier, eerily quiet. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head just slightly—the movement so contained it's barely perceptible. Only the subtle flex of his knuckles at his side betrays his tension.
And just like that, the dynamic shifts. They're no longer just looking at you. Now, they're looking at each other.
"What—" You swallow hard, willing your tone to be steadier than your legs. "What are you all doing here?"
You consciously avoid looking at Sylus. You can't. You physically cannot. Not when the memory of last night still burns on your skin, hot and unforgiving. Your cheeks betray you instantly, warmth creeping in like an uninvited guest, and—damn it—Caleb notices first. Of course he does.
His demeanor hardens instantly, jaw clenching, gaze narrowing with something razor-sharp and unreadable. Zayne, standing just a step away, notices too. His attention flicks to you, then shifts subtly toward Sylus. His lips part slightly, but he remains silent—for now.
Xavier watches just as carefully, though his façade remains composed, unreadable as ancient script. Which, somehow, feels even worse.
You latch onto them—Zayne, Xavier—the two safest options in this death trap of an elevator. Because looking at Sylus is unthinkable, and Caleb looks ready to declare war.
But before you can plot your next move, something shifts behind you. A gradual, premeditated tug at your hair makes your breath catch.
Rafayel.
He's standing right behind you, digits idly twisting a lock of your hair, rolling it between his fingers—languorous, absentminded, yet unmistakably calculated. He's close enough that his breath warms the back of your neck. And judging by the way the air temperature suddenly plummets, by the muscle twitching in Caleb's jaw, the flare of irritation in Zayne's focus, the way Sylus tilts his head ever so slightly—no one likes it. At all.
When Caleb moves, it's with savage purpose. His grip closes around your wrist, yanking you away from Rafayel's touch in one fluid motion. Not gentle, not rough—just absolute. You barely manage a step before colliding with him, your free hand instinctively bracing against the hard planes of his chest.
"Haven't you had enough of pulling her hair?" Caleb snaps, voice sharp as a blade and twice as restrained.
Rafayel doesn't look bothered at all. He chuckles, his fingers flexing where they'd been playing with your hair.
"Well," he muses, tilting his head, concentration fixed on you, not Caleb. "That was dramatic." The words drip with sardonic amusement, his tone playfully petulant.
You don't miss how Caleb's jaw tightens further, his grip on your wrist firm but attentive. You also don't miss how Sylus observes from his corner, arms folded as he watches the spectacle unfold like it's his personal entertainment.
"Tsk. Possessive much, Colonel?" Sylus says, each word stretching out with studied indifference.
But it's not his words that unnerve you. It's his attention—and where it lands. Because his gaze doesn't meet yours directly. It lowers. To the raven brooch pinned to your chest. A perfect match to the one on his lapel.
Your gut knots itself into a pretzel. He's not smiling anymore.
No one else has noticed. Yet. You pray to every deity you've never believed in that it stays that way.
Zayne, meanwhile, exhales methodically, like the only adult supervising a riot. He lifts his hand, swiping through the air and summoning a holographic interface with practiced ease.
"Let's not turn this into a testosterone-fueled standoff," he mutters. "We're stuck. I'd rather focus on that."
The interface blinks, then connects. A voice, synthetic and irritatingly calm, fills the elevator.
"Linkon City Dispatch, please state your emergency."
Finally. Someone competent.
But before Zayne can speak, the automated voice cuts in again: "We apologize for the inconvenience. The issue is being addressed. Please remain patient."
Then the line goes dead.
Zayne stares at the empty interface, his expression dripping with disdain.
"Fantastic."
You should be concerned about the elevator malfunction. You should be thinking about escape routes, engineering solutions, emergency protocols. But all you can feel is the weight of Sylus' stare burning into you like a brand. Because he knows. And he's waiting.
You inhale carefully, as if you're trapped in a cage with five apex predators—which, technically, you are. With considerate movements, you ease yourself from Caleb's grip, the warmth of his touch lingering like a phantom brand around your wrist. He doesn't stop you, but his gaze tracks your every movement, ready to strike again.
Your phone feels like a brick as you pull it out, digits moving with the caution of someone defusing a bomb. You shift toward the elevator's center, avoiding unnecessary contact. The screen illuminates as you attempt a call.
One ring. Two. Then nothing. No connection.
Of course. Of course.
You curse under your breath and lower the device, exhaling sharply.
"Alright. Two of you can manipulate energy and gravity." Your speech stays remarkably steady—a personal victory. "So why don't one of you just—fix this? Either get the damn thing moving or open the doors."
A beat of silence.
Then—a protracted, premeditated chuckle.
"Sweetie," Sylus murmurs, his words flowing like honey laced with poison, each syllable extended longer than necessary. "And why exactly would I be in a rush to leave?"
Your insides tighten like a fist. He's enjoying this. Of course he is.
Xavier, standing just to your right, finally speaks—his tone even, calm, rational. "That's a bad idea." His cadence is smooth but firm. "Best case scenario? We force the system to malfunction, and we wait for rescue. Worst case?" A small, calculated pause. "The lift plummets."
The atmosphere thickens. Your chest tightens as invisible currents of hostility electrify the small space around you.
Caleb's frown deepens. Zayne pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. Rafayel just quirks one eyebrow, his mouth twisting in sardonic amusement.
You instinctively shift closer to Xavier, drawn to his voice, to his logic, because right now, he seems like the only person approaching this situation with anything resembling a level head.
"You're headed to the Unicorn Unit meeting too?" you ask, desperately grasping for a shred of normalcy.
Xavier nods, a barely perceptible movement.
And then—his knuckles brush against your chest. Not forcefully. Not possessively. Just quick. Exact. The touch barely registers before he withdraws, but you feel it. And worse—you realize what he touched.
The raven brooch.
His eyes flicker with recognition. He saw. He knows.
And suddenly, you feel more exposed than if you were standing naked in the main Atrium of the Galactic Mall.
The air inside the elevator is oppressive, pressing in from all sides like a vise. It's hard to breathe, harder still to think. Every nerve in your body feels exposed, raw, as if they can see straight through you—straight into the parts of yourself you'd rather keep hidden. You need an escape. Any escape.
You turn—toward Sylus.
A mistake. A colossal, irreversible mistake.
Because he's already watching.
His garnet irises glint in the dim light, keen and unrelenting, too knowing. He's a predator, and you're the cornered prey. Your tongue darts out instinctively to wet your lips, and his attention follows the movement with predatory focus.
Why him? Why now?
The words slip out before you realize you're speaking—soft, breathless, meant only for him.
"Do something."
For the first time since this nightmare began, Sylus inhales sharply. A pause. A flicker of something darker, something dangerous, flashes in his stare.
And then—he moves.
"With pleasure, kitten."
His digits clamp around your jaw—firm, unyielding, brooking no resistance.
The air rushes from your lungs a heartbeat before his lips crash into yours.
Heat. Pressure. Possession.
The kiss isn't gentle. It isn't gradual or cautious. It's a statement. A challenge. A claim.
His mouth moves against yours with absolute purpose, absolute control—deep, searing, inescapable. His other palm presses into the small of your back, dragging you closer until there's no space left between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours.
You freeze.
Your first instinct is to pull away—but you can't.
He won't let you.
His grip is ironclad, digits pressing just enough to hold you in place, just enough to command. The heat of his body, the certainty in his movements, the way he kisses you like he owns you—it drowns you, swallows you whole.
Your hands rise to shove him away, to do something, anything—
But they only fist into the fabric of his jacket, clinging instead of pushing.
Your mind screams in protest, but your body has its own agenda, caught between instinct and something far more dangerous.
His teeth catch your lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp—and he swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, pushing harder, taking more.
A sharp, uncontrollable shiver rips down your spine, igniting every nerve ending in its wake.
The elevator around you feels a thousand miles away, the hum of machinery and the weight of their stares fading into nothing. All that's left is the heat curling between you, wild and untamed, like a fire threatening to consume everything in its path.
And then you hear it—
The sharp inhale.
Someone sucking in a breath too fast.
The clench of a jaw, the tightening of fists.
The prolonged, disciplined exhale of someone trying—and failing—not to react.
Sylus pulls back just enough, his thumb dragging across your jawline with mocking patience, as if savoring the moment.
His timbre is a murmur, low, satisfied, dripping with triumph.
"There. I did something."
The moment Sylus releases you, you want nothing more than to disappear. To sink through the floor, dissolve into atoms, cease to exist entirely. The second you stepped into this cursed elevator was the worst decision of your life. And that's saying something, considering your track record.
Your skin burns, heat spreading across your cheeks. You stare anywhere but at them. Anywhere but at him. The silence stretches unbearably, too long, too heavy—a suffocating weight compressing your lungs.
Until Rafayel shatters it, his speech dripping with artificial disdain, each word laced with petulant sarcasm.
"There aren't many things in this life—or the last—that I wish I could unsee." He exhales, shaking his head slowly, as if the memory itself is a burden. "That was one of them."
But before you can process the humiliation, Caleb moves. Again.
His palm clamps around your wrist, and this time, his grip is different. Not just firm—but furious. A subtle tremor of rage vibrates through his knuckles as he pulls you behind him, taking one decisive step forward to position himself between you and Sylus. His back forms a broad, solid barrier, a wall of muscle and tension.
And you know—you just know—this isn't about protecting you. This is about confrontation.
"Not. A. Word." Caleb's diction is lethal, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. His gaze bores into Sylus, a silent challenge, a warning.
They're nearly the same height. Nearly. But the way Caleb holds himself, the way his body radiates tension and authority—he might as well be ten feet tall.
Sylus tilts his head, the insouciant flick of his digits, the curve of his mouth—it's all intentional. A razor-thin wire of amusement, designed to provoke.
"Careful, Colonel," Sylus utters, each word delivered with meticulous coolness, heavy and mocking. "You almost sound jealous."
Caleb goes rigid.
Zayne groans, dragging a hand down his face like he's aged ten years in the last ten minutes.
"Caleb, hold yourself together." His inflection is clipped, impatient, but there's an edge to it—something sharper, something you can't quite place.
Caleb's head snaps toward him.
"Don't act like some innocent mediator, Zayne." His speech cuts with razor-sharp intent, each word a calculated strike. "We all know damn well you have your own reasons for being pissed off."
Zayne's jaw flexes, a subtle twitch that betrays his calm exterior. And for a second, just a second—he doesn't look indifferent anymore. He looks like he wants to say something. Maybe something important. Maybe something you're not ready to hear.
But before he can, Xavier speaks.
And his voice—low, even, controlled—slices through the tension like a hot knife through butter.
"Enough."
A simple word. Deceptively calm. And yet, it holds more weight than anything else spoken so far.
Caleb exhales sharply through his nose, a sound that's more frustration than relief, but his grip on your wrist doesn't loosen. He's not ready to back down. Not yet.
Zayne doesn't move, but the muscle ticking in his jaw tells its own story. His usual composure is fraying at the edges, and you can't tell if it's anger or something else entirely.
Rafayel, eternal spectator, lets out a low hum, shifting against the railing like this is free show. Like he wouldn't miss this for the world.
And Sylus?
Sylus tilts his head slightly, watching them all with that infuriating calm smirk. Like he's won something. Like he's the only one who actually knows the rules of the game being played.
Xavier exhales, measured, disciplined, tempered. His focus settles on you—just you. The weight of it is significant, uncompromising, and you feel it like a physical touch, pressing against your chest.
"Tell me something." His speech is still even, but there's an edge to it now, a sharpness that wasn't there before.
Your insides twist. You already know what's coming.
"Was that a request?"
The breath catches in your throat.
For a second—just a second—you don't understand. But then you do.
He's asking if you wanted it. If you meant it. If you wanted Sylus to kiss you.
Every muscle in your body locks up, frozen in place. You should answer. You have to answer. But how? The truth? You don't even know it yourself.
Your lips part—but before you can say anything, before you can even attempt to put words to the chaos in your head—
Sylus lets out a sharp chuckle, the sound rolling through the space like molasses.
"Don't put her on the spot, Hunter." His tone has a leisure-paced cadence, words articulated with studied care. "You might not like the answer."
Xavier doesn't react. Not outwardly. But his digits twitch, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement. And you realize—this is worse than anger. Because anger is loud. This is quiet. Too quiet.
The tension shifts again—darker, heavier, laced with something far more volatile.
Rafayel hums lowly, his speech smooth as ever, but this time, there's something sharper beneath it, a glint of something dangerous.
"I'd like to know that too, sweetheart." He speaks with the petulant entitlement of someone used to getting what they want, but beneath it runs a current of genuine curiosity.
He lifts a hand, snaps his fingers once—and a small flame flickers to life in his palm, dancing rich and gold against his skin.
"Do you enjoy playing with fire?" His attention locks onto yours, unreadable, gleaming with something too knowing, too entertained.
The flame dances between his fingers, alive, eager, as if it's waiting for your answer.
He tilts his head, watching your face as he murmurs, "Aren't you afraid of getting burned?"
Your throat tightens, but before you can even think of a response, the air in the elevator drops in temperature. A flicker of cold races up your spine, sharp and sudden.
And then—the fire dies.
No—it transforms.
The flame in Rafayel's hand twists, flickers—then shatters into delicate snowflakes.
Zayne.
He's still standing exactly where he was, but his fingers move in the air with barely a flicker of effort. The icy remnants of Rafayel's flame drift to the floor, vanishing into nothing.
Zayne exhales, unimpressed.
"Up until now, I thought her biggest problem was her heart." His voice is dry, clipped, just short of irritation. He glances at you, regard keen, evaluating. "But clearly, her head isn't doing much better."
He's right.
Because if your heart has a problem, it's that right now, it's splitting into five separate pieces.
And your head?
Your head is spinning.
You start to wonder—if you just collapsed here, lost consciousness, would that save you? Would it be enough to make this all stop? To make them stop?
Caleb must read your mind.
Because he moves before you can.
Shifting just enough to block your way, he presses one hand flat against the wall beside your head, his body closing in, effectively trapping you. His presence is overwhelming, a wall of muscle and tension, and his voice is low, a warning that rumbles through the air like distant thunder.
"Nowhere left to run, huh, pip-squeak?"
You try to swallow, but your throat is too dry, your mouth too empty. His scrutiny locks onto yours, dark and unrelenting, and you feel like a cornered animal under his watch.
"When we get home, you and I are going to have a serious conversation."
You don't get the chance to respond again.
Because Sylus moves.
And the air around you changes.
It's gradual, subtle—but different. A shift that isn't loud, isn't aggressive, isn't obvious. But it's there. His posture hasn't changed. He hasn't raised his voice. But his aura has darkened. Something in him has turned.
And when he speaks—it's not languorous anymore.
"Home?" His utterance cuts like a blade wrapped in velvet, each syllable a personal affront. His eyes flicker, not in amusement. Not this time.
"That's funny."
His half-smile is still there. But it doesn't reach his eyes anymore.
"Because the way I see it, Colonel..."
He leans slightly forward, just enough to be noticed, just enough that the tension between them hardens, sharpens, coils tight like a wire ready to snap.
"She was just in mine."
The testosterone levels in the elevator are reaching catastrophic levels. This has to stop. You don't know how, you don't know what to do, but something—anything—has to be done. Something rational. Something that doesn't involve Sylus' version of problem-solving.
But your thoughts are scattered, useless, colliding into each other and slipping away before you can hold on to one long enough to act.
Then—
"If you two don't calm down," Zayne's voice cuts through the thick tension, sharp, exasperated, unimpressed, "she won't be leaving home—she'll be heading straight to a hospital."
He reaches out, firmly pulling Caleb away from you. His grip is steady, unyielding, and for a moment, you're grateful for his intervention.
"Give her some air. She's two seconds away from getting what she apparently wants—passing out."
You suck in a breath, sharp and uneven. Were you actually about to lose consciousness? Because it sure as hell feels like it. Your vision swims just a little.
But before you can even process that terrifying thought—
"I'd be happy to perform CPR," Rafayel quips, speech dripping with theatrical sweetness, his words punctuated with childish sarcasm.
Zayne doesn't even look at him, but his tone drops, low and unimpressed.
"Not a chance."
Rafayel only grins wider, every line of his body thrumming with impish delight, as if this entire situation is nothing more than prime entertainment.
You barely hear them. Your focus is entirely on Xavier, your eyes silently pleading—please, please, save me.
So many missions together. So many times he's pulled you out of impossible situations. He always helped. Always.
But now?
Now, he doesn't move. He doesn't step in. He just watches.
And that's when you realize—this is not the Xavier you're used to. This is not the calm, logical, steady Xavier who always kept his composure. Something inside him is unraveling. He's practically crackling with restrained emotion, his whole body wound tight—too tight. His gaze darkens, freezing over, and when he finally speaks, his words hit like a slap to the face.
"With all of us?"
Your breath catches. He doesn't rephrase. He doesn't soften it. Just—direct. Unforgiving.
"Every single one of us?"
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your brain stalls, your heartbeat hammers. You should say something. You need to say something. But you don't. Because you can't.
Because the heat climbing up your neck, scorching your skin, turning your face an impossible shade of red—that's the answer. And everyone here sees it.
"At the same time?" Rafayel's voice cuts through the thick silence, and for the first time, his sarcasm falls away, replaced by genuine surprise.
Your breath stutters. "What?! NO!"
The words burst out of you too quickly, too forcefully—high and almost panicked, a knee-jerk reaction of pure offense and humiliation. And it's too much. Too loud. Too revealing.
Zayne immediately stiffens, his attention snapping to you with renewed scrutiny. His expression shifts from exasperation to something far more concerned. His stare drags over you, scanning—calculating. And you know exactly what he's doing. Checking your pulse. Watching your breathing. Assessing whether or not you're actually about to lose your damn mind in real-time.
And frankly, you just might be.
"Kitten."
Sylus' utterance slides through the tension, unhurried, indulgent—but different. Not amused this time. Not really. There's something darker underneath, something sharper. Something dangerous.
"Has your heat season lasted a little too long?"
The words hit you like a spark to gasoline.
"You're leaving with me for Skyhaven tomorrow," Caleb cuts in, voice sharp, decisive, absolute. There's no room for argument, no hint of compromise. "I'll tie you to the bed if I have to."
Heat floods your veins for an entirely new reason, a mix of indignation and something else you refuse to name.
"To the bed?" Sylus echoes, the words flowing like heavy wine as he stretches each syllable. His watchful gaze narrows, insufferable and predatory. "How unimaginative." A weighted pause. Then, "Though, why wait until tomorrow?"
And then he moves.
A flick of his wrist—a pulse of blood-red energy curling like smoke, tendrils of it wrapping around your wrists before you even process what's happening. Your arms snap up, locked, trapped, pinned to the wall behind you. The entire elevator stills, the air thickening with tension.
Caleb jolts as if to lunge forward, but Sylus is already moving. He steps in, easily brushing Caleb aside, ignoring the stiffening rage surrounding him like a stormcloud. All of his concentration—every ounce of it—is on you.
He gets closer. Too close. Close enough that his presence fills your lungs, that the heat of him presses against your senses. He lifts a single hand, trailing his knuckles up the delicate column of your throat—poised, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world.
You quiver.
The contact is barely there, featherlight—until it's not. Until his fingertip presses into the rapid thrum of your heartbeat, holding it there for a long, weighted moment. Until it drags down, languorous, teasing, sharp nails scraping just enough to leave a lingering sting.
Your breathing is shallow, uneven, utterly wrecked.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and you realize—this was never about winning. Sylus was never playing to win. Because he already owns the board.
"Alright, kitten," Sylus drawls, each word articulated with unapologetic relish, his voice rich with dark amusement as his fingers still casually follow the line of your throat before he finally steps back. "Let's make this interesting."
You barely manage to suck in a breath, still reeling, still trying to get your brain to function again—
And then he says it.
"Truth or Dare?"
The words slam into you like a physical force. For a second, your mind blanks. For a second, you think—there's no way.
But then—someone exhales sharply. Caleb's grip flexes at his sides. Rafayel straightens slightly, curiosity igniting in his eyes. Zayne lets out a low, dry laugh, shaking his head.
"You're kidding."
But he's not.
Because Sylus is still watching you, expression so relaxed it's almost dangerous. And then, the killing blow:
"Come on, kitten. Majority rules."
Your gut plummets to your feet.
You look around, desperate for an escape, but there is none. Every single one of them is waiting. And one by one, they agree.
"Why not?" Rafayel's lips curl with calculated mischief, his cadence lilting with boyish excitement poorly concealing his true interest. "I do love a good game."
"Not much else to do while we're trapped in here," Zayne mutters, though his expression is too sharp, too interested for casual indifference.
Xavier doesn't speak immediately. But when he finally does, his words are tempered, impossible to read.
"Might as well. You don't have much of a choice."
And just like that—the trap is set.
This is insane.
"Are you seriously suggesting we—"
"What's wrong, sweetie?" Sylus leans forward just slightly, his words slithering through the air like honey laced with venom. "Scared?"
Your jaw locks with a defiance you don't entirely feel. No, you won't let him get to you. You won't let them back you into a corner like some trembling prey. You lift your chin.
"Fine," the word leaves your lips before you can catch it, before you can weigh the consequences. "Let's play."
Sylus' countenance lights with predatory satisfaction—a hunter watching its trap snap shut. But the first person to speak isn't him.
It's Caleb.
"Truth," the word explodes in the small space like a gunshot, sharp and final. Your core plummets through the floor. And then—he asks.
"Are you having an affair with all of us?"
The silence that follows is absolute. Your breath catches in your throat. Your vision narrows as your entire body flushes with heat, panic coiling around your ribs, strangling any possible response.
You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. Because what the hell are you supposed to say? If you say no—they'll know. They'll all know it's a lie. If you say yes—
Someone behind you sharply exhales. The weight of five pairs of eyes pins you in place. Caleb's demeanor doesn't change, doesn't soften. He's still staring you down, unyielding as granite. Sylus? Watching you squirm like it's his favorite show. Rafayel leans slightly forward, interested and amused, like he's watching a particularly entertaining street performance. Zayne exhales gradually, but his gaze remains fixed on you, analytical and unforgiving. And Xavier—Xavier is completely unreadable, his visage a sealed vault.
The seconds stretch into decades. The elevator shrinks around you, walls closing in with each ragged breath. You have to answer. But you can't. Because you don't know how.
"You're all part of my life," you finally say, your inflection even but vigilant. Too vigilant. Too measured. The voice of someone walking barefoot through broken glass.
The tension in the elevator doesn't budge an inch. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue this dangerous tightrope walk. "There's no definition for this."
A pause. Too short. Too sharp. Because Caleb doesn't even hesitate, doesn't grant you a moment's mercy.
"Then let me rephrase—" his timbre drops lower, rougher—almost a growl that vibrates in your chest. "Are you sleeping with each of us?"
A muscle ticks in your jaw like a time bomb. And then—Sylus laughs. Low. Amused. The sound stretches out, indulgent and unhurried. It's the laugh of someone who enjoys watching fires spread.
"Careful, Colonel." His gaze gleam with pure entertainment, his words flowing with paced delight like syrup. "That's two questions." He flicks his attention around the elevator like a dealer scanning players at a high-stakes table. "Let's be fair, shall we? Let someone else take a turn."
And just like that, the atmosphere shifts again, charged with new volatility. You feel it before it happens. Zayne moves. Not much. Just enough. His arms cross over his chest, his jaw tightening like a vise.
"Then I'll ask it."
Your gut twists into elaborate knots. You turn your focus to him, and for the first time, you see it. He's not amused. Not exasperated. Not his usual, collected self. He's furious. Not the way Caleb is, not the way Rafayel is shamelessly enjoying the mess. This is restrained fury, the kind that builds quietly, waiting for the perfect moment to spill over.
Sylus tilts his head in invitation. "Come on, Doctor. Say it out loud." His speech carries a personal mockery that cuts deeper than his usual teasing. "It won't kill you."
Zayne's knuckles flex. His shoulders tense, a bowstring pulled taut. And then, finally—his voice cuts through the air, sharper than broken glass.
"Are you fucking each of us?"
The world stops. Your heart slams against your ribs. The question hangs, heavy and brutal, swallowing every ounce of air in the room. Zayne has never spoken like that before. Not to you. Not like this. Someone near you sharply inhales. Your body flushes hot, too hot, as if your skin might ignite at any moment.
Your mind blanks completely.
"At different times," your voice comes out quieter than you want it to. You straighten your spine, force steel into your words. "I've had intimate moments with each of you. But not all at once. Not... like that."
Silence. Then—
"How convenient," Rafayel muses, his tone shifting from playful to bitingly sardonic. You turn your head, and he's watching you like you're the most fascinating exhibit in a museum. Leaning nonchalantly against the railing, his digits idly tap against his wrist as if he's not invested in the answer—but his gaze tells a different story. Keen. Evaluating. Too entertained.
"Then let me ask you this, Miss Hunter," he continues, his cadence slipping from its usual theatrical airs into something rawer, more genuine. "If we're all just ghosts of different times, then tell me—who is your present?"
The words hit like a dagger to the ribs, precise and agonizing. You freeze completely. Your middle tightens into a hard knot. Because that... that's the question you really don't want to answer. Rafayel's mouth curves into a knowing half-smile, seeing the hesitation in your eyes. And the worst part? The others are waiting. Waiting for you to admit what you've refused to say out loud. Waiting for you to confirm who you belong to—or worse. That you don't belong to any of them.
The tension is unbearable, crushing you from all sides. And then—a low, amused chuckle. Sylus. The match to the fire.
"Go on, kitten," he murmurs, each syllable carved out with unapologetic relish. "Give us an answer."
Your throat locks. The walls of the elevator seem to close in. And suddenly—a sharp, cutting thought strikes you like lightning: When the hell did you ever choose Truth?
You glare at Sylus, wishing him a swift and violent demise. Because he knows. Because they all do.
Last night? Sylus.
Two nights before that? Caleb. A heated, reckless celebration of his return.
A week ago, at Zayne's clinic? It didn't exactly stay professional.
Then there was Rafayel's massive bathtub, red wine, laughter, teasing—one thing leading to another.
And Xavier... You shouldn't think about that. Not now. Not how you'd stopped by for a "work discussion" and somehow ended up on his kitchen table.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
Your heart pounds violently. Because naming one of them would be a lie. And they'd all know. They'd all know it's a lie. Because they already know. Because the longer you stay silent, the tighter the noose around your own neck.
And then—a low murmur. Silken. Dangerous.
"Bad, bad kitten." Sylus tilts his head, eyes flickering like embers, his lips barely moving as he stretches each word to its limit. "Bad choices. Do you even know how to say 'no'?"
"No," you whisper.
It's automatic. A knee-jerk reaction. A weak, pathetic attempt at denial. The moment it leaves your lips, you wish you could snatch it back from the air. Because you know—you feel it before you see it—that every single man in this elevator just took that personally.
And then, Xavier speaks. His voice is calm. Too calm. The calm of a frozen lake concealing unfathomable depths.
"Then tell me something." Your core tightens into a fist. You lift your gaze, and his azure eyes pin you in place. Cold. Unyielding. Searching. "Whose touch do you prefer?"
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your body locks up completely. Because this... this isn't just a question. This is a death sentence.
"Can I choose dare instead?" The words escape you in a whisper, nearly desperate, nearly pleading.
Xavier's expression shifts subtly. Something in him hardens, crystallizes. For the first time—he reminds you of Sylus. That same fire, that same edge, that same dangerous glint in his stare. And then, his lips part—eloquent, unwavering.
"You can." A pause. A fraction of a second that stretches like a blade poised to strike. Then—"Who will be first?"
Your gut drops through the floor. Because he didn't save you. He just twisted the knife deeper.
And the worst part? You hear them react before you even see it.
A low hum from Rafayel. A hushed exhale from Zayne. The telltale, lethal silence of Caleb. And Sylus—oh, Sylus. He chuckles, each note distinctly separate, pointedly drawn out. Because he's been playing this game longer than anyone. Because he knew from the moment this started—you were never getting out of here unscathed.
"Fine." The word bursts from your lips, sharp and sudden, slicing through the thick air like a blade.
Enough.
Enough of this game where you're the only one on the defense. Enough of being the one squirming while they circle like wolves. Xavier asked the question. Now, he can answer it.
Your chin lifts in defiance.
"Then here's my dare." A pause—intentional, weighted, like the moment before lightning strikes. "You choose, Xavier. Pick who goes first."
Xavier's expression doesn't change. Not at first. But then—his lips part slightly. A gradual inhale, a subtle shift in his stance. He understood what you just did. And he is not going to let you win.
"Alright." His knuckles flex at his sides. His shoulders roll back—just slightly. And then—"I will."
He steps forward. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just... inevitable. Like this was always going to be the answer. Like he already knew it the moment you turned this on him.
Xavier moves with purpose. Not hesitant. Not unsure. Considered. Exact. Unstoppable. Your breath catches as he closes the distance, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses like a slow-building storm. Your wrists are still bound above your head, locked by Sylus' crimson energy. You can't move. Can't pull away. And Xavier knows it.
He lifts a hand, fingers ghosting over the curve of your neck. His touch isn't harsh. It isn't teasing. It's attentive, considered. A scientist taking note of every reaction, every shift in your body. Your pulse stutters beneath his fingers. You feel it hammering, betraying you. And so does he.
He drags his knuckles lower, following the length of your arm, meticulous and tempered, like he's testing a theory, collecting data. And then—he reaches your wrist. Your breathing stalls completely. His fingers brush against the band of your watch. And that's when he finally speaks.
"You know," his voice is soft, too calm, too knowing, "there's a much simpler way to answer my question." A gradual pause follows as he taps his finger against the watch face.
Your biometric scanner. Your middle drops like an elevator with cut cables.
"Let's measure it." His eyes flick up to yours, impassive, waiting. "No lies. No guesswork. Just numbers."
The silence crackles with electric tension. Caleb shifts, tension rolling off him in waves. Rafayel lets out a low hum of interest. Zayne presses his fingers to his temple, exhaling deeply. And Sylus? His mouth curves into an insouciant smirk, each word dripping with sarcastic venom.
"Now that," he says with theatrical articulation, stretching each syllable to its breaking point, "is an experiment I can get behind."
Your heart thunders in your chest, a wild, panicked thing trying to escape its cage. Xavier's suggestion hangs in the air, scholarly and exact yet somehow more devastating than any threat. Measure your response to each of them? You'd rather face a firing squad.
"This is ridiculous," you manage, but your voice betrays you—thin, breathless, unconvincing even to your own ears.
Xavier's expression doesn't change as his thumb brushes over your wrist, right above your pulse point.
"Is it?" His voice remains maddeningly calm, but something darker flickers in his eyes. "Your watch records biometric data. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Body temperature." His gaze lifts to yours, unflinching. "All we need to do is establish a baseline, then compare your physiological response to each of us."
"That's not—" you begin, but Zayne cuts you off.
"Actually, it's quite elegant." His tone is neutral, professional, the doctor in him momentarily overriding everything else. "Purely scientific. No subjective interpretation necessary." He steps closer, the professional facade cracking around the edges of his stare. They remain keen, intent, focused on you with unsettling intensity.
Sylus chuckles, the sound rolling through the elevator like distant thunder, each note pointedly extended.
"I'm game if she is." His gaze flashes with wicked delight as he leans against the elevator wall, arms crossed, the very picture of casual cruelty. "Though I think we all know the results already."
"You're all insane," you whisper, but the protest dies as Xavier's digits slip beneath the band of your watch, adjusting it slightly, skin against skin. Even this innocuous touch sends electricity racing up your arm.
"Baseline first," Xavier murmurs, his gaze dropping to the watch display. "One hundred and ten beats per minute. Elevated, but that's to be expected given the... circumstances." His lips curve in a ghost of a smile. "Now we need to establish a control. No contact, everyone step back."
To your surprise, they all comply—Caleb with obvious reluctance, Sylus with a knowing tilt of his head, Rafayel with lingering amusement, Zayne with scholarly interest. They press themselves against the walls of the elevator, giving you space to breathe for the first time since this nightmare began.
Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Your pulse barely drops.
"One hundred and five," Xavier reports. "Still quite elevated. Interesting." The way he says it—like you're a particularly fascinating specimen under his microscope—sends a shiver down your spine.
"I'll go first," Caleb announces abruptly, pushing himself off the wall. His voice brooks no argument, military and commanding. The colonel in action, taking point as always. But there's something vulnerable beneath it that makes your throat tighten—a desperation he can't quite conceal.
No one objects. Not even Sylus, whose eyes narrow slightly, watching with predatory interest.
Caleb approaches with focused intent, his gaze never leaving your face. There's anger there still, but something else too—something possessive and protective and raw. When he reaches you, he doesn't touch you immediately. Instead, he stands close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar scent of him—clean, with hints of cedar and gunpowder.
"Ready?" he asks, and it's the gentleness in his voice that undoes you. You manage a nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
Then his hand comes up, calloused digits brushing your cheek with surprising tenderness before sliding into your hair, cradling the back of your head. His touch is sure, steady, just like him. His palm is warm against your scalp, and despite everything, you find yourself leaning into it.
"Look at me," he commands softly, and you do. His eyes are dark, intense, focused entirely on you as if the others have ceased to exist.
When he kisses you, it's disciplined at first—a soldier following protocol. But the discipline crumbles almost instantly. His kiss deepens, becomes hungry, possessive. Your lips part in surprise, and he takes immediate advantage, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weaken.
His free hand drops to your waist, then lower, fingers finding the hem of your skirt. In one smooth motion, he pulls you against him while his hand slips beneath the fabric, palm hot against your thigh. You gasp against his mouth as his fingers dig into the soft flesh, then slide higher, cupping your rear with proprietary confidence.
He kisses you like he owns you, like he's known you forever—which he has. This isn't just desire; it's history, familiarity, years of understanding exactly how to touch you. He knows your body better than anyone, and he's making sure you remember it.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, his pupils dilated. His hand remains possessively on your thigh beneath your skirt, hidden from the others' view but felt keenly by you.
"Breathe, pip-squeak," he murmurs, using the childhood nickname that only he is allowed to use. Then he steps away, leaving you swaying, skirt slightly rumpled, lips swollen.
"One hundred and forty-six," Xavier announces, his speech tighter than before. "Significant increase from baseline."
You don't miss how Caleb's jaw clenches in satisfaction, the barely perceptible nod, as if he expected nothing less. His focus remains fixed on you, possessive and heated, as he retreats to his corner of the elevator.
"My turn." Rafayel pushes himself off the wall with feline grace, eyes shimmer, gleaming with mischief. Unlike Caleb's direct approach, he circles you once, unhurriedly, appreciatively—an artist examining his subject from every angle.
You nearly jump when something small clatters to the floor—your headphones, you realize, which you've been clutching in your hand this entire time. They slide across the elevator floor, stopping near Rafayel's feet.
"Allow me," he murmurs, his speech lilting with practiced charm. He drops to one knee before you with balletic grace, retrieving them. But instead of rising, he remains there, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes. "While I'm here..."
His hands slide up your calves, fingers etching asymmetrical spirals that make your skin prickle with awareness. His touch is different from Caleb's—artistic, sensual, savoring each sensation like a connoisseur. He leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee in a kiss so light it feels like butterfly wings.
"The ancient Greeks," he murmurs against your skin, his cadence fluctuating between theatrical flair and genuine appreciation, "believed that beauty was divine." Another kiss, slightly higher, his hands sliding to the backs of your knees where he finds that sensitive spot that makes you quiver. "That to worship beauty was to worship the gods themselves."
His kisses ascend your thigh, each one more lingering than the last, his hands now wrapped around the backs of your legs, supporting you as your balance wavers. When he reaches the hem of your skirt, he glances up at you, a questioning look on his face.
You're vaguely aware of Caleb shifting restlessly, his posture rigid with barely contained aggression. Zayne watches with clinical interest that poorly masks his own tension. Xavier's expression remains cautiously neutral, but his gaze tracks every movement Rafayel makes with dangerous focus. And Sylus... Sylus observes with detached amusement, enjoying the show.
Rafayel rises in one fluid motion, turning you in his arms so your back presses against his chest. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking indolent rhythms that send shivers up your spine. You feel his breath on your neck a moment before his lips touch your skin, trailing kisses from your shoulder to the sensitive spot behind your ear.
"The Renaissance masters," he continues, his voice shifting from its usual sarcastic edge to something softer, more genuine, "believed that true art should evoke passion." His teeth graze your earlobe, drawing a soft gasp from you. "That beauty without desire was merely decoration."
His hands slide upward, digits splayed across your ribs, thumbs just brushing the undersides of your breasts in a touch so subtle it might be accidental—but you know better. There's nothing accidental about the way he touches you, the way his lips and teeth and tongue find every sensitive spot on your neck and shoulders.
Your nerves spark like live wires beneath your skin visibly now, responding to his touch like an instrument to a maestro. His kiss on the nape of your neck ignites a cascade of shivers that everyone can see, your breath coming in shuddering gasps.
When he finally releases you, you have to catch yourself against the elevator wall, your legs unsteady beneath you.
"One hundred and forty-seven," Xavier reports, the tension in his voice now unmistakable. "Within statistical margin of error compared to Colonel Caleb."
Rafayel's smile is all feline satisfaction as he retreats, trailing his digits across your shoulder one last time. As he passes Caleb, the colonel's glare could melt steel, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"If we're being thorough," Zayne says, stepping forward with professional exactitude, "we should allow time between trials for her heart rate to normalize. Otherwise, the results will be skewed by cumulative effect."
"By all means, Doctor," Sylus responds, each word enunciated with mock courtesy. "Let's make sure our methodology is sound."
Zayne ignores him, approaching you with measured steps. Unlike the others, his focus seems entirely professional at first—the doctor assessing a patient. He takes your wrist between his fingers, precisely positioned over your pulse point, his other hand cupping your elbow to steady you.
"Breathe deeply," he instructs, speech clear and clipped like a surgical command. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
You obey without thinking, conditioned by countless medical examinations to follow his directions. His touch is cool and precise, his focus absolute.
"Tachycardia," he diagnoses, voice dropping to a lower register as his fingers press more firmly against your wrist. The clinical term somehow makes this more intimate, not less. "Your autonomic nervous system is in overdrive."
You try to regulate your breathing, but it's impossible under his analytical gaze.
"Let me check your carotid response," he murmurs, his free hand sliding up to your neck. His fingers find the pulse point with unerring accuracy—doctor's hands, you think dizzily, trained to find the life flowing beneath the skin.
But then those scrutinizing fingers slide lower, charting the gentle arc of your collarbone with unhurried intent. His eyes never leave yours as he leans in, replacing his fingertips with his lips. The press of his mouth against your neck carries a startling intimacy—medical knowledge transformed into artful seduction. He knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, which nerves cluster beneath the skin.
"Increased respiration," he murmurs against your throat, each word crisp and precise despite the circumstances. "Pupil dilation. Vasodilation in the peripheral capillaries." Each analytical observation punctuated by the brush of his lips against another sensitive spot. His fingertips choreograph invisible equations across your skin—solving for variables of pleasure with scientific certainty, as if he's decoding neural symphonies only he can hear.
"Fascinating," he says softly, and despite the scientific language, there's nothing detached about the way his lips part against your skin, the heat of his breath raising goosebumps along your arms. "Your physiological arousal response is... exceptional."
His free hand moves to the small of your back, pressing you closer as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. His tongue explores the delicate skin there, tasting your racing pulse, and your vision momentarily blurs.
When he releases you, his analytical mask is back in place, but his pupils are dilated, his breathing carefully controlled. Even Zayne, with all his professional detachment, isn't immune to what's happening in this elevator.
"One hundred and forty-eight," Xavier reports, his inflection now unmistakably tense. "Within standard deviation of previous readings."
Zayne nods, as if this is exactly the data he expected, before returning to his position with precise steps. You notice Caleb watching him with barely concealed hostility, while Rafayel's demeanor shows reluctant appreciation for the doctor's technique.
The silence stretches, and you realize Xavier is next. But instead of approaching, he stands still, watching you with unreadable eyes.
"Your methodology is flawed," he finally states, his tone cool and measured. "We need to test under identical conditions to ensure valid comparison." He gestures to your still-bound wrists. "Sylus has an unfair advantage."
"Oh?" Sylus raises an eyebrow, lips quirking upward at one corner. "Afraid of a little...handicap, Hunter?" The last word lingers in the air, pointed and challenging.
Xavier doesn't rise to the bait. He simply waits, expectant.
With an exaggerated sigh, Sylus flicks his wrist. The crimson energy binding your arms dissipates like smoke, leaving you suddenly, alarmingly free.
Xavier approaches then, methodical and controlled. Unlike the others, there's nothing flashy or dramatic in his movements. He simply stands before you, eyes meeting yours with calm intensity.
"May I?" he asks, formal and reserved.
When you nod, his hands come up to frame your face, light as butterfly wings but inexorable as gravity. His contact is precise, careful, but not analytical like Zayne's. There's something almost reverent in the way his thumbs brush your cheekbones, as if memorizing the contours of your face.
"Close your eyes," he instructs softly.
You do, surrendering to darkness, other senses heightening. You feel the warmth of his breath, the slight tremor in his fingers that betrays his controlled exterior. When his lips meet yours, it's a question rather than a demand—gentle, exploring, patient. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like solving a complex equation that requires perfect attention to detail.
His hands drift from your face, discovering the curve where neck meets shoulder with scholarly fascination. Each caress balances exactitude with reverence—a watchmaker's attention melded with a poet's appreciation. When his fingertips uncover the vulnerable hollow at the base of your spine, your body responds of its own accord, bowing toward him like a plant seeking light.
He catches your movement, steadying you with a hand at your waist while his lips trace the curve of your shoulder. Unlike Rafayel's artistic sensuality or Zayne's unwavering self-control, Xavier's touch is a thoughtful study—learning you, cataloging reactions, building a detailed map of what makes you respond.
What undoes you is the moment his control slips—just for a second. His hands tighten almost imperceptibly, his kiss deepens with sudden urgency, and you feel the man beneath the scientist, the passion beneath the restraint. His teeth graze your lower lip, his digits dig into your hips, and for one searing moment, his careful facade cracks completely.
Then, as quickly as it happened, he reins himself in, pulling back with measured care.
You open your eyes to find him watching you with heated intensity, the veneer of coolness slipping just enough to show the depths beneath.
"One hundred and forty-six," he reports himself, timbre slightly rougher than before. "Statistically equivalent to the others."
And then, finally, there's Sylus.
He doesn't rush forward like you expect. Instead, he stays where he is, lounging against the elevator wall, irises glowing in the dim light.
"Come here," he orders, voice soft but commanding.
You hesitate, glancing at the others. Caleb looks like he might physically intervene, muscles tensed for action, but something in Sylus's expression stops him.
On shaky legs, you cross the small space until you stand before Sylus, close enough to touch but not touching.
"Interesting experiment," he murmurs, reaching out to twirl a strand of your hair around his finger, the gesture leisurely and possessive. "But fundamentally flawed. Do you know why?"
You shake your head, pulse already climbing in anticipation.
"Because it assumes equivalence. That all touches are created equal." His tone darkens with sinister amusement as he releases your hair, letting his hand drop to his side. "That's not how desire works, kitten. It's not about what we do to you—it's about what you let us do."
He doesn't move to touch you further. Instead, he simply watches, crimson gaze burning with intensity, waiting.
The silence stretches, unbearable, taut as a wire. You understand suddenly, viscerally, what he's doing. Unlike the others, who touched you on their terms, he's forcing you to make the choice. To admit what you want.
Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you step closer, close enough that your bodies almost touch. His focus never leaves yours, challenging, daring.
"Say it," he whispers, his words a silken caress that somehow manages to be a command. "Say what you want."
"Touch me," the words escape before you can stop them, barely audible.
His expression shifts to predatory triumph. "Where?"
Your face burns, but you're beyond shame now. You take his hand and place it over your thundering heart. His palm is warm through the thin fabric of your shirt, and his fingers flex slightly, possessively.
"Interesting choice," he murmurs, each syllable distinct before suddenly spinning you, your back pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped around you. His hand remains over your heart, feeling every chaotic beat, while his other hand tilts your chin up, exposing your throat to the others' scrutiny.
"Watch," he commands, not to you but to them, as his lips descend to your neck. Unlike the others, he makes no attempt to be gentle or restrained. His bite is just shy of painful, his grip possessive, demanding. His palm slides from your heart downward, over your stomach, fingers splayed wide in a gesture of unmistakable ownership.
"Tell them," he whispers against your ear, loud enough for all to hear, his timbre a slow-moving current of dark satisfaction. "Tell them who you belong to right now."
"You," you breathe, shocking yourself with the admission. Your legs quiver beneath you, your entire body responding to his dominance like a key turning in a lock.
"Again," he demands, teeth grazing your earlobe, hand sliding lower, resting just above the waistband of your skirt.
"You," you repeat, louder this time, your surrender complete and public. You feel the tension radiating from the others—Caleb's fury, Rafayel's fascination, Zayne's clinical interest, Xavier's carefully contained jealousy.
Sylus's laugh is low and triumphant in your ear, each note pointedly separated. "Good girl."
He releases you suddenly, turning you to face him. His eyes gleam with dark satisfaction as he traces your lower lip with his thumb.
"Now," he utters, voice rich with malicious intent as each word is articulated with precision, "I wonder what would happen if we..." He glances at the others, his expression sharpening with dangerous intent. "Combined our efforts?"
Your heart stutters in your chest.
"That's not part of the experiment," Xavier says quickly, but there's an undercurrent in his voice that wasn't there before.
"Isn't it?" Sylus challenges, each phrase a personal affront to logic and restraint. "We've tested individual responses. The logical next step is to test cumulative effect." He looks directly at you, his gaze narrowing with predatory focus. "Unless you're afraid of what we might discover, kitten?"
You should say no. You should stop this before it goes any further. But your voice fails you, traitorous body already responding to the mere suggestion.
"I think that's exactly what we need to do," Rafayel agrees suddenly, his speech shedding its theatrical quality for something more genuinely intrigued. "For the sake of scientific thoroughness."
"It would provide complete data," Zayne admits reluctantly, though his analytical tone doesn't quite mask his interest.
Caleb says nothing, but his silence is answer enough.
"Then it's decided," Sylus declares, his hand still cupping your face, his words a slow-moving river of dark promise. "Let's see what happens when you can't tell where one touch ends and another begins."
They move as one, closing in around you like wolves circling prey. Sylus remains in front of you, his thumb still tracing your lower lip, while Caleb steps behind you, hands settling on your hips with the commanding confidence of a military officer. Rafayel positions himself at your right side, his artist's hands already hovering near your bare arm, while Xavier takes your left, his scholarly patience giving way to something darker. Zayne hangs back just a moment longer, watching with analytical interest that rapidly dissolves into something far more primal.
"One hundred and sixty," he announces, voice tight with barely controlled desire as he finally steps forward. "Already climbing."
The first touch is Sylus, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that brooks no resistance, dominant and demanding. Caleb's mouth finds your neck simultaneously, teeth grazing sensitive skin with possessive intensity, his grip on your hips tightening to the edge of bruising. Rafayel's lips trail along your wrist, up your arm, his tongue mapping ornate constellations at the sensitive inner crease of your elbow, each caress meticulously designed to draw shudders from you.
Xavier, no longer waiting, tangles one hand in your hair, tugging with just enough force to arch your throat further for Caleb's attentions, while his other hand traces the curve of your waist, dipping dangerously lower. Zayne surprises you most – his usual methodical calculation vanishing entirely as he lifts your hand to his mouth, teeth grazing your fingertips before taking two into his mouth, his tongue working between them in a way that makes heat pool low in your abdomen.
"One hundred and seventy," Zayne murmurs against your palm, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. "Dramatically elevated from individual readings."
Your senses fragment completely. You're drowning in sensation, unable to process the overwhelming input from all sides. Sylus releases your mouth only for Xavier to claim it, his kiss surprisingly fierce, stealing your breath. The moment he releases you, Sylus reclaims you, not willing to surrender you for long. Caleb's teeth find the exact spot where your neck meets your shoulder that never fails to make you gasp, while his hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin with possessive intent.
Rafayel's artistic control falters as he grows bolder, his lips outlining the shell of your ear, teeth nipping at the sensitive lobe while his hands explore the curve of your spine. Zayne, evidently done with mere observation, presses against your side, his medical knowledge put to devastating use as he finds the rarely-touched sensitive spot behind your knee, massaging in slow circles that make your legs tremble.
You're vaguely aware of the sounds escaping you—desperate whimpers, breathless pleas, broken gasps you barely recognize as your own. Your legs can no longer support you; you're suspended entirely by their touch, a willing prisoner in a cage of muscle and heat.
"One hundred and ninety," Zayne reports against your throat, his clinical tone completely abandoned for something raw and hungry. "Approaching dangerous levels."
You should care about that. You should worry. But all you can focus on is the overwhelming cascade of pleasure, the dizzying knowledge that you are completely surrounded, completely claimed, completely—
Somewhere, distantly, a phone rings.
You ignore it at first, lost in the sensations flooding your body. But the sound persists, jarring and insistent, cutting through the haze of desire.
It's not a ringtone. It's a regular, monotonous ring, like an old-fashioned telephone. Or an alarm.
The realization hits you gradually, confusion seeping through the pleasure. Why would your phone sound like that? The ringing gets louder, more insistent, impossible to ignore. The touches begin to fade, becoming distant, less substantial.
You try to hold onto the sensations, but they're slipping away, replaced by a growing awareness of—
Your eyes snap open.
Your bedroom ceiling stares back at you, morning light filtering through the curtains. The alarm clock on your nightstand continues its relentless shrilling, the red numbers showing 7:00 AM in accusatory brightness.
You lie frozen, heart still pounding, body flushed and aching with unfulfilled desire. Your sheets are twisted around you, damp with sweat. Your breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.
A dream. It was all a dream.
You slam your hand down on the alarm, plunging the room into blessed silence. Slowly, reality reasserts itself. Your apartment. Your bedroom. No elevator. No experiment. No them.
With shaking hands, you push yourself up, leaning against the headboard as you try to calm your racing heart. Your body feels like a livewire, every nerve ending still humming with phantom sensations.
Your gaze falls on your nightstand, where five framed photographs sit in a neat row. Caleb in his uniform, serious and commanding. Rafayel lounging in his studio, paint-spattered and grinning. Zayne in his lab coat, focused and professional. Xavier among his books, quiet and thoughtful. Sylus with his crimson eyes gleaming, one corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar expression of knowing amusement.
Five men. Five relationships. Five impossible choices.
You groan, burying your face in your hands. These dreams are getting worse, more vivid, more intense. Your subconscious is clearly trying to tell you something—probably that you're going to have a nervous breakdown if you don't make a decision soon.
You swing your legs out of bed, making two immediate resolutions.
One: It's time to choose. This limbo can't continue.
And two: You're taking the stairs for the foreseeable future.
Elevators are clearly hazardous to your mental health.