Leaving

Celine POV

21 YEARS old

The past week has been a blur of exhaustion, a haze of moments where the brothers barely left me alone. My body aches, my spirit even more so. When I first arrived here, I had my mother. She was my anchor, my only sense of familiarity in this oppressive house. But then, she died.

Richard kept me after her death, claiming me like an object to be passed down. I stayed, not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. I became their slave in every way that mattered. The brothers—my so-called mates. That word feels hollow, a cruel irony. Mates are supposed to be equal partners. But here, it meant ownership and control.

On my eighteenth birthday, everything changed. Each of them used my body that night, taking turns, marking me in ways I didn’t understand but couldn’t stop. It wasn’t a one-time event. It became a routine, their presence in my room as predictable as the sunrise. Some nights, only one would come. Other nights, all three would be there, their desires converging into something I couldn’t escape.

I am their mate, yet I hold no power here. The only faint, twisted benefit to this bond is that they refuse to let others touch me. They don’t tell anyone I’m their mate—no, that would imply a claim rooted in respect or pride. Instead, they ensure everyone knows I am theirs in a far darker, possessive way.

Without that bond, I wonder how much worse it could have been. Richard, their father, never cared when other men in the house leered at me, when they groped me or tried to drag me into rooms. It was always the brothers who intervened, who pulled me back from the brink of further violation. But I know why—they didn’t see me as a person to protect. I was their possession, their plaything, and they wouldn’t share.

I’m startled from my thoughts as the door creaks open. My heart sinks. I thought I was done for the day. Once they’ve used me, they rarely come back in the same night. I force myself to sit up, my body protesting every movement.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, my energy too drained to do more.

Wes steps inside, his expression different—softer, almost pained. “You’re leaving,” he says, his words catching me off guard. His eyes glimmer with something I can’t quite name—guilt, maybe. “Tomorrow, you won’t be staying here anymore. Father has decided to let you leave. He can’t find a use for you.”

My breath catches in my throat. Leaving? Could it be true? Hope flutters weakly in my chest, fragile and unfamiliar. For the first time in years, I imagine a life outside these walls, a life where I am free.

But then Alex steps forward, his hand gripping my throat. His touch sends unwanted images flashing through my mind—visions of me kneeling before him, his dominance absolute as he takes from me again and again. The vividness of it makes me sick, but I can’t stop it.

Dolton’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts. “We’re here to say a final goodbye—all night.”

My stomach drops. Whatever hope had dared to bloom is crushed beneath the weight of his words. I know what they mean. I’ve fought them before, struggled against their control, but it never worked. Resistance only ever prolonged the inevitable. Even now, my traitorous mind whispers that the mate bond makes this unavoidable, that it’s why my body reacts even when I hate myself for it.

So I nod. I will submit, for the first time without protest. The fight has drained from me completely, and I can see it in their eyes—their excitement, their hunger. My submission is a victory for them.