The hour of the rat had settled over the Jeon estate like a shroud, the deep silence of the Korean night broken only by the distant hum of Seoul's surviving power grid and the soft, rhythmic breathing of the man sleeping beside her. Junghyun lay on his back, his face turned toward the ceiling, his expression peaceful, oblivious, stupid in his trust. He had touched her briefly when he returned—an exhausted peck on the cheek, a perfunctory hand on her waist, a few muttered words about his business trip before he had fallen into sleep as deep and undisturbedly as death itself.

Taehyung lay rigid beside him, her body aching with Jungkook's marks, her cunt still tender from the morning's brutal claiming, her womb heavy with the four loads of seed he had deposited inside her. She could smell Jungkook on her skin despite the shower she had taken—his scent had permeated her pores, his possession had rewritten her DNA, his ownership radiated from her like heat from a furnace. Every time she moved, she felt the ache of him, the memory of him, the desperate need for more of him.