Sunset bled crimson over the private lagoon on Stiles’s final night—a week of shattering submission finally dissolving into this humid twilight. The usually bustling paths near her suite were unnervingly quiet. Only the rustle of palm fronds and distant waves broke the silence. Stiles stood trembling on her balcony, wrapped in a sheer robe that hid nothing beneath. Beneath it, her bruises had faded to faint yellows, but her holes… her holes ached with a phantom fullness, a constant reminder.

Her gaze locked onto the three figures waiting below—Derek, Peter, Scott. Their expressions weren’t the familiar predatory hunger. Instead, a raw, possessive intensity etched their faces, mixed with something unfamiliar: apprehension. Tomorrow she left. Tonight… she had to choose one for the farewell ritual.