CHAPTER TWELVE
The door seals behind me with a hiss—final, airtight, like the room has already decided I’m not leaving.
He doesn’t follow.
The Warden stops just outside, his presence cutting off sharply at the threshold.
There’s a tension in the way he stands, something tight and controlled beneath the surface—as if whatever just happened in that car hasn’t settled the way it was supposed to.
He gives a short, quiet order I don’t quite catch, his attention already shifting away from me, toward something else.
Not me.
Not anymore.
“Inside,” he says, clipped, distracted in a way I’ve never heard from him before.
I don’t hesitate.
I step forward because that’s what I’m trained to do—move when told, don’t question the change in tone, don’t look back to see who he’s speaking to or why.
The door closes behind me before I can.
Silence wraps around me, thick and immediate, pressing into my chest. No guards. No handlers. Just the sound of my own breathing, too loud in a space that feels like it’s listening for it.
The Warden enters in the center of the chamber, clad in black, the porcelain mask hiding his face. Still. Watchful. Like a statue carved from a nightmare. His hands are behind his back, body relaxed—but that calm is a lie.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
Tension builds in the air, sharp and suffocating, until it gnaws at my skin.
“Take off your shoes,” he says at last, the words precise and quiet. “You tracked filth into my floor.”
I hesitate—just for a breath.
His hand moves fast—controlled, not wild—as it catches the front of my dress and pulls me a step closer. My balance slips, heels scraping against the polished tile before I steady myself. It isn’t force meant to hurt.
It’s force meant to remind.
My hands lift on instinct, but he’s already there, gloved fingers closing around my chin and angling my face up toward his. Not crushing. Just firm enough that I can’t look away.
“You’ve forgotten what you are,” he says, his voice like silk dragging across broken glass.
I shake my head. “I—I haven’t—”
His hand moves fast—too fast—and for a split second I think it’s coming for my face.
I flinch.
But it stops just short.
The air shifts with the force of it, close enough that I feel it, close enough that my breath stutters anyway. Not a strike. Not quite. Just the promise of one—held there, suspended between us.
“You have forgotten,” he whispers. “You were never meant for Hirsh’s games. You were mine from the beginning. But he made you soft. He let you think.”
My heart thunders in my chest, panic licking up my spine. “Please…”
That is the wrong word.
He turns sharply, dragging a sleek black switch from the nearby table—a narrow rod designed for elegance and agony.
“You do not speak unless spoken to,” he says. “On your knees. Now.”
I drop fast, faster than my mind can catch up. My palms hit the cold floor. My knees ache instantly. I bow my head.
I remember this place inside myself. This version of me.
Obedient. Silent. Empty.
“I will not break you for pleasure,” the Warden continues. “Not yet. That is a privilege you’ve not earned back. Today, you will learn discipline.”
The first strike lands across the back of my thighs—sharp, surgical, stunning.
I flinch, a sharp gasp catching in my throat as my body jolts forward—but I don’t make a sound.
Another.
And another.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t breathe heavy like the others did. He punishes with terrifying precision, each strike placed like a lesson he’d rehearsed in his mind a thousand times.
“You will remember who you belong to.”
Crack.
“You will not speak unless I say.”
Crack.
“You will not run, or scheme, or beg. You exist to serve.”
My breath comes in ragged bursts. Shame soaks through me like oil. Pain blurs the edges of thought, and in its place rises something colder—compliance.
When he finally stops, I am shaking. Sweat sticks my hair to my face. I taste copper.
He kneels beside me, gloved fingers curling under my chin to lift my head. My eyes burn but I hold them open.
“Who are you?” he asks.
I swallow.
My voice comes out thin. “Starling.”
His hand tightens.
“Wrong.”
I flinch. “Property,” I whisper. “Yours.”
He nods once. “Good girl.”
The praise hits me like a slap and a salve all at once. Something inside me—something small and screaming—folds under the weight of it.
I hate myself for how relieved I feel to hear those words. But survival is louder than shame.
He stands , turning toward the door.
“Clean yourself,” he says. “And then return to my office for your next task. Disobedience will not be tolerated again.”
And then he leaves—calm, unbothered, certain that I will obey.