CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day comes and goes. I spend most of it reading, writing in my journal, and even pacing in front of the window that overlooks the side garden.
As I am heading to the bathroom, a knock comes at the door.
Why bother? I can’t open it.
“Enter,” I announce.
The click of the lock sounds and in walks the Warden.
His silhouette steps through the shadows first—silent and commanding—until the dim light reveals him in his mask.
He wears it during the daytime hours.
It isn’t just a mask though.
It is a face made of stone—and what he had hoped—nightmares.
Cracked porcelain, pale as bone and spiderwebbed with age.
The eyeholes are nothing but voids—pitch black slits that swallow light and look through me like smoke threading through ribs.
No expression. No mercy. Just that sculpted mouth, lips parted the faintest amount, as if forever whispering secrets no one could hear.
The texture is wrong. Too smooth in some places, too fractured in others. As if the mask had endured fire and time, but refused to break. Just like him.
And yet—he is beautiful.
Not in the way of flowers or stars. No, this beauty is sharp, carved from control and danger.
The kind of beauty that makes you freeze when you should run.
That makes you stare when your body begs to look away.
Every tilt of his head, every step he takes closer, makes my pulse flutter with a sick mix of fear and fascination.
He doesn’t need a face.
The mask is enough to own the room.
To own me.
“Starling, I would like you in my room tonight. Wear the lingerie the maid put in your top drawer.”
I freeze mid-step. One foot still in the air, like if I don’t move, maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something that make sense.
“Yes, but…sir?”
He turns slightly, his gaze heavy with warning. “You are well enough to join me in my bed tonight after that punishment, are you not?”
My mouth opens. Then closes. My throat clenches like it can’t find the right words. He never asks. He commands. He takes. This—this softness—feels more dangerous than any threat.
“Sir, I—I, uh—”
“Quit your stammering, Starling,” he says, voice low and clipped. “It isn’t cute.”
I flinch like he’s struck me, though he hasn’t.Just his tone—his disappointment—is enough to make my stomach twist.
“Yes, sir.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you are well, or yes to the stammering?”
I hesitate, then whisper, “Both, sir.”
“Finish what you were doing and be in my room by 7 PM sharp. Do not be late. No excuses either.” He turns around and closes the door. He doesn’t lock it behind him this time.
What in the world was all that about? I guess I should stop questioning what happened and just follow orders. I am sure I will find out sooner or later.
I hadn’t even gotten the silk robe over my shoulders when the front door to the estate slams open.
The sound cracks through the air like thunder—sharp, jarring, final.
Raised voices follow. Yelling. Urgent. Heated.
And then his voice—The Warden’s—cuts through it all like a blade.
Cold. Controlled. Brutal.
I can’t make out the words, only the venom behind them. Whatever is happening out there, someone has crossed a line.
Then—just as quickly as it began—it stops.
Silence drops over the house like a weighted curtain. Too quiet. Too sudden.
My hands freeze, robe still clutched halfway around me. Heart pounding.
Who had come?
Why now?And why…had it gone silent so quickly?
I wait. Listen. Pray.
For footsteps. For a voice. For anything that means I’m not alone in this silence anymore.
But all I hear is the hum of distant air vents and the blood rushing behind my ears.
Something is happening.
Something I’m not meant to see.
And something tells me…it isn’t over yet.
*****
Knock Knock
I lightly tap on his bedroom door.
“Come in, Starling,” he announces from inside. His voice sounds slightly different, but I guess it could be because he was just cursing at the intruders.
“Close the door behind you and strip.”
Well, he is getting right to business, especially after he had me dress for him.
“Sir, did I do something wrong?” Dammit, what is wrong with me? I know better than to question him.
“Starling!” He growls.
It is pink—a delicate, doll-like thing. The robe slips from my shoulders like a secret, pooling at my feet with a sigh. Underneath, the lingerie clings to my body like a second skin, soft blush with tiny black hearts stitched into the sheer fabric like whispered confessions.
The top is all ruffles and restraint—puffed sleeves tapering at my wrists in a frill, the neckline trimmed with lace, trying to make me sweeter, softer. More palatable. A gift wrapped just right.
A thin ribbon bow cinches high on my waist, not quite tight enough to bruise, but snug enough to remind me who I was dressing for.
“A little faster now, Starling.”
And there he is—the real him.
Back to his commanding, clipped, unwavering self.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
My voice stays soft, practiced. Careful.
I reach for the hem of the negligee, the fabric light as a breath against my skin. Lifting it slowly up and over my head, careful not to catch it on my hair. He hates that. Hates when anything interrupts the illusion of perfection.
Something tells me he’d ruin it later anyway. The hair. The lace. Me.
But before I can finish the motion, his voice cuts in again—quieter this time.
Sharper.
“Slower.”
My hands falter midair. The fabric clings to my ribs, caught between my arms and chest, my breathing suddenly shallow.
Not because I don’t know how to obey. But because it costs something every time.
I slow down, fingers trembling just enough to betray how much I hate being watched like this—picked apart like prey, judged for every angle, every second, every breath.
Inside, I want to disappear.
Outside, I am a doll.
Delicate. Pliable.
Exactly how he likes me.
I blink at him, unsure if this is another test or if he is just playing with me for his own amusement.
“Well…do you want it fast or slow?” I ask, not thinking, the words are out before I can drag them back in.
Shit.
My heart stutters.
I feel the shift in the air before he even moves.
Too sharp. Too quiet. Too cold.
I am in trouble now.
His posture doesn’t change. Not visibly. But I can feel him stand straighter. Leaning into the power of silence. Letting the fear bloom in my chest like a bruise.
Then he steps forward.
One step.
Two.
Defined. Intentional.
His gloved hand comes up—not to strike, not to grab—but to press two fingers against my chin and tilt it upward. Just enough to force my eyes to meet his mask.
He doesn’t speak. Not for a breath. Not for three. The silence is the punishment.
When he finally speaks, it is low. Controlled. Ice poured onto velvet.
“That tone,” he says, “belongs to girls who think they have choices.”
The words land like a stone in my stomach. But still—there is something off. Something…different. He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t press himself against me like Mr. Hirsh would have. He just looks—through the mask, into me, like he is dissecting something far more fragile than skin.
“You forget what I am, Starling?” he asks.
My name sounds wrong in his mouth.
Not harsh. Not mocking. Just…unfamiliar. Like he’s trying it on and finding it doesn’t quite fit. Like he isn’t entirely sure it’s the one he wants to use.
“No, sir,” I breathe, throat raw.
He leans in. Close enough that I feel the heat of his breath through the porcelain mouth of the mask. But he doesn’t touch me again. He doesn’t have to.
“Then remember this. I don’t care how you do it. Fast. Slow. Crawl if you want. But you will obey.”
And yet…something in his voice cracks.
So subtle I almost miss it.
It isn’t rage. Not exactly.
It is…restraint. Carefully leashed. Precision where Hirsh had been chaos. Authority sharpened like a scalpel instead of a club.
This isn’t about breaking me for pleasure.
This is about control. Total. Unflinching. Mastery.
I step back, nodding, hands lowered, the negligee still clutched in my fingers.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
And for a moment—just one I imagine what it would be like to be held by Shoomaker again.
To hear his voice, not this filtered phantom.
To be safe. Seen. Saved.
But that was a fantasy.
And this is real.
Whoever is behind that mask…would be sure to break me before anyone had a chance to rescue me.