CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
I’m so full of frustration I could scream. I haven’t had a release in days, not since he ‘punished’ me.
I’m about to break. Every nerve in my body is coiled tight, raw from denial. And of course, another one of the Warden’s rules hangs over me like a chain around my wrists: no touching myself unless given permission. Not for pleasure. Not for comfort. Only for his satisfaction.
I sit curled in the corner of my room—the reading nook, though I haven’t been able to focus on a single damn word in days. My mind flickers like a broken reel, always circling back to the same thing: the feel of his face beneath my fingertips.
God.
The roughness of his scruff. The slope of his jaw. The heat of his skin. Those scars and how familiar one felt. My fingers had memorized him like Braille, as if I were trying to read the truth behind the mask he never takes off.
If only I could see him.
He felt handsome. Too handsome, honestly—broad shoulders, strong hands, that quiet, commanding presence that wrapped around me like smoke.
And I’ve felt the truth with my own fingers. The scars on his face—yes—but nothing grotesque. Nothing that would justify the mask as protection.
So why does he wear it?
Why am I even thinking about this? Why do I care what he looks like?
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Because some part of me—some stupid, broken part—wants to see the man underneath.
Not the mask. Not the title.
Just him.
And that might be the most dangerous thought I’ve had yet.
It’s not like I plan to stick around.
Yes, he bought me. Yes, I wear his rules like a shell. But this was never meant to be forever. I came into this for a reason. A mission. A purpose. I chose the auction.
I chose this cage.
I signed up hoping to find Tomas. Hoping to find them. The men who laid their filthy hands on me. The ones who stole everything. If I could get inside, maybe I could identify them. Maybe I could burn it all down from within.
But now? God, now I’m just another girl behind locked doors. Collared in silk. Teetering between prey and possession.
What did I think was going to happen?
That Captain Shoomaker would stop me before I ever stepped foot on that stage? That he’d see through the plan, pull me aside, and say, “Not you. Not like this.”
Or worse—that if he didn’t save me, I’d somehow become the hero of my own story.
Play detective in stilettos. Call 9-1-1 from a velvet prison. Wrap these monsters up in silk bows and hand them over like trophies.
Stupid.
That’s what I was—because now I’m here, trapped, with no one coming.
And the part that sits heaviest of all?
Some part of me is starting to want the monster who holds the key.
Not just tolerate him. Not just survive him.
Want him.
It scares me. It thrills me.
It makes my thighs press together like my body already knows the shape of his hands.
I set the book down slowly, the frayed pages brushing against my fingertips like the last thread of self-control. I sink deeper into the worn leather chair, the room quiet but charged, thick with the kind of silence that listens.
My chest rises and falls in slow, steady waves.
I let my hand drift.
My hands move first to the soft, heavy swell of my breasts, cupping them fully, squeezing, testing their weight.
My fingertips trace slow, teasing circles around my nipples, feeling them harden and tighten instantly beneath the thin fabric.
The sensation sends sparks racing straight down between my thighs.
I pinch one nipple gently at first… then harder. Much harder. A sharp hiss escapes through my teeth as the bright sting blooms across my chest. The pain is exquisite—a sweet, filthy gift that cuts through the haze and brings everything into razor-sharp focus.
My thighs shift, restless.
My other hand slides lower, skimming slowly over the soft, quivering skin of my belly. My breath stutters, catching in my throat as anticipation coils tight inside me. I hook my fingers beneath the waistband of my shorts and push them down just enough. The fabric drags over my hips and falls away.
There’s nothing left. No barrier.
My thighs are already slick, embarrassingly wet, the evidence of my arousal trailing down my skin. I’m completely exposed now—dripping, aching, and utterly ashamed of how desperately my body is responding. Nothing stands between me and my shame… and that only makes me wetter.
Heat coils low in my abdomen.
I stroke again—slower this time, deliberately torturous.
My fingers glide through my soaked pussy, gathering the slick evidence of my arousal before spreading it lazily over my swollen clit.
I circle the aching bud with feather-light touches, teasing the edges of that deep, throbbing need that’s been building for days.
Every slow pass makes my thighs tremble. The ache only grows sharper, hotter, more desperate, pulsing under my fingertips as I deny myself the pressure I truly crave.
For him.
For the man with the mask and the power to destroy me.
My breath quickens. I let my head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. The tension in me sharpens—taut and pulsing. I imagine it’s his hands instead of mine. That he’s the one kneeling between my legs. That he’s the one who would punish me for touching myself without permission.
The thought makes me wetter.
I dip one finger inside myself, shallow at first, teasing my own entrance with slow, shallow strokes.
Then I push deeper, sliding in as far as I can.
My walls clench greedily around the intrusion, fluttering and squeezing as a soft, broken whimper escapes my lips.
I bite down hard on my lower lip to stay quiet, but it barely helps.
The shame of how wet I am, how desperately my body is reacting, only makes everything feel more intense. Heat floods my cheeks as I start to fuck myself with slow, rhythmic thrusts, curling my finger against that sensitive spot inside me with every stroke.
My other hand returns to my breast, fingers finding my aching nipple.
I twist it sharply, sending a bright spark of pain straight to my core.
The mix of sensations—the deep ache in my pussy, the sharp pull on my nipple, and the overwhelming shame—leaves me trembling, breathing ragged, lost in my own filthy pleasure.
My body rocks in the chair, the friction building with each pass of my fingers, every image of him flashing behind my eyes—his voice, his mouth, his commands. I imagine his mask pressed to my cheek. His breath on my neck.
"Good girl. Show me how badly you need it."
I moan—just once.
The sound slips out before I can catch it, betraying me in the quiet.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Sudden.
It cracks through the haze like a slap.
I yank my hand back, pulse pounding in my ears, cunt aching and empty. I smooth my shorts down over my thighs with shaking fingers, but it’s useless. I’m flushed. Wet and exposed.
The knock comes again.
Slower this time.
Before I can even steady myself, the door swings open.
He’s there.
Standing in the threshold like a shadow come to life.
It’s like he knows.
I’ve searched this room—over and over—for cameras. For hidden eyes watching me in my most vulnerable moments. I’ve found nothing. And yet, I’m never truly alone.
He has that unsettling knack for surprise. For appearing when I least expect it—and when I’m most exposed.
My breath catches, heat rushing to my cheeks as my pulse races.
What does he want this time?
“Starling,” he nods once, his voice low and steady, a simple greeting that carries the weight of command.
I don’t respond.
Instead, my eyes lock onto him, tracing the sharp lines of his silhouette, the glint of the porcelain mask hiding whatever secrets his face holds.
I try to imagine what lies beneath—the jawline, the eyes, the expression.
Handsome? Harsh? Somewhere in between? The mystery twists inside me like a slow-burning ache.
He steps further into the room, the subtle scent of his cologne wrapping around me like a tether.
“I would like you to wear the newest dress that was delivered recently,” he says, voice smooth as silk but hard as steel. “And come down to dinner with me.”
My pulse quickens.
“We have a few guests tonight,” he continues, “and I would prefer if you were on my arm, sitting at my right hand.”
His words are not a question.
They’re a promise of possession.
And despite every instinct screaming at me to resist, a flicker of something darker—something unspoken—stirs in my chest.
I nod slowly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Be ready in thirty,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ll be back up here to get you.”
I hesitate, heart pounding as I search for the right words. “Sir, if I…may ask you a question?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Go on, Starling,” he gestures, inviting me to speak.
I step toward him, deliberately swaying my hips, flaunting the curves I have left—offering him whatever is mine to give. When I reach him, I freeze for a heartbeat before reaching out, my fingers brushing over the knot of his tie.
“I would be honored to sit at your side and be on your arm,” I say softly, voice low and shaky, “but I’m afraid I may not be pleasant company tonight.”
He studies me, the faintest crease of curiosity in his voice. “Why do you say that, Starling?”
I swallow hard. “Well, sir, I—well—”
“Well, what, Starling?”
I bite back a sigh. “It’s just—never mind. Forget I even brought it up.”
Turning away, I move toward the closet where the dress awaits.
But before I can reach it, his hand is on my wrist—grasping, firm but not cruel. He pulls me back, close, until we are nearly face to face, the mask between us a cold, hard barrier.
“Starling,” he murmurs, voice like velvet over steel, low and dangerous. “All you have to do is ask.”
Heat pools low in my belly, a flush blooming across my skin despite the cold grip of fear.
“Please, sir,” I breathe, my voice trembling with desperation and want. “I need you.”
He stills.
The air between us thickens, his silence suddenly deafening.
“You need me?” He echoes, his tone sharp with disbelief and something darker—something wounded.
“That’s what I said, sir.”
My voice is steadier now, threaded with a fragile kind of defiance.
“I know the rules,” I continue, slowly stepping closer, arching my back just enough that my chest brushes his jacket. “But if you’d sit down, I’d get on my knees and let you see what needing you really looks like.”
His breath catches .
I hear it.
Feel the shift in the air.
“I’d wrap these lips around your cock and thank you for every second,” I whisper, lifting my chin. “If you’d just let me.”
For a moment, I swear he is about to give in. His hands twitch at his sides. His jaw clenches.
But then—
He steps back.
His restraint wraps around the moment like ice around flame.
“We don’t have time for that,” he says, low but firm.
“But you said—”
He cuts me off with a look I can’t see, but feels like a slap.
“Don’t whine,” he says coldly. “You’re not a child. Don’t act like one.”
“Sir, I—”
But there is no softness left.
No indulgence. No warmth.
Only control.
He lets go of my wrist.
And just like that, the heat between us evaporates.
“Thirty minutes,” he says, already heading for the door. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
He pauses at the threshold, not turning back.
“Behave,” he adds, his voice a low warning. “Do exactly as I say tonight…and you might be rewarded.”
Then he is gone.
And I am left alone with the ache.
And the shame.
And the unbearable need that he refuses to touch.
And just like that, he is gone.
The door clicks shut behind him.
What lingers isn’t the silence—it’s the echo of what I felt the last time I asked Montgomery to take me away from the compound and he said no. That same hollow drop in my stomach. That same heat of embarrassment crawling up my throat like I’d reached for something I was never meant to have.
Like I had begged for nothing.
And now, whatever this is, feels like it’s being seen for exactly that—like I’m being reduced again, called out for wanting too much, for needing too much, like a child reaching for something out of reach and being reminded of it.
My body still aches, my desire still roaring beneath my skin like fire licking at the edges of restraint. I stand frozen for a moment, staring at the space he’d just occupied, before finally turning toward the closet.
There is no time for frustration. No room for rebellion.
Not when I have to play the perfect possession for his guests.
But God help me, if I make it through this evening, I was collecting on that promise.
Even if I have to tear it from his lips myself.