CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The guests had left.
The clink of glasses, the polished laughter, the underhanded threats wrapped in silk—all faded now into memory. The grand hall stands quiet, hollowed out by their absence. The only sound is the soft tick of the ornate grandfather clock down the corridor and the echo of my heartbeat in my ears.
I still kneel beside his chair, confused as I had heard stories from the other girls about the Warden. Things like this never happened. He shared them around the table of his guests, yet, tonight, I was property he would not let go of. He had claimed me without doing so.
My legs are aching. My pride too.
But I haven’t moved.
Not when the last guest departed. Not when the Warden dismissed the staff with a single glance. And certainly not when he remained seated, unmoving, silent—his hand still resting possessively at the nape of my neck, thumb brushing soft circles against my skin.
That little gesture had kept me grounded all night.
And now?
Now I have questions.
What had that display with Lennox been about? Was it all for show, or had it been personal? Why did he feed me in front of everyone like I was a precious possession? And why did it make my skin prickle with both shame and something dangerously close to desire?
But all those questions fall away as soon as he leans in and whispers—
“You behaved very well for me. Didn’t even cause a scene.”
My breath catches.
I tilt my head slightly, lips parting to speak, but no words come out.
He stands.
Tall. Unhurried. Unbothered, like the room bends a fraction around him without anyone noticing.
Then he turns to me.
“Up,” he says.
I rise slowly, legs stiff, dress falling back into place. My knees are marked from the marble floor, and my body still hums with tension—sexual and emotional, tightly woven and impossible to separate.
He doesn’t touch me again.
Not yet.
Instead, he simply says, “Come.”
And like a trained pet, I follow.
Every step down the hallway sends a pulse between my legs. I am still aching, still on edge from earlier when I’d begged for release, from the moment in the bedroom when my own touch had nearly betrayed me. He’d promised if I behaved, I’d be rewarded.
And I had behaved.
I deserve something now, don’t I?
Don’t I?
My cheeks flush at the thought.
He leads me back to my bedroom—but doesn’t stop.
He opens the door, holds it, and waits for me to walk in ahead of him.
Once I step inside, I turn to face him.
I don’t speak.
Neither does he.
But the mask tilts, his eyes rake over me, and he slowly closes the door behind him with a soft click that echoes like thunder in my chest.
I stand there in the center of my room, heart pounding, my breath shallow as his gaze sweeps over me like a touch of its own. The emerald dress still clings to my body, the slit daringly high, the neckline low enough to tease. But I suddenly feel too clothed. Too exposed. Too seen.
“Turn around,” he says, voice low and steady.
Of course, I obey.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I hear him approach. I feel the brush of fabric, the faint scent of cologne. His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress, and slowly, agonizingly, he pulls it down. The silk slides from my shoulders like a sigh, pooling at my feet in a whisper of green.
I stand bare before him—no undergarments, no shield. Just my skin and my hunger.
And still, he doesn’t touch me.
Not yet.
“Do you remember what I told you?” He murmurs near my ear, his breath warm, voice like smoke curling over skin.
“Yes, sir,” I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. “If I behaved…I’d be rewarded.”
He hums low in his throat, approval or warning—I can’t tell.
“And how well should I reward you, hmm?”
I nod, too eager, too exposed. “Please, sir…”
“Use your words, Starling” he coaxes, his tone a velvet leash. “Tell me what you want.”
Something soft brushes across my cheek—a whisper of silk.
Black satin.
My breath catches.
My world is already dark, but this…this is a different kind of blindness. A choice. A surrender.
“You,” I whisper, trembling. “I want you, sir.”
He says nothing for a moment.
Just lets the silence wrap tight around us.
“Is that the truth?” He leans closer. I can feel his breath against my ear. “Or do you want the idea of a man? The one you visit in your dreams when the nights get too long and cold in that bed of yours?”
“I…I want you,” I breathe again, voice shaking. The lie tastes sweet and bitter all at once.
Then the satin draws slowly across my lips—teasing, threatening, promising.
“Tell me again,” he murmurs against my skin, voice deep and coaxing. “Do you want me—the man who holds your leash and your pleasure in his hands? Or are you still dreaming of someone softer…someone who doesn’t make you ache like this?”
I swallow again, thighs pressing together. Heat pools low in my belly despite the guilt. The dream Montgomery and the Warden are blurring together in the darkness, and it terrifies me how much I want both.
“You,” I whisper, more desperately this time. “I want you, sir.”
He hums softly, pleased. Then I feel him lean in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Good girl. Tonight,” he says, voice dipping even lower, “I want you to feel everything without seeing anything.”
He ties the blindfold around my head, his fingers brushing against my temples, smoothing it into place. Darkness falls instantly, heightening the anticipation, sharpening every other sense. My hearing. My breathing. My need.
The silence stretches, thick and alive, like the moment before a storm breaks.
The blindfold over my eyes plunges me into blackness, and yet I’ve never felt more aware of my surroundings—of the way the air shifts when he moves, of the deep, controlled sound of his breathing, of the heat radiating from his body.
My skin prickles with anticipation. Every second feels suspended, drawn out with intentional cruelty… or maybe care.
Then I hear it—the soft, metallic click of his mask being unfastened.
My breath hitches. It is the sound I’d dreamed of without admitting it, imagined without allowing myself to hope.
I had touched his face once. Just once. But touching and seeing were not the same.
And still, even blindfolded, knowing he is bare before me, stripped of the porcelain that keeps him untouchable…
it shifts something fundamental inside me.
I can feel his presence closer now, the heat of his breath just inches from my face. And then, slowly, his fingers find my chin. His touch is firm, but not demanding. Gentle, but not unsure. He holds me there, as if grounding me to the moment, to him. And then—he kisses me.
Something shifts in me.
It isn’t lust. It isn’t fear.
It is recognition.
The first kiss lands at the hollow of my throat, hot and soft.
His lips linger, pressing into my skin like a secret, branding me in ways that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with power.
Another kiss follows, gentle and slow beneath my collarbone.
Then one at the top of my shoulder, where his fingers lightly drag down my bare arm as if memorizing me through touch alone.
I am trembling. I don’t realize it until he pauses, one hand sliding around my waist to steady me.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips brushing my skin.
“I know,” I breathe. “I can’t help it, sir.”
He doesn’t mock me. Doesn’t scold. Instead, he shifts, guiding me a step back until the backs of my knees hit the bed.
With that same measured grace, he helps me lower onto the mattress, his hands never leaving my body.
His palm spreads over my abdomen, warm and solid, pressing me into the bedding like a vow.
“You were good tonight,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the tender skin just beneath my breast. His voice is rough now—more gravel than silk. “You followed every instruction. You endured their eyes without flinching. You sat where I told you. And you did it all with grace…and restraint.”
He moves lower, kissing a slow path down the center of my stomach. Each press of his lips makes my skin burn hotter, makes the ache between my thighs tighten. I am soaked. Desperate. Still trembling under the weight of anticipation, craving the friction, the relief—him.
“I wanted you all night,” he says, his voice fraying at the edges. “I watched you sit there, draped in green and obedience. I knew what was under it. Nothing. Only me. Only mine.”
He licks a slow line up my slit.
I cry out, my hips bucking off the bed.
He groans low—raw and hungry, then his tongue circled my clit, slow and deliberate.
His hands lock down on my hips to keep me still as he devours me—unhurried, relentless, savoring every broken sound I make.
My thighs quake. I can’t see him, but I can feel him—his tongue, his breath, the way he worships like it is a ritual and I am the altar.
I am already close.
So close it terrifies me.
He pulls away suddenly, and I whimper, chasing the heat with my hips.
“I haven’t even started with you,” he growls.
My pulse stutters.
The Warden has never said things like that before. He doesn’t want. He takes. When, how, and as much as he pleases. There has never been hesitation, never desire laced with reverence. His need used to feel like a punishment, like a reminder that I didn’t belong to myself.
But this?
This feels...different.
This man—the one tracing attentive lines along my skin, the one who murmurs about wanting instead of taking—this isn’t the Warden I’d met years ago under Mr. Hirsh’s rule. And he isn’t the cold, unyielding shadow I’ve lived with for over a month, the one who broke me with silence and structure.
This version of him is something else entirely.
And maybe it shouldn’t matter.
Maybe it shouldn’t mean anything—that he’s choosing me tonight. That for this single, fleeting moment, I’m not just a tool or a trophy or a lesson in obedience.
I’m wanted.
He doesn’t let me forget who is in charge.