CHAPTER FORTY
He circles me and stops behind me.
The heat radiates off of him. The silence that stretches, taut and deliberate, as if even the air is waiting for his command.
“Knees,” he says.
His voice is lower, colder—practiced.
“You know the rules, Starling.”
My breath hitches.
Not because of the command but because I know exactly who is giving it.
Montgomery acting as the Warden.
Still clinging to the role like it is armor. But I know the cadence of his voice, the weight of it when he wants to sound unshakable. I know the subtle tremor he tries to bury.
The others won’t notice it. But I do.
The shift in his breathing. The tightness in his tone. The restraint buried under domination.
It is all him.
And it breaks something inside me to hear him play this part so convincingly.
I don’t want to kneel.
Not for him.
Not like this.
But I do.
Because this isn’t just a room of strangers watching.
This is a room full of danger. And if Montgomery is still playing the Warden, then we are both in the fire.
I sink slowly, letting my knees kiss the cold tile, every inch of movement deliberate. My hands rest gently on my thighs. Head bowed.
Obedient.
Performing.
Just like him.
His hand settles on my head, fingers threading through my hair with a possessive pressure that makes my skin crawl. Not because it is cruel—but because I can feel the hesitation behind it.
“She learns quickly,” he says to the others, voice wrapped in the smug satisfaction they expected. “But it’s not instinct yet. She still questions. Still thinks.”
He leans down, his mask barely grazing my ear, but he whispers so only I could hear him, “You’re doing a fine job, my rose. You’re safe. I promise.”
One of the suited men laughs darkly. “And if she doesn’t break?”
Montgomery’s voice hardens. “She will. I don’t take on projects I can’t perfect.”
His fingers tighten just slightly in my hair, tilting my head back until my throat is exposed.
I don’t resist.
Because I know this isn’t about breaking me.
This is about convincing them that I already am.
I breathe through the tension. The performance. The unspoken history between us.
Let them see the surface.
Let them believe what they want.
But inside, I burn.
Because I remember the man who once wrapped that same hand around mine and promised to get me out.
And now—he is gripping my hair like he owns me.
But I know the truth.
This isn’t about cruelty.
This is survival.
He is pretending to be the Warden.
And I am pretending I don’t hate him for it.
The silver-masked man finally moves.
He takes one slow step forward, the soft click of his shoes cutting through the charged silence like a blade.
From my knees with my hair still wrapped in Montgomery’s hand, I track him without raising suspicion.
Every cell in my body braces. Something about him itches beneath my skin.
Familiar in the way rot is familiar. Something once alive turned foul and remembered by the body before the mind can catch up.
He stops in front of me and Montgomery lets go.
The absence of his hand is sudden, disorienting. Like a tether has been cut.
“This isn’t a showing. Step away.”
“She seems…weak,” he says, voice calm, but with an edge that doesn’t belong. “I would’ve thought you’d broken her by now especially for how long you’ve had her.”
His words slide through the room like oil, slick and meant to seep into every crack.
“Maybe if you give me a chance with her,” he says slowly, voice curling like smoke, “I could help you speed along her training.”
Before I can even react, Montgomery is suddenly toe to toe with this man.
My stomach drops, but I keep my posture straight.
“Touch her, and I’ll rip that mask off your face and show them what a dead man looks like.”
Silence.
No one laughs.
Then one of the suited men clears his throat. “Warden, a word. Now.”
Montgomery’s gaze lingers on the silver mask a moment longer before he turns to the others, jaw tightening. He walks off at an unhurried pace, each step carrying a quiet warning.
The second he is far enough, I feel it.
The shift.
The man in the mask moves.
He crosses the space between us like it belongs to him.
And then his hand touches my face.
My skin crawls before the contact even landed, but I don’t move. Can’t. His fingers brush my cheek like he is petting something tame.
But I’m not tame.
And I sure as hell am not his.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, voice a mockery of reverence.
I hold my breath—not out of awe or fear, but to keep from recoiling. If I flinch, he wins. And I’m not giving him that.
“Mr. Hirsh’s girls always cried,” he goes on, fingers trailing dangerously close to my mouth. “You look like you’d take it all.”
The words hit like a slap I didn’t see coming.
Not because they shock me—but because they don’t. Because I know exactly what kind of man would say something like that. Because I’d lived the kind of hell where men like him sat in front-row seats and called it entertainment.
“I’ve already taken more than you could ever give,” I say, voice like steel beneath silk.
He smiles at that. Not surprised. Just pleased I am still sharp-edged underneath the polish. “Good. That’s what makes you a valuable pet.”
A slow, hot surge of rage rises in me at the word. I want to sink my nails into his throat.
But I don’t move.