Chapter 37
T his might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
And that’s saying something.
But it’s too late to turn back now.
Everything was already set in motion the moment I stood outside the restaurant, waiting for The Ledger’s on-call service to answer.
“This is Sienna Knight,” I’d said, sweet as sin. “I’m on a soft-contract tonight with another sponsor during my training. I can’t get a hold of Lucian to let him know—can someone pass along the message for awareness?”
So polite. So procedural.
So fucking calculated.
It was all too easy.
I’d been planning for this.
The moment Mr. Langston invited me to dinner, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I’d peeled off the tiny tracker hidden under my nail polish—filed it down to nothing, wondering if I was screwing with something industrial-grade or fragile as glass. Guess I’ll find out later.
But it doesn’t matter. Because even if the tracker’s toast, Lucian will know where Langston planned to meet me.
And that’s the point.
He’ll think he’s caught me.
Until he realizes I’m not there.
Until he realizes where I am instead.
I step out of the elevator, making my way through the corridors of The Masquerade, each level a little darker, a little louder, a little more dangerous.
I can feel eyes on me. I can feel the heat of curiosity trailing behind me like fingers across my spine.
And I know exactly why.
Because tonight, I’m wearing the most provocative thing I’ve ever put on.
A black sheer mesh bodysuit clings to me like smoke, long-sleeved with leather cuffs circling my wrists. No bra. No pasties. Just the bare shape of me, visible beneath the mesh, daring someone to look.
Lucian loves my stirrups. Loves when I wear something that suggests surrender.
There are no stockings—just thin bands around my thighs, elegant gold chains threading up to a delicate leather garter belt. From behind, they form an intricate design, like spider silk meant to trap.
Meant to bind.
Because they are bindings.
Each chain can hook the cuffs of my wrists behind my back, locking me into a helpless position. Exposed. At his mercy.
It’s a thong, of course.
A thin one and it makes my ass look fucking divine.
I walk level by level, pretending I’m just here for fun, pretending I’m not counting the seconds until the door bursts open, and he storms through it like a thunderstorm dressed in Armani.
I’m planning on the chase.
I’m counting on the punishment.
But I’m not going to give in. Not yet. Not until he admits the truth.
I’m not just a Companion. Not just his trainee.
And that’s why he won’t let me go.
Because I’m the only one he won’t release.
The one he hoards.
He can’t own me in pieces and pretend I don’t mean something to him.
Not anymore.
If he wants me— really wants me—he’ll have to come take me.
And this time, he’ll have to say it out loud.
I set the empty glass on the table, letting the last cool traces of water slide down my throat. No alcohol tonight. I need to stay sharp. Nerves like live wire. Mouth dry from anticipation.
The fourth floor— Greed —hums around me, plush and indulgent, filled with slow movements, whispered promises, and the sharp glint of power playing at the corners of every smile.
Then the alarm sounds.
Soft. Measured. Controlled. Like everything else at The Masquerade, it doesn’t scream—it suggests .
I see the shift ripple through the room instantly. Conversations pause. Hands retreat. Eyes lift to the corners where the lights wait. The thirty-second warning gives everyone a chance to reclaim their anonymity, rearrange their masks, or disengage from whatever—or whoever—they might not want to be seen with.
But for me?
It’s not a warning.
It’s a signal.
The Devil has arrived.
He’s here. And he’s looking for me.
I’m standing near the stairwell when the sound begins, and my body moves before I’ve fully made the decision. Fingers on the door. A sharp inhale. And I’m gone.
I push through the stairwell and take the steps two at a time. I barely notice the burn in my thighs or the hitch in my breath.
When I crash through the door onto the fifth floor, I reach the railing just as the lights flicker to life above me.
And the world below me blooms.
Wrath.
The floor unfolds like a fever dream—jagged and sprawling, raw and untamed. It’s not a playroom. It’s a battlefield. A city swallowed by chaos and rebuilt for predators.
I grip the metal railing and scan the terrain. Faux-ruined buildings stretch wide in fractured symmetry. Steel beams hang like ribs from the ceiling. The floor below twists into a maze of rubble and walkways, hallways of darkness, corners designed to trap and tease.
Even trees—large and gnarled—erupt from the ground, their roots curling like claws across the tile. I blink at them. They look real.
And in the middle of it all, glowing like a sacrificial altar, is a raised stage.
It’s massive.
So much more than I imagined.
And it’s perfect. I’ll be able to see everything from the platform.
A voice cuts through the quiet, calm and controlled over the loudspeaker:
“Attention guests: due to an unexpected water main break, The Masquerade will be closing for the remainder of the evening. Please retrieve your belongings at the Clerks’ Desk. Thank you for your discretion.”
I laugh under my breath.
Water main break, my ass.
This is Lucian.
Clearing the floors. Getting rid of the crowd. Locking down his kingdom so he can storm through it without distraction.
And hunt me properly.
Guests begin moving past me—some masked, some leashed, others draped in leather or silk, feathers or chains—filing toward the stairs behind. No one seems particularly concerned. The Masquerade has rules. And when rules are broken, the offender will never step foot back inside.
As they rise, I descend.
Step by step, deeper into Wrath.
The further I walk, the more real it becomes—every sound a whisper, every flickering shadow a breath behind me. This floor was built for primal play. For predators. For pursuit.
For the hunt.
I reach the center, stepping up onto the raised platform, the cold metal beneath my feet humming with possibility. I turn slowly and take it all in—every corridor, every ruined doorway, every inch of wild design meant to obscure and reveal.
It’s not just a room.
It’s a labyrinth.
And I know exactly who will come looking for me here.
Lucian Vale.
The Devil.
And when he finds me?
He won’t just drag me back.
He’ll have to admit what he’s known all along.
That I’m not just a Companion.
Not just his trainee.
I’m his.
And tonight, I want to watch him lose control trying to prove it.
The intercom crackles.
A low burst of static, barely more than a hiss—and yet it freezes me in place. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, prickling with instinct. I’m alone, but not really . Not anymore.
For a beat, the only think I hear is the deep, labored breath of someone. It sounds like they ran a marathon to get here.
Deep. Controlled. Measured in that way predators breathe when they have their eye fixed on their prey.
My pulse stutters.
A voice follows. Not shouted, not forced—but low and lethal, like smoke curling beneath a locked door.
“Run, little rabbit.”
The words are slow, dragged out like a warning… or a curse. But they don’t feel like either.
They feel like a promise.
A chill slips down my spine, chased by something hotter, heavier, curling low in my belly.
“Run as fast as you can,” he continues, every word dipped in hunger. “Because when I catch you…”
There’s a pause. Silence thick enough to taste.
Then—
“I’m going to fuck you.”
And just like that, the lights go out.
Total darkness swallows the maze.
No flicker. No dimming. Just a full blackout, abrupt and consuming.
I don’t scream.
I smile.
Because the game has truly begun. And I can already feel him closing in.