Chapter 38
S he’s on Wrath.
I watched her bolt the second the alarm sounded. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just instinct. The stairwell door was barely swinging closed behind her when I pulled her up on the surveillance feed, following every step.
Up to the fifth floor.
That wild, glorious look in her eyes when she burst through the door and caught sight of the maze stretched out before her. That split-second flicker of panic. The subtle shift to calculation.
I could almost see the map forming behind her eyes as she scanned the terrain—plotting her path, choosing her cover, preparing for the chase.
My little rabbit thinks she’s clever.
She is.
Which makes this even more fun.
Outside the control room, my club is emptying. Whispers and murmurs of “water main break” float up the hallways as the guests file out, their pleasures postponed. No one questions it. They know better. When I clear the floors, there’s always a reason.
And tonight, there’s only one thing I want in my kingdom.
Her.
I give her a few minutes—long enough to feel the rush of false confidence, to believe she’s making a plan to hide herself well.
Then I lean into the mic and give her my message.
“Run, little rabbit.”
Her reaction is instant.
I can’t hear it. But I see it. The monitor shows the sharp rise and fall of her chest, the tension in her thighs, the way her head snaps toward the sound like prey catching wind of its predator.
Perfect.
“Run as fast as you can. Because when I catch you…”
I pause. Let it breathe.
“I’m going to fuck you.”
And with that, I flip the switch. The entire floor plunges into darkness.
I pull my shirt off in one smooth motion, letting it fall behind me. The belt is next—slipping free of the loops with a snap and wound around my hand.
I grab my mask—the one I only wear when I’m ready to stop playing pretend and start hunting in earnest.
The Devil’s mask.
And then I’m on my way to my angel.
No footsteps. No quick breath.
Just a silent descent into Wrath.
The floor yawns wide beneath me as I quietly open the door and enter the floor. Shadows curl as the light from the stairwell disappears with the closing door.
My feet are silent on the steps as I descend into the level of madness. The cold of the metal rail biting into my hand. The silence is total—except for the low hum of the lights preparing to come back on.
In a moment, Wrath will awaken again—bathed in low, pulsing red light. Just enough to see shapes. Movement. The glint of a bare shoulder or the curve of a thigh disappearing into a corner.
Just enough to find her.
At the base of the stairs, I reach the center platform—the raised stage that overlooks the entire floor like a throne over the kingdom. I pause. Let the darkness settle around me.
With a click the lights return, blood-red and pulsing.
A heartbeat for hell.
At the edge of the stage, her heels have been left behind.
Discarded like breadcrumbs.
I grin, slow and dark.
She thinks she can outrun me barefoot?
In my domain?
In The Devil’s Playground?
No, little rabbit.
You can run all you want.
But you were mine the second you walked through that door.
And now I’m going to prove it.
I step off the stage, silent as shadow, and descend into the labyrinth of Wrath .
The moment I enter the first corridor, the temperature shifts. It's warmer here. Claustrophobic. The scent of leather and sweat still clings to the air from earlier scenes of indulgence, but now the space is hollow, stripped of everything but anticipation.
My boots move in silence. Every step calculated. Every breath shallow.
I don’t call for her. Don’t announce my arrival. I want her to wonder.
Is he close?
Is he watching me?
Because I am.
I listen.
There—a shift of movement to the left. Soft. Like bare feet against the metal grate of a stairwell. She’s light on her feet, I’ll give her that.
But she’s not silent.
She’s not me.
I change direction, cutting away from the wide path and slipping through one of the ruined doorframes of a collapsed structure. The club spared no expense on the detailing—walls are scorched and cracked, beams splintered, fake dust scattered for realism. I press a hand to the concrete, steadying myself as I listen again.
Nothing.
Clever girl.
She’s doubled back.
I turn, slipping between a stack of broken columns, and climb over a beam to the next chamber. It opens into what looks like an abandoned marketplace—wooden stalls and hanging fabric, designed for primal chases. For capture. For play.
I hear her again. Closer this time.
She’s trying to outsmart me.
Her footfalls falter deliberately—pause, shift, pause again. Trying to throw me off her trail.
I smile behind the mask.
“I can hear you, rabbit,” I whisper low, just loud enough to carry through the silence.
I don't expect her to respond.
But I hope she trembles.
A door creaks two corridors down.
I move fast now—dodging low under a twisted steel bar, slipping between draped chains that sway as I pass. Another turn, another hallway, then I stop.
Stillness.
I press my hand to the cold metal of the wall and close my eyes.
I feel her.
She's close. Her scent clings to the air—warm, sweet, electric with nerves.
I slow my breathing. Let my ears do the rest.
There—behind the old scaffolding, footsteps, barely audible, moving carefully. She’s crouched low, trying to stay hidden, heart probably racing like a trapped bird’s.
“Are you getting tired yet?” I murmur into the dark. “Because when I catch you, you’re not going to be able to walk out of here.”
A beat of silence.
Then I hear her gasp.
There you are.
I move fast, surging toward the sound—ducking behind one of the columns, pivoting sharp around the corner.
But she’s already gone.
A scrap of black mesh caught on a hook tells me I missed her by seconds.
Clever fucking girl.
I chuckle darkly.
“Keep running, rabbit,” I growl, low and dangerous. “But you should know… I always catch what’s mine.”
And she’s been mine since the moment I laid eyes on her.
Now it’s just a matter of when I take her.
And how hard she begs me to stop.
She’s fast. Smarter than I gave her credit for. But that won’t save her.
Not here.
Not in Wrath.
I double back through a narrow hallway lined with cracked brick, slipping around a steel post that cuts a sharp diagonal through the corridor. She’s trying to outthink me, choosing unpredictability over speed—hoping I’ll overcommit, that I’ll chase in a straight line.
But I’ve built this floor.
I know its tricks.
Its traps.
And most importantly, I know the way she thinks when she’s cornered.
She wants to win.
Which is why I’m about to give her exactly what she thinks she wants.
I slow down. Let her hear me.
Boots against tile. Heavy. Measured. Deliberately too loud. I let the sound of my pursuit echo down the main corridor, then dip left—slipping into a side passage hidden behind layers of blackout curtains. She won’t see me veer. She’ll only hear me moving away.
The bait is set.
I head for the Echo Chamber .
It’s one of the more sadistic additions to Wrath —a circular enclosure filled with fractured mirrors, angled sound walls, and soft floor tiles that absorb footfalls while amplifying others. Disorientation by design.
Sienna doesn't know this floor. Not like I do.
But she will. Soon.
I circle through the outer edge of the maze, taking the longer route around, letting the rhythm of my footsteps continue in the opposite direction.
And right on cue… I hear her.
Her breath. Her steps. Her soft, cautious approach.
She thinks she’s flanked me.
Good.
Let her think she’s clever. Let her believe she’s finally made the right choice.
She slips into the chamber.
I slide in after her through the second entrance.
The space goes silent. So still you could hear her heartbeat if you listened hard enough.
She’s careful. Crouched low. Moving slow. Her hand brushes against one of the mirrors, and I see her reflected a dozen times—flickering ghosts of herself stretching into the dark.
She’s surrounded.
And has no idea.
I stay behind the wall, circling just outside the main ring, using the mirrors to track her position. Every time she thinks she hears something, she moves toward it. Her own footfalls double back at her. Her own breathing bounces off the glass.
She’s lost.
I watch her turn in a slow circle, trying to find the source.
Her body is tight with adrenaline. The sheer bodysuit clings to her like a second skin, and those thin chain garters at her thighs are glittering like bait.
She came here to be hunted.
Now, she’s exactly where I want her.
I move into the ring—just a few steps behind her. Silent.
She turns again.
Her reflection catches mine, just a glimpse—one flash of the Devil’s mask behind her shoulder.
She spins.
But I’m gone.
Another flash in a different mirror. This time to her right.
She backs up, heart in her throat, looking for where I’ll appear next.
And then?—
I’m behind her.
My hands clamp down on her hips. I pull her flush against me.
“Got you,” I breathe against the shell of her ear.
She gasps, one hand flying to the mirror in front of her as if it could anchor her.
Her eyes widen when she sees us—her own reflection, my body towering behind hers, the mask, the bare chest, the belt still coiled in my fist.
“You tricked me,” she whispers, breathless.
I smile against her neck. “No, Angel. You tricked yourself. ”
I walk her backward—right into the wall of mirrors—and trap her there with the weight of my body.
“You wanted to be caught,” I murmur, pressing the mask into her shoulder. “You needed to know what happens when you run from me.”
I nudge her legs apart with my knee, my belt uncoiling like a serpent between us.
“And now, little rabbit,” I growl low and slow, wrapping the belt around her wrists, “I’m going to show you exactly what the Devil does when prey wanders too deep into Hell.”
I drop to my knees behind her.
And start collecting my winnings.