Chapter 13
The walls are closing in. I can feel the panic clawing at my throat, a cold, suffocating grip that makes every breath feel like I’m inhaling shards of glass. My eyes are glued to that bloody board, and it’s too much. It’s all too fucking much.
There I am. My face. And then, the photos from my twelfth birthday party. Cordelia. Rosalind. Me.
The air leaves my lungs in a ragged gasp.
My father’s voice, screaming, echoing from a decade ago, rips through my mind.
He’d yelled at me for it—how I hadn't changed. How my face a stagnant thing. He was right. I look at the photos, then I think of the mirrors I’ve spent years avoiding, and the truth hits me like a physical blow to the gut.
My face has barely shifted. I still look exactly as I did when I was twelve despite being older. I look exactly like them.
I’ve spent years playing a mental game of hide-and-seek with my own identity.
I tried that bollocks self-therapy, trying to scrub the memory of Cordelia and Rosalind’s faces from my mind.
I thought if I could just forget what they looked like, I’d stop seeing them every time I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window or a polished spoon.
But how the fuck am I supposed to forget their faces when I’m wearing one?
I am a living ghost, a walking reminder of a tragedy I can't escape.
I jerk my head away from the board, tears blurring my vision, sobbing so hard my chest aches.
This man—this absolute lunatic—knows everything.
Every dark secret, every shattered piece of my family history.
He hasn't just been stalking me; he’s been studying me like some twisted detective with a case he’s obsessed with solving.
I feel exposed, stripped bare, and utterly terrified.
Then, suddenly, I’m not alone.
Strong arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back against a broad, solid chest. I don't even have to look; I know the scent of him—expensive cologne, old leather, and something dark and metallic that smells like danger. It’s Rhys.
"Shhh, love. I've got you," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against my spine.
He doesn't just hold me; he anchors me. His touch is firm, possessive, but there's a strange, grounding quality to it.
He begins to rub slow, rhythmic circles into my sides, his large hands warming me through the fabric of my dress.
He whispers things—dark, soothing promises—telling me that I'm safe in his grip, that the world outside doesn't matter, only that I belong to him.
I collapse into him, sobbing into his chest, my fingers clutching the expensive fabric of his coat.
Usually, when the panic hits this hard, I crash.
I exhaust myself until I black out or fall into a dead sleep just to make the noise in my head stop.
But this time, it's different. His presence is too intense, too demanding.
He keeps me awake, forcing me to feel the way he breathes, the way his heart beats steady and slow against my ear.
For the first time in my life, I ride out the storm without disappearing into the dark.
As I start to settle, I feel something cold touch my skin. I must have dropped my necklace in the chaos. He leans forward, his fingers brushing my nape as he carefully fastens the black skull and roses around my neck. It feels like a collar. A mark of ownership.
I look up slightly. He’s fully dressed now, looking like a goddamn nightmare in a long, sweeping black coat that makes him look even more imposing. He doesn't let me go; instead, he shifts me, lifting me effortlessly until I'm sitting on his lap right there on the office floor.
He looks at me, those dark eyes piercing through my defenses. "Are you now ready to finally let me help you?"
I don't answer. I can't. I turn my gaze toward the window, watching the pale, indifferent moon hanging in the sky. I'm hovering on the edge of saying yes, of just giving in to the madness, when a sharp buzz vibrates from his pocket.
Rhys glances down at his phone, his expression shifting into something cold and focused.
He doesn't put the phone away; he just slides it back into his pocket and stands up.
But he doesn't put me down. He shifts his grip, hoisting me up until I'm straddling his torso, my legs wrapped tight around his waist and my arms locked around his neck.
My plum dress is pushed high up, leaving my thighs bare against the rough fabric of his trousers.
"Where are we going?" I whisper, my voice trembling as he starts walking toward the door, carrying me like I weigh nothing.
"The torture chamber," he says simply.
I nearly jump out of my skin, a gasp escaping me as I try to recoil.
But his grip is iron. One hand is clamped firmly on my waist, and the other is squeezed tight against my ass, pinning me to him.
He stops for a second, tilting his head to capture my lips in a hard, bruising kiss that tastes of dominance.
"Not for you," he murmurs against my mouth, his breath hot. "Not yet."
A shiver that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a traitorous spark of arousal runs down my spine. I can't bring myself to look him in the eye, so I stare at his lips, my heart hammering. "Who... who is the torture chamber for then?"
"This," he says, his voice turning glacial, "is for men who must die."
He carries me out of the office and down a dimly lit hallway. We reach a heavy door, and I watch as he punches a code into a keypad. The lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal a corridor that looks like it was ripped from a royal treasury.
Everything is gold. The walls, the ceiling, the floor—all shimmering, opulent gold that reflects the light of a massive, ornate chandelier hanging above. It’s blindingly expensive, a stark contrast to the darkness we just left.
Rhys stops at a section of the left wall. He presses a hidden trigger, and a secret compartment slides open with a soft hiss. Inside lie two masks.
He reaches in and takes the first one. It’s a masterpiece of gothic horror—matte black, sculpted with sharp, aggressive lines that mimic a stylized skull or a demon.
The eyes are narrow slits covered with a fine, dark mesh that allows him to see perfectly while hiding his gaze from the world.
He slides it over his face and then pulls the hood of his long black coat up, disappearing into the shadow of the mask.
Then, he turns to me. He takes the second mask.
It’s the feminine counterpart—elegant, dark, and sinister.
It fits the contours of my face perfectly, but instead of open slits, it has delicate, sheer black veils draped over the eyes, blurring my vision and making the world feel distant and dreamlike.
He secures it to my head, his fingers lingering on my skin.
He starts walking again, and as we approach the end of the golden hall, the final door opens on its own, as if the house itself is welcoming us.
We step inside, and my breath catches.
The room is a cathedral of erotic darkness.
It’s an expansive, multi-level space that looks like a surreal, midnight version of a tropical paradise.
Everything is drenched in shades of black and deep obsidian.
Artificial streams of water, glowing with an eerie blue-green luminescence, wind through the floor, flowing under elevated platforms and around exotic, blackened plant life.
The lighting is ambient and moody, with dim spotlights and strings of dark crystals creating pools of shadow and light. It feels like a high-end, exclusive club for the damned. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and expensive incense.
At the far end of the room, a massive stage is framed by heavy, floor-to-ceiling black velvet curtains that swallow the light.
On the stage, there's a raised console with a series of buttons and controls, overlooking the water features and the tiered seating areas. It’s a place designed for performance, for voyeurism, and for the absolute exercise of power.
I feel the weight of Rhys’s hand on my hip, grounding me as we step into the room. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, old velvet, and something metallic that makes the hair on my arms stand up. This isn't just a party; it's a sanctuary for the depraved.
A handful of people are scattered across plush, dark couches, looking like gothic royalty.
Every single one of them is masked—intricate, haunting designs of bone, lace, and obsidian that hide their identities but not their hunger.
The opulence is suffocating. Everything from the gold-leaf trim to the heavy black drapery screams VVIP.
This is the inner sanctum, the place where the real monsters of the Menagerie come to play.
"Castellan," a man calls out, his voice muffled by a silver wolf mask. He leans back, swirling a glass of deep red wine. "We’ve been waiting for you, you bastard."
Rhys doesn't let go of me or put me down. His grip is possessive, a constant reminder that I am his accessory tonight. "My apologies for keeping you waiting," he says, his voice a smooth, dangerous purr. "Had a bit of a distraction."
A woman in a delicate black lace mask lets out a sharp, melodic laugh, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Is that so? He brought a little pet straddling him into the room. That’s a first, even for you, Rhys."
"She's a special kind," Rhys replies, and I shiver against him, the words sending a jolt of heat and terror through my spine.
"Is she a guest or a toy?" another man asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.
"She's mine," Rhys snaps, the possessiveness in his tone leaving no room for debate. "And she's learning how the world actually works."