CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
There are many guests.
I count eight couples mingling in the front room—men in expensive suits, women draped in dresses that screamed wealth and obedience.
Their laughter is shallow, conversations brittle with hidden threats.
Three more couples linger in the dining area, already sipping from crystal glasses and picking at delicate hors d’oeuvres like predators dressed for the opera.
I keep my hand in his as we enter. The fabric hugs me in all the right places, whispering secrets with every step. I can feel every set of eyes tracking our steps. Whispers rise and fall like the soft crackle of firewood.
To them, I’m not a guest.
I am a showpiece.
“Ma—sorry Warden,” a man’s voice calls out from behind us.
The Warden turns us slowly toward the gentleman.
A tall man in a midnight-blue jacket steps forward, glass of bourbon in hand, his smile all charm and calculation.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight,” he says, his eyes sliding from the Warden to me with barely masked curiosity. “And who, may I ask, is this stunning little addition?”
My stomach twists.
I know that face.
He is one of them—a man I’d seen at the compound more times than I could count. Always watching. Always testing the girls. But he never bought. He didn’t have to. His power came from access, not ownership.
The Warden’s grip on my hand tightens, his tone cold and unbothered as he replies, “Why wouldn’t I be here? You’ve entered my house, Lennox. Of course I’ll be attending my own gathering.”
Lennox’s smile falters for a split second, but he recovers quickly with a low chuckle.
I file it away immediately—Lennox. The name locks in beside the others in my mind like another entry in a growing list I can’t stop building.
Another thread catches on the edge of my attention, sharper than the rest: the Warden’s government name. Lennox almost says it—lets it slip just now, too familiar, too close to the surface.
And that means it exists somewhere.
Which means I need to find it.
“Rumor was you would be observing, not mingling,” Lennox says smoothly.
“She’s mine, by the way,” The Warden adds, tightening his grip on my hand just enough to pull me back into the present. “And she’ll be sitting at my right hand this evening. You’ll remember to behave, won’t you, Lennox?”
The man—Lennox—chuckles. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of stepping on your territory.”
His gaze flicks over me one last time before he walks away.
But the chill he leaves behind stays buried in my spine and I have a feeling tonight isn’t just about dinner.
It is about survival.
The Warden leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “Are you okay?”
I don’t hesitate. Don’t dare.
“Just fine, sir,” I whisper quickly. “I’ll fix my face, sir. I didn’t mean to show a disturbance. Please don’t punish me.”
My voice is smooth, submissive—but tight with panic I can’t quite smother.
The Warden keeps hold of my hand as we move further into the room, each step unhurried and precise, every motion designed to display.
I am aware of every glance, every smirk hidden behind a wine glass, every whispered remark passed from guest to guest like gossip laced with venom.
They aren’t looking at him.
They are looking at me—the girl on his arm, the one they haven’t seen before.
“Who’s the new toy?”
“She must be something special.”
“Wearing green…bold choice. He never lets them wear color.”
Their words aren’t subtle, but they aren’t meant to be. In this world, cruelty is currency and curiosity is always sharpened like a blade.
The Warden slows near a cluster of guests, exchanging the expected pleasantries—nothing too revealing, just enough to stake his presence. His grip on me never loosens.
When the doors to the dining room open and the formal announcement is made, he guides me forward with slight pressure on the small of my back.
Everyone begins filtering into the long, lavish dining hall—candles flickering in antique holders, wine being poured into glasses that likely cost more than my freedom.
I move toward the chair at his right, the natural place for a companion.
But he stops me with a word.
“No.”
I turn slightly, confused.
He steps in close, voice low so only I could hear. “Tonight, you sit at my feet. You will show them where you belong.”
A sharp heat rises in my face—humiliation tangled with something I don’t want to name—spreading fast beneath my skin. I can feel it before I see it: the weight of their attention, the quiet shift in the room as the guests watch, waiting to see what I do next, how I fail or fold under it.
But I have no choice.
With a practiced grace I didn’t even know I had, I begin to lower myself beside his chair—slow, careful, controlled.
The dress clings like a familiar weight, every inch of fabric resisting the motion. It stretches tight across my thighs, pulls at my hips, whispering seams I fear might split if I move too quickly.
My knees touch the floor with a soft thud, hidden beneath the silky emerald fabric that pools like liquid around me—but even then, it feels less like surrender and more like endurance.
My back straightens. Hands resting lightly on my thighs.
Head bowed—just slightly. Not too much. Not weak. Just enough to show I remember the rules.
And to remind them all: I chose this.
Even if my body begs otherwise.
The Warden takes his seat above me, one hand settling casually on the back of my neck. A claim. A warning. A promise.
Conversation resumes around the table, but I can feel the electricity humming beneath the surface. Some guests whisper, others smirk.
One woman—a sleek brunette in a white gown—shoots me a look that is equal parts pity and envy.
The Warden leans down, his masked lips brushing just above my ear.
“You’re behaving so well, my sweet rose,” he murmurs.
The words land wrong and something in me flinches before I can stop it. That nickname again, brushing against the edge of memory like a hand just out of sight, tugging at something buried too deep to name.
It unsettles me in a way I don’t fully understand.
I keep my posture still, spine straight, eyes lowered just enough to appear obedient. My pulse thuds in my ears louder than the soft classical music playing from the grand piano in the corner. I can feel the weight of every gaze sliding over me, especially from across the table.
Lennox.
He hasn’t stopped watching.
His wine glass remains full, untouched, fingers tapping lazily against its stem while his eyes drink me in like I am a second course.
"Warden," he drawls, the title rolling off his tongue like a private joke as he casually lifts another forkful to his mouth. His posture is relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes gleam with a mean sort of amusement.
"I must say," he continues between bites, "it’s unlike you to keep only one girl roaming the halls. But this new one..." He lets the sentence linger, drawing it out like he is savoring more than just his meal.
His grin widens.
“She’s stunning. Poised. Quiet. Very well trained.” A pause. “And strangely familiar. Have I seen her somewhere before?”
I feel the words crawl across my skin like insects. Not spoken to me, but about me. Like I’m not there at all.
The Warden doesn’t respond. His hand remains resting at the back of my neck, thumb brushing idle circles against my skin—possessive and unhurried.
Lennox leans forward, chin resting on his palm. “If she ever tires of kneeling at your feet, I’d be glad to offer her a more...comfortable arrangement.”
The room goes silent.
Forks still midair.
I don’t move, but my breath catches.
The Warden’s fingers freeze on my skin.
“Would you offer your wife the same courtesy,” he asks, “if another man suggested a…test drive…right in front of you?”
Lennox’s smirk falters, tension twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Come now,” he says, attempting levity, “we both know the difference—”
“I don’t,” the Warden interrupts, his tone dropping like ice in a glass.
“She is mine.”
He lets the words settle, cutting through the murmurs and laughter with quiet precision.
“She is not a decoration. Not an amusement. And certainly not an opening for you to take the reins.”
A pause.
Then:
“Remember that…next time your eyes wander.”
Then he looks down at me.
“Starling,” he says—voice smooth as velvet, sharp as steel—“open.”
My heart slams against my ribs, but I obey.
I part my lips, lifting my gaze to meet the impassive mask above me.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.
He plucks a piece of fruit from his plate—a dark, glistening fig, ripe and dripping—and holds it between his fingers like an offering...or a command.
Then he presses it against my tongue with maddening patience.
“Chew.”
I obey.
He turns back to Lennox, his voice cool, effortless.
“See how well she follows instruction?”
The words land like a shot across the table—calm, yet devastating.
The meaning isn’t lost on anyone.
Lennox raises his glass again, the smirk still on his lips—but something in his eyes has shifted.
Resentment.
Or maybe it is fear.
“Touche,” he murmurs.
The Warden doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.
He leans back in his chair, fingers ghosting along my shoulder with the same focus a musician gives to an instrument—each stroke measured, claiming.
The conversation eventually resumes, voices lowering back into easy murmurs, laughter returning in softer waves around the table.
But something has shifted.
I can feel it in the way their attention lingers too long. In the careful glances. In the sudden understanding settling across their faces whenever they look at me now.
Because they know.
I’m not just a toy. Not just something to be passed over and ignored.
I belong to him.