CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
He kills the engine when we reach the mansion, but I am already pushing open my door before he can reach for his.
I don’t need him to open it for me.
I am still capable—still my own person—even if he likes to pretend I belong to him.
My feet hit the gravel driveway with a soft crunch, and I walk up the steps toward the front door, tired of the silence, tired of the confusion in my chest, tired of everything.
“Stop.”
His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
That single word snaps through the air like a leash tightening.
I freeze .
My hand is already on the doorknob.
I don’t look back. I don’t move. But my pulse quickens.
“Turn around, Starling.”
I swallow hard and obey, slowly turning to face him.
He hasn’t moved from where he stands , the mansion’s exterior lights casting golden shadows across his mask. The same porcelain mask that always keeps me guessing. Always hiding something behind control.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says.
I cross my arms, exhaustion rolling through my spine. “Well, sir, if you don’t mind, I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed.”
His head tilts slightly, the way it always does when I challenge him.
“And what makes you think you get to make decisions tonight?”
“I don’t.” I sigh. “But I also didn’t ask to be dragged up a mountain and emotionally ripped apart, either.”
The silence that follows is thick.
I can feel the storm behind the mask, even if I can’t see his eyes.
Then, finally, he moves—walking toward me like he is reining himself in with each step. When he reaches me, he doesn’t touch me. Just stands close. Too close.
“You want the truth,” he says quietly. “But the truth comes with consequences. You want freedom, but you came here wearing chains of your own making.”
I clench my jaw. “You bought me.”
He leans down slightly, his breath brushing against my cheek. “To protect you.”
“While using me.”
His silence is answer enough.
I break the stare first.
“Am I free to go to bed now?” I ask.
His gloved hand reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my face—gentle, worshipping.
“You may go,” he says.
But as I turn, his voice follows me again, low and unreadable.
“You’re not tired of me, Starling. You’re tired of fighting me.”
And damn him—he might be right.
*****
The door clicks shut behind me, soft as a secret.
For the first time all day, I’m not being watched. Commanded. Owned.
I lean against the worn wood, the weight of the day settling deep into my spine. The mansion is quiet around me, but inside—everything churns. The ache. The questions. The raw, gnawing want I can’t shake.
Earlier, I’d bathed with him. Shared the steam and the water and the strange intimacy of skin pressed close. But it wasn’t enough. Not for what still clung to me.
My chest rises and falls as I move toward the en suite, needing to scrub away more than just the grime. To wash off the remnants of his presence—the scent, the heat, the power that still lingers on my skin like a stain.
I twist the tub’s knobs, warm water spilling out in a steady rush. The sound fills the room, drowning out the silence, curling upward as thick steam cloaks the air like a silken veil. The dim golden light softens the edges of the room, making it feel almost sacred.
When the tub is ready, I shed my clothes, letting them fall heavy and careless to the floor.
I step into the warm water, letting it wrap around me, trying to cleanse the part of me that still feels marked—dirty—not just by what had happened, but by what I feared I was becoming.
The heat from the water kisses my skin as I lower myself in, inch by inch. A breath catches in my throat as the warmth spreads over me. A sigh follows. My muscles melt into the porcelain. My eyes drift closed.
Here, I can let go.
Here, no one owns me.
No rules. No obedience. No mask.
Just…me.
Except that isn’t entirely true.
Because when I close my eyes, I’m not alone.
His kiss lingers—like a phantom touch pulsing against my mouth—wild, demanding, filled with something fierce and untamed I can’t name. It isn’t just possession, it is him. All of him, poured into that one jarring moment like it costs him something to give.
My fingers skim the water’s surface, ripples spreading out like echoes of my quickening pulse.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was rough, raw, and wrong in every way—but God, it felt like something. Like everything.
He kissed me like a man unraveling, torn between devouring me and worshipping me. For those seconds, his mask didn’t matter. His power didn’t even matter.
It was real.
I should hate him for it. Hate myself for responding. But all I can do is press my fingertips to my lips, remembering the heat of his, the way he stole my breath and replaced it with something dangerous—something like need.
Something like memory.
Something like Montgomery.
I drop my hand beneath the surface, hiding it in the warm water as if I can drown the thought. But it is too late.
Now, wrapped in this steaming cocoon, I’m not just a prisoner trying to forget.
I am a woman haunted by a kiss.
And worse—part of me aches to be kissed like that again.
My hands move slowly, tracing lazy paths over my thighs, gliding across my hips, brushing the soft swell of my stomach.
I tilt my head back, baring my throat to the steam, and exhale deeply. The tension in my chest loosens, but beneath my skin, a slow-burning hunger pulses—not frantic, but heavy and deliberate, like molasses pooling in my veins.
One hand lingers at my breast, thumb circling the tight peak until it puckers beneath my touch. A soft gasp escapes me—too raw, too honest—but I don’t stop.
My other hand drifts lower, parting the warm water, exploring the slick heat waiting beneath.
I imagine his breath ghosting across my collarbone, the weight of his gaze devouring me whole. I remember his voice—firm, patient, and devastating. I picture his hands—bare, gentle, worshipping—mapping my curves like I am sacred, not a possession.
My fingers press against the swollen bud of nerves, swirling slow and deep.
My breath catches, hips tilting up with each controlled stroke, the rhythm rising like a memory remembered.
Heat burns across my skin, my cheeks flush scarlet. I whisper the Warden’s name once—then again—tasting it like a secret, like a promise.
I should stop. I should feel ashamed. But I don’t .
I want him to find me like this—to take the control I pretended to resist and twist it into something unbearably exquisite.
Pleasure blooms low in my belly—hot, relentless, undeniable. When it finally breaks, it does so silently.
My lips part. My breath hitches as the wave rolls through me, folding me into surrender.
The water stills. The air holds me in its hush.
For a moment, I don’t feel owned.
I feel powerful.
I don’t know who I am in this moment—prey, pawn, woman—but I do know what I feel.
And I know…for once, it has been my choice.
The silence in the bathroom is thick, like the steam had settled, not just on the walls but in my lungs. I am still coming down, my body slack, chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of my release.
And then—
A sound.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just the soft, careful clearing of a throat.
Behind me.
My entire body locks up instantly.
The warmth of the water suddenly feels too exposed. Too revealing. My heart kicks against my ribs as my eyes fly open and lock onto the fogged mirror across the bathroom.
His reflection stands there.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
I don’t flinch. I don’t cover myself.
I had wanted this. I had tempted it.
I had invited him with the sound of his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
The water shifts as I turn my head slightly, ripples licking the porcelain.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there in silence thick enough to choke on. Then finally, his voice—lower than usual, rougher, like it had scraped up from somewhere deeper.
“I told you I wasn’t done with you tonight,” he says, tone unreadable. “You knew I would come. You wanted me to see you like this.”
A pause.
A heartbeat.
“You wanted to be caught in the act…didn’t you, Starling?”
My throat tightens, but I don’t deny it.
His steps are slow as he came closer. Measured. Commanding.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, now just behind me. “Was it me you were touching yourself to? Or the version of me you’ve created in that pretty little head?”
His voice is calm. Controlled. But under the surface, I can feel it—the storm barely contained.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I whisper, even though I’d left the door cracked open on purpose. Even though I’d wanted him to.
“I noticed.”
I sit up slowly, not to cover myself, but to make sure he sees. The water laps against my skin, lazy and decadent. The room smells of jasmine and sin. My chest rides , bare to the steam. To him.
He had heard every sound. Every soft cry. Every whispered plea I hadn’t meant for the gods but for him.
And yet, he stood behind me. Silent. Watching.
“Do you feel better now, Starling?” He asks, voice like smoke curling down my spine.
He steps closer. Slowly. Boots silent against the marble tile.
I don’t reply.
“Want to tell me what you were thinking about while you were touching yourself?” He asks, stopping just behind me. I can feel the heat of his presence now. Like he is the one steaming the room.
“That kiss you left me with,” I whisper.
His fingers touch my chin. Bare. Not gloved. He tilts my face upward, exhales slowly, voice no longer cruel. “It made you feel really good, huh? ”
My breath catches.
His fingers trace a slow path down my shoulder, sending a chill that isn’t entirely from the cool air. Then, with quiet certainty, he catches my wrist and pulls me upright, close against him.
Not as the Warden. Not as a master or handler but as a man—raw and real—claiming something fragile and fierce between us.
His voice drops to a low murmur, rough with restraint—and something darker simmering just beneath it.
“I don’t know whether to punish you for lying to me…”
He leans in, the heat of him brushing my ear, breath unsteady.
“…or praise you for moaning my name while your fingers were buried between your thighs, Starling.”
The words hang heavy in the air—an intoxicating blend of challenge and desire that makes my pulse thunder louder than ever.
I swallow hard, my voice barely more than a breath.
“I want both,” I confess, my eyes locked on the shadowed curve of his masked face. “I want to be yours in every way…except as a prisoner.”
The tension between us tightens, electric and raw.
“Finish your bath,” he says, standing up again. “I’ll be waiting in my room.”
And then he is gone.
And the steam in the room suddenly feels colder than before.
The sudden emptiness left behind is almost unbearable, like the heat had been pulled from the air itself.
I linger in the water, the warmth slipping away as my skin prickles with both longing and unease.
Every inch of me aches—not just for the touch I’d imagined moments before, but for the man beneath the mask.
Who is he?
And why do I feel like I’d just given him a piece of myself I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back?