CHAPTER FORTY ONE
“What did I say?”
Montgomery’s voice cuts across the room like a whip—low, controlled, but carrying the kind of threat that made the air crackle.
The man in the silver mask yanks his hand away from my face like he’d been burned.
“I told you this is not a viewing and you are not to touch,” Montgomery says, stepping forward, the crowd of men parting as if instinctively. “She is mine and will remain untouched.”
The silver mask tilts slightly. “What happened, Warden? There was a time you would share your girls. What is so special about this one?”
Montgomery doesn’t even glance at me. He doesn’t have to. His voice holds enough weight to pin me in place.
“This one has the discipline none of the others cared to work hard for.”
My throat tightens, but I stay still. I know the game. Know the cost of showing anything but obedience.
Another man—a suit with graying hair and dead eyes—steps closer. “So your punishment rooms work then?”
“For this one, it does,” Montgomery says without pause. Then he turns to me and lifts a hand—almost absentmindedly—and motions. “Stand.”
I rise slowly. Every movement practiced, fluid. The silk robe whispers against my skin as I move, the air far too cold on bare legs. I keep my chin lifted, not defiant—but not bowed either.
Not anymore.
The men watch me like a test subject rising off the slab. Like they are waiting for proof I could perform on command.
I don’t look at them.
Only at him.
Montgomery.
The Warden.
The man I used to know—the one I still am not sure I recognize under the mask.
His face betrays nothing, but his eyes linger too long. His gaze flicks down, then back up, as if checking that I am still whole. Still his.
“Obedience,” he says, his voice cool and clipped, “isn’t born. It’s earned. Forged. Broken. Rebuilt.”
Another man laughs softly. “You sound like a philosopher, Warden.”
Montgomery doesn’t smile. “Just a man who’s had to unlearn mercy.”
The room stills for a beat.
I feel their curiosity shift—focusing sharper, hungrier.
But I don’t flinch.
Because whatever I am now, whatever they thought I’ve become—I still have a mind of my own.
And it is watching all of them.
Especially the man in the silver mask.
He hasn’t said another word, but I can feel him. Feel the tension humming in the space between us like a wire ready to snap.
The truth is: I’m not just standing because he told me to.
I am standing because this time, I want them to see it.
I’m not on my knees anymore.
And I wouldn’t be again unless I choose it.
He holds my hand with practiced ease, fingers curling around mine like we are something close, something intimate. But it is all for show.
He guides me toward a chair near the edge of the room, his grip never faltering, even as I feel the heat of every eye tracking us.
I sit when he nudges me down, spine straight, breath steady. His hand lingers—just a second too long—on my shoulder, fingertips grazing skin in a way that might seem casual to the others. But I feel the intent in it. The claim.
Then he walks past me, smooth and composed, and takes his seat behind the desk like a king returning to his throne.
“I think she’s made you go soft, Warden,” one of the men chuckles, shaking his head.
Montgomery leans back in his chair, calm, composed. “No. I’ve simply chosen to invest.”
Another man raises a brow. “Invest? In her?”
“I truly think I’ve found the right one,” Montgomery says, eyes flicking to me. “I think I can make something out of her. And maybe flaunt her as my wife. What do you all think?”
A ripple of murmurs pass through the suits. Some laugh under their breath, others look visibly uncomfortable, as if the suggestion has crossed some unspoken line.
But the man in the silver mask doesn’t hesitate. He laughs—low, sharp, amused in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“Sir,” he says, the mockery in his tone barely hidden, “pardon me for saying this, but I never thought you would marry one of these girls.”
The room quiets.
Montgomery doesn’t flinch.
Instead, his voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “Mask. Take it off. Now.”
Tension crackles instantly.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The authority behind the command is colder than rage.
“If you’ll give me such a challenge,” Montgomery says, his tone cruel and razor-edged, “you’ll do so with respect—and not hide your face in my house.”
The man stills.
Then, with slow care, he reaches up and slips the mask from his face.
I can’t breathe.
The room falls away.
The walls. The men. The silence.
All of it blurs behind the singular horror of his face.
Tomas.
As real as the first time.
As cruel as the last.
His smirk is still the same. Like he knows the power he has. Like he wants me to see him.
I bite down on the gasp clawing its way up my throat, nails digging into the velvet cushion beneath me. I don’t look away. Can’t.
Because this isn’t the past.
He is here.
In this room.
And he isn’t hiding anymore.
Montgomery’s voice comes again, steady, deliberate, “Now challenge me again.”
Tomas doesn’t.
That same smile that had once hovered over me in the dark, the one I used to see behind my eyelids when I tried to sleep. It is smug now—almost amused—as if revealing himself had been part of the plan all along.
Like he is waiting to see what I’d do with the truth.
“Starling,” Montgomery’s voice breaks through the haze, calm but clipped. Controlled. “Please go back to your room.”
I don’t move.
His eyes meet mine, and something flickers there—warning, regret, maybe even a silent apology. But it is buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.
“I will summon you when I need you again,” he continues. “I have some business to tend to that you are not privy to.”
My jaw tightens.
He is dismissing me. Just like that. Like I hadn’t just been forced to sit across from a ghost wearing skin I still remembered too well.
I want to scream.
I want to claw the silver mask off Tomas’s lap and hurl it across the room. I want to drag Montgomery out of his chair and make him explain why. Why is Tomas here? Why now? Why didn't he warn me?
But instead, I stand.
Because that’s what he wants.
Because I know the game.
And because if I stay any longer, I’m not sure I can keep pretending to be docile.
I meet Montgomery’s gaze one last time. I hold it just long enough for him to feel the burn of what he’s asked of me.
“Starling…” he growls. “Don’t make me prove to these men what I am capable of. I gave you a command. You will follow it.”
Then I turn, walking past the suits with their greedy stares and silent laughter. Past the man who had once carved pieces out of me and dared to smirk like he’d ever earned a second look.
I don’t break stride. Not once.
But the moment the door clicks shut behind me, I taste blood on my tongue.
And I know—
The next time he summons me, I’m not coming back empty-handed.
I am coming for the truth.
And I am bringing fire.