CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I step out of the bathroom fully dressed—black pants, long-sleeved blouse, hair pulled back like armor—when his voice cuts through the house like a whip.
“Office. Now, Starling.”
Shoomaker.
He doesn’t bark like a cop.
He doesn’t request it like a handler.
He commands it like the Warden.
My spine goes rigid. My fingers curl at my sides as the echo of his voice rippled down the hall, brushing over old instincts like a trigger I can’t fully unlearn.
For a second, I just stand there.
Letting the silence wrap around me.
Letting the cold weight of obedience settle in my bones the way it used to.
And then I shake it off.
I am walking before I even realized it—each footstep down the stairs heavier than the last. Like I am dragging not just my body, but everything they’d turned me into.
As I near the office, I catch a glimpse of Montgomery’s silhouette pacing through the garden, one hand in his hair, the other clenched at his side. He doesn’t see me.
Good.
I’m not sure I can look at him yet without unraveling again.
The office door is already open.
Shoomaker stands at the desk, arms braced on the polished wood, file folders spread out before him like weapons.
He doesn’t look up when I enter. Just gestures toward the empty chair across from him like this is any other meeting. Like I am just another tool in his arsenal.
I don’t sit.
“You wanted me. I’m here,” I say coolly, voice steady even though my heart is a fist inside my ribs.
Shoomaker’s eyes finally lift to meet mine. Calculating. Calm. Too calm.
“We need to discuss the next phase,” he says.
“I need a hell of a lot more than that,” I reply. “I want to know everything this time. No lies. No omissions. And I swear, if you or Montgomery try to play me again—”
“You’ll what?” he asks, interrupting. “Walk? Disappear? Run into the arms of the next man who promises to set you free?”
My eyes narrow. “That isn’t fair.”
He straightens. “You don’t get to pick and choose which part of this mission you want to be real, Starling.
You asked for this. You put yourself back on that auction block.
You followed the flyer. You wanted to finish what they started.
We didn’t force your hand. We gave you the means to see it through. ”
I open my mouth to fire back—but he keeps going, relentlessly.
“You knew Tomas would be there. You knew you might see faces you recognized. You even said you’d do whatever it took to help bring the rest of them down. So here we are.”
The words hang in the room like ash.
My hands are shaking. I don’t hide it this time.
He steps around the desk slowly. Purposefully. His voice drops.
“Little Survivor, you can hate me. You can hate Montgomery. Hell, you can hate every fucking badge and suit tied to this thing—but we didn’t break you. They did. And now you’re the only one who can help us take it all down.”
My throat is dry. “And when it’s over?”
He pauses.
“You disappear. We told you that. You get a new life or get your old one back. Whatever you want. We’ve both already signed off on it.”
“And Montgomery?” I ask, the question falling out before I can stop it.
Shoomaker’s gaze sharpens.
“What about him?”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Because some part of me still wants to see if he will burn it down for me.
Shoomaker nods like he already understands.
“This is your war now, Starling,” he says. “So tell me—are you going to finish it?”
I slowly pull out the chair and sit.
Not because I am submitting.
But because I’ve already made my decision.
“Yes,” I say. “But this time…I set the terms.”
Shoomaker doesn’t speak as I settle into the chair, but I can feel the weight of his stare like a tether around my throat. He is waiting for something—for me to beg or to bolt.
I don’t.
I fold my hands in my lap and keep my chin high.
“Good,” Shoomaker says at last, his voice clipped and cool. “You’ll be prepped for contact within forty-eight hours. Word is already out that the Warden intends to make you his wife—Montgomery made sure of that.”
He flips through the file in front of him, not bothering to look up. “Before we intercepted Tomas, he reached out to someone tied to Mr. Hirsh. A buyer. One we haven’t identified yet.”
He looks up then, his gaze sharp. “Whoever it is, they know you're the Warden’s possession. Which means they’re going to want to see for themselves whether you’re worth the trouble.”
Before I can speak, the door creaks open.
Montgomery steps in, eyes going immediately to me like the rest of the room doesn’t matter. “You started without me.”
Shoomaker doesn’t even glance his way. “You weren’t invited.”
“I’m here now.”
I stand slowly, heart pounding harder than it should. “Let him stay.”
Shoomaker lifts a brow, but says nothing.
Montgomery steps closer to the desk, his stance squared, voice calm but persistent, “I want to take over as Warden.”
Shoomaker finally looks up, slow and deliberate. His eyes narrow, tone edged with challenge, “Excuse me?”
“We know the buyers,” Montgomery says, his voice low and steady, gaze locked intensely on mine. “They know us only as the Warden. One man. One presence. Never anything else.”
He steps closer, his hand sliding possessively around the back of my neck.
“And I made sure of that. I was the last one to touch you in the observation room. The last one to praise you. The last one to claim you in front of all of them.” His thumb strokes my jaw as his eyes darken.
“I’m the one who announced that you’re going to be my wife.
That you’re mine. Not just for the night—but permanently. ”
Montgomery’s grip tightens slightly, his voice dropping into that deep, commanding tone I know so well.
“That’s why I’m staying as the Warden until this is over. No more switching. No more sharing the role. From now on, when they see the Warden…they see me. The man who owns you. The man who’s going to marry you.”
Something tightens in my chest. A coil of heat. A burn of betrayal.
“No,” I say, my voice low but firm. “That’s not a good idea.”
Montgomery turns to me fully. “Why not?”
I inhale slowly, trying to hold the line—my line. “Because I wasn’t promised to you. Or to Shoomaker. I was promised to the Warden.”
He flinches, just barely.
“The title matters,” I say quietly, my voice steadier than I feel. “The role matters. ‘The Warden’ isn’t just a name — it carries fear. Real power. The buyers need to see absolute control, not someone who looks at me like I’m something fragile.”
I swallow hard and force myself to meet Montgomery’s eyes.
“You’re too soft for it. You care too much. You touch me like you’re afraid of breaking me… and that softness will get us all killed.”
I glance briefly at Shoemaker before looking back at Montgomery.
“Shoemaker should be the Warden. He’ll be the best at it. Cold. Ruthless. Unreadable. Exactly what they expect. Exactly what this role demands.”
Shoomaker’s eyes flick to Montgomery, a silent ‘I told you so’ hanging between them.
Montgomery clenches his jaw but says nothing.
Because he knows I am right.
Because I have already been branded as the Warden’s. And swapping masks now wouldn’t just risk the mission—it would risk me.
Shoomaker sits back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach like he is enjoying the moment too much. “She’s right. The buyers believe the Warden is the one in control of her,” he says, almost smug.
Montgomery doesn’t even blink. “Control,” he echoes, flatly. “That's what we’re calling it now?”
“You still don’t get it,” Shoomaker says, his tone clipped. “Every time you don the mask, you crumble any time she flinches. You are all about protecting her so much that you can’t play the part.”
“Because I care,” Montgomery snaps. “I don’t play sadist to prove I’m in control.”
“No, you don’t. You play savior and forget that sometimes saving a girl like her means feeding her to the fire first. You think the buyers are stupid? You think they won’t know she’s playing both sides if you keep looking at her like she’s your redemption?”
Montgomery takes a step forward. “You think they didn’t notice the bruises you left? You think they bought your performance because of your skill? No. They bought it because you liked it too much.”
I interject, voice cutting through the space between us. “You left bruises too, if you’ve conveniently forgotten.”
Montgomery’s smile is razor thin as he glares at Shoomaker. “You forget she was mine to begin with.”
Those words light something dark in my stomach.
“I was never yours,” I say quietly.
Both men turn toward me. Both straighten. But only Montgomery looks ashamed.
“You belonged to the Warden,” Shoemaker corrects, his voice low and lethal. “And when that mask was on…that was me. You were mine.”
The words land like a brand. He says it with such absolute ownership, as if my body, my submission, my very presence had always been his to command.
A dangerous growl rips from Montgomery’s chest—deep, feral, vibrating with raw dominance. In an instant, he steps forward and pulls me firmly back against his body, one powerful arm banding around my waist like a steel restraint.
“Say that again,” Montgomery snarls, his voice dark and commanding. “I fucking dare you. Tell me she was never mine. Tell me I didn’t put my hands on her first. Tell me I didn’t make her scream my name while wearing that mask.”
His grip tightens possessively, fingers digging into my hip as he holds me flush against him.
“She’s belonged to me longer than you want to admit. Mask or no mask. Warden or not. And she’ll be mine long after this fucking game is over.”
“Don’t,” I warn as I yank out of his grip. “Both of you.”
But I can feel it—the storm behind their words, the male tension spiraling into something more volatile than just jealousy. They aren’t fighting over the role anymore.
They are fighting over me.
I cross my arms, spine straightening like steel. “Let’s get something clear. I played the role. I wore the collar, crawled when commanded, flinched when I had to—but don’t get it twisted. I was never his. And I damn sure was never either of yours.”
Shoomaker’s gaze hardens, his jaw tight enough to crack. “You didn’t play the part. You lived it. You obeyed because you were scared. You also enjoyed our bodies on yours. When will you stop lying to yourself, Starling?”
My throat burns, but I don’t look away. “I survived. There’s a difference.”
He steps closer, voice cold and controlled, “I felt it, Starling. Every time I walked into the room wearing that mask, I felt it roll off you—fear.”
“And you fed off it,” I snap. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
Silence crackles between us, thick with everything unspoken.
Then Montgomery cuts in, voice low and lethal, “She feared you. Not the role. You made her forget what her true meaning of walking into that auction was and where her nightmare began.”
Silence falls again—molten, thick.
And I realize then—
This isn’t about protection.
It isn’t even about justice anymore.
This is about power.
About two men circling each other with sharpened truths and hidden guilt, each staking a claim to a version of me I no longer recognize.
Shoomaker sees a weapon.
Montgomery sees a woman.
And I—
I am still trying to remember which version of myself I chose to become the moment I stepped onto that auction stage.
I lift my chin.
“No more pretending,” I say, my voice like a match in a gasoline room. “Not for either of you. I’m not yours to punish, or protect, or parade around as some damn symbol of redemption. I’m not your project.”
Shoomaker looks like he wants to argue—but I don’t let him.
“You want me to finish this op?” I ask, turning my attention to him. “Then stop treating me like a fragile little girl you get to discipline. Because if you want me to walk back into the fire, then you better be damn sure you know who I am.”
Shoomaker blinks. Montgomery just watches me—something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
And for once, they both stay silent.