CHAPTER FIFTY
I am on my knees.
Head bowed. Spine straight. Palms flat against my thighs like I’ve been taught.
The room is cold—bright with chandelier light and eyes that don’t blink. Eyes that catalogue. Measure. Assess.
I don’t flinch.
Even as the doors open and the scent of expensive cologne, tobacco, and power rolls into the room like a tide I can’t swim against.
My cream negligee clings to every inch of me like mist—sheer, silken, and shameless. It hadn’t been my choice. Shoomaker had picked it. Said it would keep me soft in their eyes, vulnerable. An untouched fantasy they could project their worst desires onto.
And he’d been right.
Because the moment the first man walks in, his voice drips with lust and entitlement.
“Such a pretty thing,” he says, patting my head like I am a mutt someone brought in off the street.
I don’t react.
Not even when his fingers brush my hairline, possessive in that offhanded, revolting way men like him had—treating women as something to be tasted, tested, passed around.
“She is not to be touched unless I say otherwise,” comes the voice behind me.
Firm. Sharp. Definitely a command.
The Warden.
Shoomaker.
His voice is familiar, even under the distortion. Calm, cold, and calculated. The kind of voice that makes obedience feel inevitable.
I keep my eyes down. My heart is steady.
More footsteps.
More suits.
“Rumor is you plan to marry this one?” A man asks, crouching beside me, his breath brushing my ear.
I don’t move. Don’t look at him. Just keep my eyes on the floor like a good little plaything.
“If she does as she’s told,” the Warden says, his tone casual, amused, “and breaks just right tonight…yes. That’s the plan. We’ll have something big. Invite everyone. I always make a show of my acquisitions.”
The men laugh.
I don’t.
Because I’ve played this role before.
And I know exactly what it costs to stay in character.
They move around me, discussing me like I’m not there.
“She’s younger than the last one.”
“Bit small. But I like her mouth.”
“You’ll need to discipline her if she bucks. The pretty ones always try to bite.”
“Is she trained yet?”
“Almost fully.”
That is the Warden’s voice again.
And I know what he means.
I am bait.
But I’m not the girl they think I am.
I am fire wrapped in flesh. And the moment they drop their guards, I’ll burn them from the inside out.
Still, I keep my head down.
Still, I let them talk.
Because in this world, power doesn’t come from raising your voice.It comes from surviving long enough to speak when it matters.
And I am done speaking for anyone but myself.
One of the suits claps his hands. “Well, if she performs half as good as she looks, you’ll have yourself a gold mine.”
“She’s more than gold,” the Warden says from his place behind me. “She’s an heirloom. Rare. Broken in all the right ways. Just enough resistance to make her interesting.”
A breath of silence.
Then the Warden’s hand touches my hair.
Soft.
Too soft.
Like it is a warning.
Or a message.
And then, he speaks again—this time, not to them.
But to me.
“Stand up.”
I rise slowly, gracefully. Every movement is deliberate, trained. My negligee shifts with me, the thin fabric barely concealing anything. I know what I look like. They want weakness—but what they see is power in disguise.
Eyes watch me from every angle.
I don’t cower.
Not when a hand reaches out to brush the hem of my nightgown.
Not when a pair of lips whisper, “Spin for us.”
I turn my head slightly—not enough to break character, just enough to show that I am trained, not stupid.
The Warden steps closer.
“She obeys me,” he says. “And no one else.”
I feel his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the raised dais near the center of the room. Plush rug in the center.
A spotlight overhead.
Like a cage.
“Tonight,” he says, voice booming now for the room to hear, “she will show you her place. Not as a girl. Not as a victim. But as what I made her.”
He holds his hand out to help me up the steps.
I see it there. The expectation. The audience. The weight of every gaze waiting to see me falter.
I don’t.
I place my hand in his and step up anyway.
“Gentlemen, you know where to go.”
My stomach twists, sharp and immediate. Fear flickers in my chest—but I keep my face steady, refusing to let it show.
I don’t flinch.