CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I step into the kitchen and freeze.
The scent of rich coffee curls through the air—but it isn’t the aroma that makes my stomach clench.
It is the man standing by the counter, clad in black, that haunting porcelain mask covering his face.
The Warden’s mask.
“Sit,” he commands, voice low, unreadable through the distortion of the mask.
I lift my chin, defiance bubbling up instinctively. “I came in for breakfast, not to take orders.”
“Is that how you ask?” He murmurs without turning.
“This is bullshit,” I snap, the words coming out sharper than I intend. I stomp my foot once—petty, almost childish—fully aware it’s exactly the kind of thing that only makes things worse.
“And so is that mask,” I add, glaring up at him. “How many times have I asked you to take it off?”
He turns then—carefree, unbroken in his focus, like he has all the time in the world to deal with my rebellion. His steps are exact, controlled, each one closing the distance with quiet certainty, until there is no space left between me and the edge of the table.
His presence overwhelms. His body a barrier, his voice a chain.
“Starling, my little survivor,” he says smoothly, the words carrying a quiet darkness that crawls under my skin, “I suggest you do as I say.”
A pause—small, controlled.
“Please don’t play this game like this,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “We have guests.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. He simply turns and walks back to the coffee pot, like I’m not even worth breaking a sweat over.
I stand there, fuming. But my hands curl into fists at my sides. Not out of fear.
Out of restraint.
“Now,” he continues, pouring the coffee with the grace of a king holding court, “do I need to repeat myself? Or shall I remind you of who you are?”
My throat is dry. I swallow hard.
“I’m to be your wife,” I say, voice steadier than I expected.
He faces me again, mask tilted slightly.
“And until you are,” he says, every word laced with that familiar cruel tenderness, “you are still to be obedient.”
He approaches again, slow and sure, and places the steaming cup of coffee down in front of me with chilling care.
My spine stiffens.
“You want to play defiant this morning?” He asks, voice low but sharp. “Fine.”
A quiet shift in his posture as he watches for my reaction.
“You seem to forget what obedience earns you in front of others,” he continues, gaze fixed on me. “You’ll forgo the chair this morning. You’ll kneel.”
A delay—just long enough to make it worse.
“On the cold floor.”
His tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
“You think they don’t notice how I treat you differently?” he adds. “You think they don’t wonder how long I’ll let your mouth run before I decide to make an example out of it?”
My breath catches.
He steps closer again, pressing me gently—yet unmistakably—against the edge of the table, his body angled in dominance, but his touch careful. A warning dressed as intimacy.
“Now…sit,” he repeats, voice a whisper and a command all at once.
I drop into the chair—not because I am afraid.
Because I am calculating.
Because if I want to win this war, I have to survive this battle.
He places the cup of coffee in front of me with precise elegance and leans in, his mouth near my ear.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
I don’t flinch. I don’t breathe.
But I feel it.
The heat between us, the threat of it, and the terrifying ache of wanting more.
Then I hear it.
Heels.
Slow. Sharp. Confident.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of polished boots behind her.
I turn my head just enough to catch a glimpse through the doorway.
Red silk.
The same blood-hued dress from orientation day, slit to her hip and clinging to every curve like she’d been poured into it. The same woman from the bidding room. The one who circled me like a predator dressed in perfume and power.
And beside her—Shaimez.
Smug. Calm. Dangerous.
A storm in a tailored suit.
“Well, well,” he drawls as he enters, surveying the room like he already owns it. “What a warm little domestic scene this is. Almost cozy.”
Shoomaker says nothing. He simply steps between me and the newcomers, that mask of his reflecting the kitchen’s soft light. Regal. Ominous.
“Sit,” he says again—but this time, not to me. His voice cuts across the space like a blade.
Shaimez only chuckles, brushing past the Warden to claim a seat next to me at the small breakfast table. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite—unless she asks nicely.”
The woman in red follows, but she doesn’t sit. She lingers by the counter, her eyes roaming over me with unsettling interest.
“She cleans up well,” she murmurs, circling just like she had that night, her heels a slow metronome of power. “You’ve trained her. Or perhaps she was born for it.”
“She was born for more than you’ll ever understand,” Shoomaker replies.
I still haven’t moved.
And I feel every eye on me because of it.
Shaimez tilts his head. “She doesn’t seem very obedient this morning, Warden. Is that part of the act, or is the leash slipping?”
My chest tightens at the words.
He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable before adding, almost conversationally, “I just recall you having all your girls kneel at your side. This one seems… pouty. Like she thinks she’s a high priestess instead of something that should be at your table.”
My skin prickles.
Every word lands with intent—not just at me, but at the space around me, testing it, pushing at boundaries he clearly wants to see break.
Shoomaker turns, slowly, until he faces me again.
This time, he doesn’t repeat himself. He simply holds out a hand—open, firm, expectant.
And I hate myself for the way my feet moved without thinking.
“Kneel.”
I hesitate.
But only for a breath.
Because I know what is at stake.
I move to his side and lower myself onto the floor, back straight, eyes lowered, every inch of me burning. With shame. With rage. With the kind of power only a woman pretending to be powerless truly holds.
“She listens well,” the woman in red purrs, heels clicking softly against the tile as she begins to circle me.
I don’t move.
Don’t twitch.
I don’t breathe too deep.
I know better.
She comes to a slow stop behind me, then glides toward the nearest chair—settling in beside Shoomaker like she belongs there.
“It will do her good to listen,” he says, his voice a low, indulgent rumble. “Because she knows how many rooms I have in this house just for her…when she forgets.”
A chill crawls down my spine.
He doesn’t say it loudly. He doesn’t need to.
Everyone in the room heard the warning stitched inside the amusement.
Shaimez lets out a sharp laugh from across the table. “When do you plan on having the ceremony, Warden?”
My stomach flips at the word.
Shoomaker takes a slow sip of his coffee, as if this was part of his every day morning routine.
“Soon. Very soon,” he replies. “Are we expecting her father to make a grand appearance?”
The silence that follows is thick—vile.
“If he does,” Shaimez says finally, leaning back in his chair, “he may just murder you for claiming his daughter.”
A faint pause.
“That arrangement was never yours to reinterpret. His daughter was never part of your leverage.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“He never specified what happens once she’s under my protection,” Shaimez adds, voice quieter now. “Only that she leaves his reach.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Not because it is a threat.
But because it isn’t a bluff.
My fingers curl tighter against my knees, nails biting into skin.
Shoomaker’s head tilts, a predatory glint in his eyes. “If that’s the case,” he says, his voice like liquid velvet over a blade, “then her status as a wife is nothing but a legal formality. She’ll remain my servant, bound to me by much more than just a signature.”
He looks down at me now.
Mask gleaming. Smile curling under the mask, I am sure.
“She serves me well in many facets.”
His chuckle is casual and cruel.
And so convincing that, for a second, even I wonder if the man behind the mask has disappeared entirely.
I keep my gaze down.
My heart roars because I know this is a performance.
I clear my throat, my voice soft but intentional.
“Speak,” Shoomaker says, granting permission like a king might toss a bone to a starving dog.
I lift my head just enough to show the line of my throat, like I’d been taught. My voice trembles, not from fear—but from the roiling chaos just beneath my skin.
“If I may…may I speak to my father?” I ask. “Can I tell him how in love with you I am? How happy will you make me? I would much rather serve you as your wife.”
The silence cracks like ice.
Shaimez chuckles behind his tumbler, the glass catching the light. “Unfortunately,” he drawls, “Mr. Pierce doesn’t take kindly to guests. Especially unannounced ones.”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Then announce me,” I say, louder than I intend.
The scrape of Shoomaker’s chair against the tile is a knife to my spine.
He stands slowly and turns toward me. The room chills.
“I suggest you watch your tone, girl.” The words aren’t yelled. They don’t need to be. “I gave you permission to speak. Not to command your way around in here.”
My heart pounds as I drop my gaze instantly, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I murmur.
Silence hangs again. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
But I can feel his eyes on me—feel the phantom pressure of his hand on the back of my neck, even though it hasn’t landed.