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“This is as far as I go,” Khaos said. “But you should keep walking. Malachi’s waiting for you at the end of the hall, and he’s not the patient type."

“Why would he be waiting for me?”

“Because the House invited you. Because you’re wearing a mask with your name painted on it. Because Dahlia’s contract had a family clause, and the House has been waiting six years to see if anyone would come looking for her. Because he has unfinished business with you.” Sharp and dangerous, his smile turned predatory. “And now you’re here, and Malachi gets to decide what that’s going to cost you.”

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter.

I hesitated.

“What’s in there?”

“The next act.” His green eyes gleamed behind the cracked porcelain. “Or maybe the last one, depending on how well you negotiate.”

Behind us, heavy footsteps echoed through the gallery. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of chains dragging across tiles.

I glanced back.

The Hound’s case stood open.

Rook was no longer inside.

“I’d move if I were you,” Khaos said quietly. “He’s been watching you since you walked into this gallery, and the House just gave him permission to follow.”

My pulse spiked. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head toward the sound of approaching footsteps. “The House doesn’t let Rook out unless someone’s already been marked. And you, sweet Zinnia, have been marked since the moment you touched that invitation.”

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

I didn’t wait to see if he was lying.

Shoving past Khaos, I pushed through the red-X door and let it slam shut behind me.

Chapter 4

Zinnia

“DIGITAL BATH” BY DEFTONES

The corridor beyond the red-X door didn’t lead to Malachi.

It curved left into a narrow passage lit by a single flickering bulb; the bare plaster walls smelled of mildew and something sharper—formaldehyde, maybe, or bleach. A second door waited at the end, unmarked except for a cleaver-shaped brass handle.

Curiosity had always been my worst habit, and the House knew it.

I turned the handle.

The room beyond was small, intimate, and disturbingly clean. White tile covered the floor and walls, reflecting the cold light from overhead fixtures that hummed with electrical tension. A single chair sat in the center—leather, with restraints hanging loose from the armrests and legs. Beside it stood a metal cart draped in white cloth, its instruments visible beneath.

The Veiled Butcher stood beside the cart.

He was broad-shouldered and silent, wearing a stained butcher’s apron over dark clothes. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and a thin white veil hung across the lower half of his face, obscuring everything below his eyes. Those eyes were pale gray, almost colorless, and they tracked my movement with unsettling precision.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re not going to tell me where Malachi is.”

He tilted his head slightly, then gestured toward the chair.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”