Page 19

The Butcher reached for the white cloth and pulled it back, revealing the instruments beneath. Polished steel. A small brazier with wax melting in a copper dish. Leather straps. A blindfold made of black silk.

My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice steady. “What is this?”

He picked up a card from the cart and held it out. The handwriting was precise, almost surgical:

A performance about surrendering sight. About being studied. About discovering what touch means when you can’t see who’s holding the blade.

“That’s fucked up,” I said flatly.

He set the card down and waited.

The numbness that had followed me for six years was finally cracking, and beneath it was something darker—a hunger I didn’t fully understand and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I stepped closer. “If I agree to this, I need to know the rules.”

The Butcher picked up another card.

You may stop at any time. You may ask questions. You may refuse any instrument. But once the blindfold is on, you will not see what touches you until the performance ends.

“And if I don’t like what’s happening?”

He wrote quickly on a blank card and held it up.

Say the word ‘mercy.’ The performance ends immediately.

I took a breath. “What about penetration?”

The Butcher paused, then wrote on a fresh card:

This performance may include penetration—fingers, instruments, or other means. The House may attempt to use your body for any act the performers choose. You may refuse at any time by saying ‘mercy.’

My stomach tightened. Not fear—something I’d been chasing since I walked through the front door.

“So you’re telling me that once the blindfold goes on, you and anyone else in this room can do whatever you want to my body. And the only thing stopping you is whether I say one word.”

He nodded.

“And the House is going to watch.”

Another nod.

Arousal coiled low in my belly, dark and undeniable—and I hated that the House was probably recording that, too.

“Show me what you’re going to use,” I said.

The Butcher moved to the cart and lifted each instrument, holding it up to the light so I could see. A thin metal rod. A piece of silk. A leather strap. A small brush. The melting wax. A vial of something cold that smelled like peppermint. And finally, a blade—small, sharp, and clean.

“What’s the blade for?” I asked.

He wrote: To remind you that danger is always present. It will not break your skin unless you ask.

My breath came faster. “Okay. I want to do this. I’m agreeing to whatever happens in this room—penetration, instruments, whatever you decide. I want to know what my body can take. I want to feel something.”

But even as I said it, I knew the House was listening. I knew it would try to twist my words into something I didn’t mean. So why did that thought excite me?

The Butcher set down his card and gestured toward the chair.

I sat down slowly, my hands gripping the armrests. The leather was cold against my skin, and the restraints hung loose beside my wrists like promises waiting to be kept.