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“I did.”

“That wasn’t the deal. You agreed⁠—”

“I know what I agreed to.” He reached for the restraints on my wrists. “And I broke it.”

My stomach dropped. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to.” He unbuckled the straps quickly, then moved to my ankles. “Because I wanted to see how far you’d let me go. Because I wanted to know if you’d stop me or if you’d let me take what I wanted.”

I jerked my wrist free the second I could. “So what, you just decided the rules didn’t apply to you?”

“Pretty much.” He pulled me to my feet. “I didn’t get the nickname for nothing.”

Heat flooded my face. My body was still humming with the aftershocks of what he’d done to me, and I hated that he could see it.

“You violated my consent,” I said.

“I did.”

“And you’re not even going to pretend you didn’t.”

“No.” He stepped closer, and I held my ground. “I heard you. I knew what you wanted. And I chose to ignore it because I wanted to see you come apart more than I wanted to follow your rules.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“I know.” His hand moved to my jaw, tilting my face up. “But you’re still standing here. Still looking at me like you want me to do it again.”

“I want you,” I said. "But that doesn’t mean I consented to what you did.”

“I’m well advised of your complaints.”

“And if you ever pull that shit again⁠—”

“You’ll what?” His thumb brushed across my lower lip. “Walk out? End the performance? Tell the House you don’t want me anymore?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” He leaned closer, his mouth beside my ear. “You want me to push you. You want me to take what I want. You want me to be exactly what everyone says I am.”

“What I want is for you to respect my boundaries.”

“If you wanted to set boundaries, you’d never have walked into this place in the first place, so don’t play coy.” He pulled back, his eyes dark behind the mask. “So, now you get to decide whether you’re done with me or whether you’re going to let me make it up to you.”

Part of me knew the smart answer. The other part was still catching its breath.

Because I was starting to realize that every choice I made in this place—every moment of curiosity, every agreement, every time I said yes—was another thread the House could use to bind me.

And I’d just handed it two more.

But I hadn’t agreed to be owned. I’d agreed to a scene. If the House wanted to pretend it couldn’t tell the difference, I’d make sure everyone else could.

Behind us, the Butcher held up the black silk blindfold. Burned into the fabric, barely visible against the dark material, was a circular symbol with three lines cutting through it.

“What is that?” I whispered.

“A mark,” Malachi said. “The House’s way of saying it noticed your appetite. And now it’s going to try to feed it whether you want it to or not.”

“Let’s go,” I said. “I need to find my sister.”