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He stopped and turned to face me. His mask caught the light in a way that made the horns look as though they were dripping blood.

“You want to go down there?” His voice was dangerously low. “Fine. But you’re going to pay for it first.”

“Pay how?”

“You touched me.” He lifted my wrist, still caught in his grip. “Guests don’t touch Freaks. That’s the rule. The only rule that actually matters in this fucking place. And you just broke it.”

“You’ve been touching me all night.”

“I’m a Freak. We’re allowed to do whatever we want to guests who pay for access. But you?” He pulled me closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. “You put your hand on me without permission. Without a contract. Without the House deciding whether you’re allowed to claim what you just tried to take.”

“I didn’t claim anything. I grabbed your wrist because I heard my sister screaming.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His thumb pressed against my pulse point. “You touched a Freak. That means you either pay for it, or the House decides what you owe. And right now, it’s deciding whether to punish you, punish me for letting it happen, or turn this into something worse.”

“Then you’re screwed too. If the House punishes Freaks who let guests break the rules, you should’ve stopped me.”

“Maybe.” His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But I didn’t because I wanted to see if you’d do it. Wanted to see if you were desperate enough or stupid enough or curious enough to reach for something you're not supposed to have.” He pulled me even closer, until our bodies were almost touching. “And now that you have, little flower, you’re going to pay for it.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything.” His hand slid from my wrist to my throat, his thumb pressing against my pulse. “You’re going to sign a contract. You’ll put on whatever costume I tell you to wear. And you’re going to perform with me on the main stage in front of every guest who paid to see what happens when someone breaks the only rule that matters.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Trust me, you don’t want that.” His grip tightened slightly. “The House doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t bargain. It takes what it wants and leaves you with whatever’s left. But me?” His mouth curved into something cruel. “I’m willing to make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You give me one night. One performance. One chance to show the House that you’re mine before it decides to claim you for itself. And in exchange, I’ll tell you what I know about Dahlia and take you to the red door when I’m finished with you.”

“That’s vague as hell. What counts as a performance?”

“You let me touch you. Undress you. Fuck you in front of every guest who paid to see what happens when the House’s rules are broken.” His voice was flat, filthy, certain.

“And the information about Dahlia?”

“She’s alive. She’s below the red door. She’s been there for six years because she made a bargain with the House and didn’t understand the terms.” His thumb traced my jawline. “I’ll tell you what she bargained for. I’ll tell you what the House took in exchange. And I’ll tell you whether she’s still capable of wanting to be saved.”

“That’s not enough. I want to see her.”

“No.”

“Then we don’t have a deal.”

His hand tightened around my throat. Not enough to choke me, but enough to remind me he could. “You want to see her, you pay for it. You touched me without permission, and now you owe me a performance. You want access to the red door, you give me what I’m asking for. And if you’re very, very good, little flower, I might even let you see her when we’re done.”

“Might isn’t good enough.”

“It’s all you’re getting.” His thumb pressed harder against my pulse. “The House doesn’t let guests below the red door unless they’ve been claimed or selected or punished. The only reason you’re still standing here instead of waking up in a locked room with a contract you don’t remember signing is that I haven’t let it take you yet. You can accept my terms, or you can let the House decide your fate. Your choice.”

The alarm was still flashing overhead. Dahlia’s scream echoed somewhere below us, broken and desperate and unmistakably hers. Malachi stood so close I could feel his breath against my face, his hand possessive and threatening around my throat, his body radiating heat, control, and the kind of darkness that should have made me run.

But I didn’t run.

Because he was right about one thing: I wanted to feel something. I wanted to stop being numb. And if the price for that was letting him fuck me in front of a bunch of strangers, then maybe I was exactly as desperate as he thought I was.

“One performance,” I said. “One night. And then you tell me everything you know about Dahlia. Where she is. What she bargained for. What the House took. And you let me see her afterward. Not ‘might.’ Not ‘consider.’ You let me see her.”