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His hand slid from my throat to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. “You honor the terms on that stage. You do that, and I’ll tell you everything about Dahlia and the bargain she made. And when we’re done, I’ll take you to the red door myself.”

“And if you lie to me, the deal’s off.”

“I won’t lie.” His grip tightened in my hair. “I don’t need to. The truth is worse than anything I could make up.”

I stared at the mask, at the horns, at the man underneath who'd already admitted he was trapped here. “Fine. But no arguing. No negotiating. No trying to change the terms once we’re in front of the guests.”

“Agreed. By the time we’re done, little flower, you’ll beg me to keep you. You’ll forget you ever had a sister. You’ll forget you ever had a life outside this place. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

“Big talk for someone who needs a contract to get laid.”

“That mouth.” His grip tightened. “Let’s see if you’re still running it when I have you bent over, tearing that sweet pussy to shreds.”

“Try me.”

His mouth curved into a cruel, satisfied smile. “Now let’s go. The House is waiting. And so is Dahlia.”

He released me and turned toward the door. I followed because I’d already made the bargain, because I could still hear Dahlia screaming, and because I was done running from the only thing that had made me feel alive in six years.

The door opened to a restricted corridor, revealing a room with paintings and photographs, and a red door at the end. Except now the walls were different. Changed, the paintings showed scenes I recognized from the public galleries: the Cartographer and his subject, the Penitent and his collar, the Inkwell and her needles. But in these versions, the performances had gone further. Darker. No longer restrained, the subjects were transformed. Absorbed. Becoming part of the House itself.

Cutting through the dim light, Malachi kept walking with his bare shoulders leading the way, and I stayed close because the corridor felt as though it was shifting around us, the walls breathing, the floor tilting just enough to make me stumble.

The corridor narrowed twenty yards before the threshold, the air turning thick with the stench of mildew, damp stone, and hot copper.

Before we reached the corner, the shadows ahead thickened and detached from the wall.

Malachi pulled me to a halt with enough force to wrench my shoulder. His free hand dropped to the heavy knife sheathed at his belt, his posture shifting from arrogant handler to coiled violence.

A figure filled the passage from wall to wall.

The Hound.

Rook stood beneath a sputtering pink bulb, his massive frame blocking any way forward. The molded leather mask covered his face, jaw plated in blackened iron teeth, dark eyeholes hollow and fixed entirely on me. He wore no shirt beneath the heavy leather harness strapped across his chest, and thick, jagged tattoos twisted across his shoulders like old barbed wire. His knuckles were scarred, his breathing slow and heavy, vibrating through the narrow space like a running engine.

“Out of the way, Harker,” Malachi said, his voice dropping into that flat, lethal register. “We’re on a schedule.”

Rook didn’t shift an inch. His head tilted, studying me with an unhurried, predatory weight that made the hair on my arms stand up. The foundation beneath our boots thrummed in a slow, uneven rhythm, answering the alarm that still echoed from the lower levels.

“The breach bell rang,” Rook said. His voice was gravel dragged over broken glass, muffled by the iron muzzle. “Someone forced the red door from below. The House released the leash. Anything moving in the restricted corridors belongs to the hunt.”

“The runner went down the west chute toward the incinerator,” Malachi said, stepping half an inch in front of me, though his grip on my arm remained a vice. “Go do your job. She’s not your quarry.”

Rook took a slow step forward. The floorboards groaned under his boots. He completely ignored Malachi, his gaze dropping down my body, cataloging the torn edge of my skirt, the bare skin of my throat, the erratic jump of my pulse against my collarbone.

He stopped inches away, crowding my space until I tilted my head back to meet the dark slits of his mask. The heat coming off him was suffocating, smelling of sweat, old grease, and cold iron.

Slowly, Rook leaned down, his iron jaws inches from my ear, and inhaled.

“She doesn’t smell like a runner,” Rook rumbled, his chest rumbling against my shoulder. “Smells like stage grease, bruised skin, and wet cunt. She’s primed.”

A sharp, sick jolt of heat hit low in my stomach. Fear and filthy, unwanted arousal tangled together, sharp as a razor. I locked my jaw, refusing to shrink back against the brick wall.

“Take another sniff and see if you keep your nose, dog,” I said.

The leather around his jaw creaked as his mouth curved beneath the mask. “Fierce little bitch. She’ll scream well when she runs.”

Malachi drove his forearm into Rook’s chest, shoving the massive man back a step. The wood beneath their feet splintered under the sudden shift in weight, and the walls hummed with an angry, sharp vibration as the House fed on the friction between them.