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“And you?”

“I get to watch you break the House’s favorite rule.” My grin widened. “And I get to fuck the girl who’s been driving Malachi insane for the past three days.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re a piece of shit.”

“I know.” Pulling my shirt over my head, I tossed it aside. “But I’m a piece of shit who knows how the House thinks. So what’s it going to be, Zinnia? Are you going to let the House record another desperate bargain, or are you going to let me show you what happens when it can’t tell the difference between a gift and a claim?”

For a long moment, she didn’t move.

She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me with something dark and defiant in her eyes, and I knew the House was already watching, already trying to categorize what was about to happen.

Crossing the space between us, I caught her wrist and pulled her against me. “Fair warning, sweet girl. Once I start, the House is going to try to turn everything you say into evidence. Every sound. Every word. So if you’re going to resist, make it count.”

“Fuck you,” she said, and her free hand fisted in my hair, pulling me down into a kiss that tasted like defiance and rage and something darker that the House would try to record as consent.

The kiss turned brutal fast.

Her teeth caught my lower lip, and I tasted blood. My hands found her hips and lifted her onto the table, scattering files and photographs across the floor. She wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me closer, her nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks.

Around us, the archive groaned.

The shelves shifted. The filing cabinets opened and closed on their own. The glass cases fogged over as the House tried to record what was happening and found itself unable to categorize it.

The contracts on the shelves began to scream.

Not metaphorically. They opened their mouths and screamed, high-pitched and desperate, as if they were in pain. The Crawling Ushers scattered, retreating into the shadows. The Grinner tried to approach again, but the sound drove it back.

Zinnia noticed.

“It’s watching,” she gasped against my mouth.

“Let it watch.” Pulling her dress over her head, I tossed it aside and ran my hands over her bare skin. “Let it try to figure out whether you’re here because you want to be or because you don’t have another choice.”

By the time she was naked on the table, the House was screaming through the walls, its pipes rattling, its lights flickering, its entire structure trying to make sense of what it was witnessing.

The Seamstress emerged from behind one of the shelves, her silver mannequin in one hand, black thread in the other. She moved toward Zinnia’s shadow, the needle already raised.

I kicked the mannequin out of her hands. “Not today.”

The Seamstress hissed and retreated, but I could see the thread still moving across the floor, trying to reach Zinnia’s shadow and stitch it to the nearest contract.

“Khaos,” Zinnia said, her voice rough.

“Yeah?”

“If this doesn’t work⁠—”

The archive door slammed open.

Rook stood in the doorway, water streaming off his shoulders, the dark muzzle gleaming under the flickering lights. His chest heaved with exertion, and his gaze locked onto Zinnia with the kind of focus that told me the House had sent him after her again.

The hunt wasn’t over. The House had just added another predator to the scene.

“Well,” I said, not bothering to step away from Zinnia. “Look who finally caught up.”

Rook’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Zinnia. “The House sent me.”

“It always does.” Leaning back, I kept one hand on Zinnia’s thigh. “But you’re interrupting.”