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“I don’t need to.” She turned to the audience and gestured to the masked guests. “Because people will always pay to watch. They will always hunger for what they’re not supposed to see. And they will always convince themselves that watching is not the same as participating.”

Behind her, the stage shifted. Three iron chairs materialized in a triangle around the central pit, and chains descended from the darkness above, their links dripping with something dark and viscous.

“The Devil, the Hound, and the Madman,” she said. “The three original functions who solidified my power. Evangeline Vale bound them through contracts and witnessed performances. She dominated them. She used them. She turned their desire, their resistance, and their coerced choices into ownership.”

Malachi’s jaw tightened behind the copper Devil mask, but he didn’t speak.

“She performed sexually with them on this stage,” she continued, her voice flat and matter-of-fact. “She made them submit for the audience. She recorded every moment, every promise, every act. And when she was done, she became the first Keeper, the woman who proved that witnessed desire could be converted into permanent claim.”

My stomach turned. “You’re saying she raped them.”

“I’m saying she gave them a choice.” Her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. “They could refuse and lose everything they’d come here seeking. Or they could accept the terms and gain power, wealth, and freedom from the world’s judgment. They chose. The House recorded their choices. And those choices became chains.”

“Coerced consent isn’t consent.”

“Consent is a luxury.” The entity's borrowed mouth curved into something obscene. “What matters here is the contract written in blood and witnessed by hunger. You came into this House looking for your sister, and now your body is collateral. That’s not coercion, Zinnia. That’s debt.”

She stepped closer, bringing her borrowed face inches from mine, her black void eyes reflecting nothing.

“You will perform with all three of them,” she said, her voice layered and wet. “The Devil will take you first because he’s already marked you. The Hound will follow because he’s been starved of choice for sixty years. The Madman will record every moment—every sound you make, every time you come, every time you beg them to stop and then push back for more. The audience will watch your cunt swallow their cocks and your mouth learn their taste. And when you’re done, when you’re ruined and marked and theirs in ways you can’t undo, you’ll sign the Keeper’s contract.”

“This is the part where I tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“I will.” Her hand shot out, gripping my jaw with inhuman strength, her fingers pressing into the hinge of my teeth. “I’ll fuck myself with your defiance. I’ll wear your resistance like a second skin. Because every time you say no, every time you fight, you’re feeding me exactly what I need to make this binding. The House doesn’t want willing vessels, Zinnia. It wants women who break themselves trying to refuse.”

She released me and stepped back, smoothing the emerald velvet of her dress.

“They’re already waiting for you,” she said. “The Devil is pacing. The Hound is bleeding. The Madman is writing your name in his ledger in ink that won’t wash out. If you refuse to come to them, I’ll bring them to you. I’ll chain you to the stage and let them take turns while you scream. I’ll make sure every guest in this House knows exactly what you taste like, exactly how tight you are, exactly how long it takes before you stop fighting and start fucking back.”

“I’m not doing shit.”

“You already are.” Her voice didn’t rise, but the walls shook, and I felt the temperature drop until my breath came out in visible clouds. “Your blood is promised. Your name is written. Your body is collateral. The only choice you have left is whether you walk to them on your own or whether I drag you there bleeding.”

She turned away from me and looked toward the back of the stage.

“Bring the Devil,” she called out.

She turned to Malachi.

The chains around his wrists and ankles tightened with a sickening crack, hauling him upright and dragging him toward the center of the pit. He struggled against the iron, his muscles straining, but the metal held him fast.

“Stop!” I lunged forward, but an invisible weight slammed against my ribs, driving me to the platform and pinning me in place.

Entity Evangeline curved her fingers through the air like a conductor.

Without any physical weapon touching him, jagged lacerations gouged across Malachi’s chest, shoulders, and ribs. The unseen cruelty carved along the lines of his tattoos, splitting open scar tissue and cleaving into muscle. Blood welled instantly and poured down his torso in steaming ribbons that splattered onto the stage below.

A strangled roar tore from his chest. His spine arched, locking every tendon as fresh crimson streamed down his arms.

“Stop hurting him!” My voice broke into raw desperation as I clawed uselessly against the invisible force. “I’ll do whatever you want—just let him down!”

Malachi forced his head upright, blood dripping from his jaw. “Don’t . . .” His voice was ruined. “Don’t you fucking dare give her anything, Zinnia . . .”

The entity didn’t glance at me. “Pity is not surrender, child. You cannot buy his freedom with a bargain made in panic. You will witness every drop of blood his ambition cost.”

She snapped her hand shut.

The chains wrenched upward with a sickening pop of straining joints, hoisting Malachi higher as another wave of lacerations ripped open his abdomen and shoulders. Blood fell like dark rain, drumming against the wood. He threw his head back, a breathless, agonizing sound tearing from his lungs.