Done with Adrian.
Done with this place.
I shut off the water, grabbing a towel and then wrapping it around my waist. The bathroom’s mirror is clouded with mist, my reflection just a ghost staring back at me, blurred at the edges.
Fitting.
And I let this happen. I walked straight into the lion’s den and handed over the leash.
The humiliation of it all, the way Adrian pulled my strings like a fucking puppet master, how the house watched as he reduced me to nothing but a trembling, begging slave. There’s no thrill left—nothing but a sick ache at the core of me.
I want out. I need out.
Grabbing my duffel bag off the floor, I pull out a sweatshirt and jeans. Once I’m dressed, I storm out of the bedroom toward the front door. But when I yank the handle, twisting hard, it doesn’t budge.
I yank again. Harder this time.
Nothing.
“What the fuck?”
This time I throw my whole body into pulling at the damn thing. But it doesn’t even rattle, like the bastard’s sealed completely shut.
The pressure in my chest increases with every failed attempt to wrench open the door. I back up, frustration boiling over, then head to the kitchen. There are French doors there—big fucking glass ones.
But like the front door, they won’t open either. I kick the glass, praying it will shatter the pane. “Goddamn it! Open the fuck up!”
“Jasper.”
Slowly, I turn, my pulse thundering in my ears. Adrian stands in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his tailored pants, his dark eyes watching me with that same fucking unreadable expression.
“Let me out. Open the fucking doors.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. “You know I can’t do that.”
“This isn’t a fucking game, Adrian.” I stalk toward him, then jab a finger into his chest. “I didn’t come here for this shit. I didn’t come here to be drugged and used like some fucking puppet!”
He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a small, amused smile. “Drugged? No, Jasper. I haven’t drugged you.”
“Bullshit!” I get right up in his face, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “There’s no other explanation for what’s been happening here, for the fucked-up shit I’ve been seeing. You’ve been slipping something into my drinks, haven’t you?”
“You need to calm down.”
I slam him up against the wall, my fingers tightening around his collar. “Calm down! I fucking pissed in front of all those people. You made me fucking piss!”
“Oh, Jasper. That’s not what happened.” His voice is softer, gentler, as if trying to calm a frightened horse. “You squirted. It happens, especially with prolonged prostate stimulation.”
My upper lip twitches. “You think I’m stupid. Now, open the fucking door, or I swear to God, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He quirks a brow. “You can’t hurt me, Jasper. And you can’t leave.”
“What do you mean, I can’t leave?” I let go of his collar and put some distance between us, shifting my stance so I’m ready to fight.
He straightens his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. “You belong to the house now. You belong to him.”
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. “Who the fuck is him?”
“The one who haunts this house. The one who’s been watching you since you arrived. He feeds on desire, on lust, on power. Andyou . . . ” He steps closer, his hand brushing against my cheek, his touch cold. “You’ve given him everything he needs.”
