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Malachi stepped into my space, his bare chest radiating an oppressive heat that seemed to consume the oxygen between us. He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of my zinnia mask and tracing down my jawline until his fingernail pressed hard into the hollow beneath my chin.
“You have thirty minutes to prepare your mind, sweetheart,” he whispered, his silver-gray eyes void of anything resembling mercy. “Because once we step under those lights, you don’t get to reconsider. You take every inch of what I give you, and you bleed on cue. If you disappoint the crowd, I’ll hand you straight to Rook in the drainage tunnels without a head start.”
“Go choke on your own knife, Devil.”
A dark, sharp smirk cut across his lips. “Save that fight for the altar. The House likes it when the meat struggles.”
He turned and strode out, the heavy door slamming shut behind him as an iron latch fell into place with a solid thud.
The taller woman let out a shaky breath and hurried toward a locked wardrobe. “I’m Lila,” she murmured, avoiding my eyes. “This is Maren. Please . . . sit down so we can begin.”
“What is this place?” I demanded, staying on my feet. “What does he mean by an offering?”
Maren approached with a basin of scented water and a coarse linen towel. Her eyes were sunken, hollowed out by fear. “The Devil’s act requires blood, surrender, and witness. If you fight him on stage, he will break you even worse in front of them. The House feeds on whatever you yield.”
Lila returned carrying a garment wrapped in black tissue paper. When she shook it out, the fabric cascaded across her arms like liquid moonlight.
It was a slip of sheer white silk, barely reaching mid-thigh. The neckline plunged to the navel, held together by gossamer threads, while the back was completely open down to the base of the spine. The fabric was practically translucent, designed to conceal nothing while offering a mocking illusion of purity.
“Put it on,” Lila whispered. “Please. If you’re not ready when he calls, they punish us, too.”
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, stripped off my street clothes, and stepped into the silk. The fabric felt icy against my skin, clinging to my nipples and outlining every curve of my hips with obscene clarity. Maren swiftly pinned my hair up, leaving the nape of my neck bare, and adjusted the porcelain zinnia mask, tying the black ribbon tight enough to bite into my scalp.
A brass bell chimed three times through the ceiling vents, its deep, resonant tone making the floor vibrate.
“Time,” Maren breathed, her skin gray with panic.
They flanked me, took my elbows, and guided me out of the room, down a sloping corridor lined with black velvet curtains. The noise grew louder with every step—the low, collective murmur of hundreds packed into a tight space, the clink of glassware, and the scent of expensive perfume mingling with sweat and hot wax.
We reached the wings.
Malachi was already there, leaning against the wooden rigging. He wore only his horned leather mask. In the dim glow of the backstage lamps, the grotesque black tattoos covering his torso seemed to writhe across his flesh—scenes of torture, altars, severed wings, and kneeling figures rendered in agonizing detail.
His gaze swept over me, lingering on the sheer silk over my breasts and the bare skin of my thighs. A feral hunger flashed behind the mask's eye slits.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, stepping forward to grip my wrist in a vice-like hold. “The crowd is going to lose their minds watching me tear this apart.”
“I’m here for Dahlia,” I said, my voice low and steady despite my pulse pounding. “Don’t forget the terms.”
“The terms depend on how well you beg.”
Malachi seized my shoulder and dragged me through the heavy velvet curtains into a sudden, blinding blast of hot light.
Through the curtains, a massive amphitheater surrounded us, tiered balconies rising into shadowy rafters packed with masked guests in evening wear. Spotlights converged on the circular dais in the center, illuminating a raised wooden altar inlaid with blackened silver runes and iron anchor rings.
A hush fell over the room, thick and suffocating.
“Masked patrons of the House,” Malachi’s voice boomed, amplified by unseen acoustics until it resonated through the marrow of my bones. “Tonight, a trespasser sought to breach the forbidden threshold. She bargained her body, her blood, and her voice to stand before you as an offering. The Devil is about to make the sacrifice beg.”
The audience erupted into a wave of manic, rhythmic applause.
Malachi pulled me to the center of the dais, his fingers digging into my hip as he turned me toward the spectators. The silk slip offered zero defense against the hundreds of staring eyes—a sickening mixture of terror and dark, illicit heat pooled low in my gut.
“She agreed to perform,” Malachi announced, tilting my head back with a rough hand around my throat. “She agreed to yield to the Devil’s touch, to let her blood sanctify the wood, and to seal her vow before every witness in this theater. And by doing so, she surrenders her claim to the world outside.”
The stage beneath us shuddered as a low hum of power rose through the floorboards. The House was listening. It was leaning in, ready to snap the jaws of the trap shut around my neck.
He was trying to twist the agreement. He wanted the audience’s witness to bind me to the House permanently, turning my desperate search for Dahlia into an eternal sentence.
