14. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The hot water burns my skin as I stand under the shower, my hands braced against the tiled wall, head hanging low. I should turn the heat down, but the sting is the only thing keeping me tethered. I've scrubbed myself raw, trying to wash off the filth layered in my brain, but it's no use.

It isn't just on me, it's inside too.

The house. Adrian. The fucking thing in the mirrors.

I slam my fist into the wall, teeth gritted. Fuck. This isn't what I wanted. None of this is what I wanted. I came here for . . . for excitement, sure. For something new, something real.

Not to be used. Not to be fucking destroyed.

My skin is red, but it isn't enough. The fear, the shame—it's all still there, clinging to me like the steam that fills the room.

I'm fucking done.

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. And you . . . " He steps closer, his hand brushing against my cheek, his touch cold. "You've given him everything he needs."

I slap his hand away. "You're fucking insane. This is some kind of sick joke. You're fucking with me."

"Think about it."

But even as I say the words, I know they aren't true. The things I've seen, the things I've felt—they weren't hallucinations. They weren't in my head.

They were real.

And so is the fucking thing that's been watching me from the mirrors.

"I never agreed to this! I never agreed to any of this!"

Adrian's expression softens, almost pitying. "You didn't have to agree, Jasper. The moment you stepped foot into this house—the moment you gave in to your desires—you became his."

My breath comes in ragged gasps. "No. No, this isn't fucking happening."

I drop my duffel bag and grab a chair from the kitchen table, then swing it at the glass. The wood splinters on impact but the window doesn't shatter. It doesn't even crack. I try again, harder this time, but it's no use. The glass is impenetrable, like it's made of fucking steel.

"You offered me as some kind of sacrifice. You and your . . . What? Cult? Is that who those people were last night?"

But he doesn't answer, just continues staring at me, the way a mother tries to wait out her child who's throwing a tantrum.

With a growl, I hurl the chair across the room. It crashes against the wall, the noise echoing through the house, but the silence that follows is louder.

Heavier.

As though the house is laughing at me. Like it's enjoying this.

I turn back to Adrian. "What the fuck does this thing want from me?"

"One last performance. That's all it wants. One last show."

I laugh, the sound bitter and broken. "You're out of your fucking mind."

But he only stares at me, unblinking. Waiting.

And then it hits me.

I'm just another victim. Another piece fed to whatever the fuck is haunting this house. All the things Adrian said to me, all the times he made me feel like I was something more—it was all a lie.

A trick.

Just like the others.

Just like the fucking tapes.

"You've done this before? You've done this to other people, the ones in the videos?"

He lets out a sigh, his shoulders tensing slightly, like he's peeling back layers from some rotten thing inside him. "Yes."

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "How many?"

He steps closer, his dark eyes boring into mine. "I've lost count. Over the centuries, there have been . . . many."

"Centuries?" I stumble back, my head spinning. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm over four centuries old, Jasper. You think this body, this . . . facade of control, this strength . . . all of it is without a price?" His expression hardens. "I used to be just like you. Weak. Vulnerable. My family spat on me. Beat me. I was nothing. Then I inherited this place. And now, I'm more than they ever were."

"Why me?" I ball my hands into fists at my sides. I want to smash them into his face, destroy that fucking mask he wears.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The truth is in his eyes—in the way they darken, a sign of resignation passing through them, as if he has no better answer.

"Because you're also broken. Just like I was."

"Fuck you. I'm nothing like you."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek, but I slap it away, backing up until my back hits the cold, unyielding wall. "Let me go, Adrian."

I glance around the kitchen, searching for something, anything I can use to break out. I slip past him and grab a knife from the block on the counter, but Adrian grabs my wrist with a strength that's nothing short of inhuman. He twists, and the knife falls from my grip, clattering to the floor.

"It won't work. You can't break the house. You can't escape it."

I wrench my wrist free, then punch him in the face, tears streaking my cheeks. "Motherfucker! Let me go!"

He just takes it as I swing again and again until my arm tire out.

"One last performance, Jasper. Then it will all be over."

The final words stick in my chest, cold, suffocating. And I know—there's no escaping this place.

Not for me.

Not for anyone.

Because the house always wins.