CHAPTER 4: MASTER'S PRIVATE ROOM
1110 Words
She didn’t want solitude. She wanted to forget. The silence was worse than the gunfire; peace was just another lie. Survival didn’t feel like victory. She’d been saved, but she didn’t feel safe.
“Please leave,” she pleaded with the maids who had come to help her undress.
They obeyed instantly, shuffling out without question.
Sammy dropped to her knees, the room spinning around her. Barely fourty-eight hours—that’s all it had taken to change everything, to destroy her life. The sobs came before she could stop them.
Suddenly, she felt it—his presence.
He stood in the dark like a phantom, hands crossed, face half-hidden in shadow.
She hadn’t heard him come in. How long had he been there? Had he been there all along, watching her break apart?
He took a final drag of his cigar, then crushed it into the ashtray on the table.
Her breath caught.
“Why did those men try to touch you?” His voice was low, hoarse… dangerous.
She wanted to be brave. She wanted to meet his stare and throw the words like daggers, but all she managed was a shaky breath and a broken whisper.
“Because they’re animals.”
He leaned forward, the flicker of his cigar lighting the sharp planes of his face.
“Because you disobeyed me.” His voice was quiet, the kind that warned of a storm brewing behind his eyes.
She stiffened, crushing her palms with her fingers.
"When did silk ever give consent?"
He took a few steps towards her.
“If you’d listened, it would have been avoided."
His cologne hit her first—intoxicating, mingling with the heat of his body. She gasped, her voice trembling.
“So it’s my fault your friends tried to touch me?”
His jaw clenched, his stare unrelenting.
Shs took a hesitant step backward, wrapping her arms around herself like armor.
“Was that night also my fault?" The words trembled on her lips.
The room dropped into a suffocating silence.
"That night—" He made to speak.
"Yeah that night," she cut him off. "You desecrated me, so maybe birds of a feather really do flock together."
Sammy inhaled, feeling the fragile relief that came with finally letting the words out. It wasn’t even an accusation, she just needed him to see how shattered she was.
He took a step closer—so close she could almost hear his heartbeat.
She held her breath, bracing for whatever came next.
Then a knock broke the tension hanging in the air like a blade.
They both froze. Don Thorne took two measured steps back.
“Do not leave this room,” he said flatly, and then he was gone.
The air felt suddenly breathable. Without him, it almost felt safe. She let herself hope he wouldn’t come back.
****
"Finally out of the stupid party gown," Sammy whispered, now dressed in a soft cotton singlet and sleep short, but no amount of comfort could ease the way the room pressed in around her.
Screw it.
She opened the door, slipping silently down the marble hallway. The mansion was a fortress, eerily quiet but alive with shadows. Every step felt like rebellion.
Then she heard voices and footsteps.
Panic surged. She couldn't let Thorne know that she left her room.
Her eyes darted around. The nearest door was marked with a golden plaque:
“MASTER’S PRIVATE ROOM–DO NOT ENTER.”
Her heart thundered. She hesitated but as the footsteps grew louder.
Shit.
Without thinking, she slipped inside, shutting the door just as the sound neared.
It was pitch black. She pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath. Her shoulder brushed what felt like a sensor—a soft click, red-lights flickered on.
Air left her lungs. No, it was ripped out.
Her heart stalled mid-beat at the sight before her.
The room wasn’t just private—it was a sanctum.
Dark velvet covered the walls; chains, collars, and handcuffs hung in precise, chilling order.
A four-poster bed dominated the center, draped in black silk and heavy rope.
Mirrors glinted along one wall, and a glass cabinet gleamed with polished leather, metal restraints, and things she couldn’t even name.
The air smelled of lust, and power.
A girl knelt there, a little older than her, silent and still. The black fabric of her playsuit caught the low red light; her hair spilled forward, hiding her face. Her hands rested neatly on her thighs, like a statue waiting for command.
Her throat tightened, eyes burning as she searched for words that didn’t exist.
“Are… are you okay?” The sound of her own voice startled her, it felt too loud in a room built for silence.
The girl remained perfectly still, as though the act of moving were forbidden.
And then the temperature in the room dropped.
Don Thorne.
He stepped into the light like a god of sin—shirt hanging open, his chest sculpted and glistening slightly.
His ripped leather pants hung low on his hips, undone just enough to tease. In his hand was a thick leather belt, held like a threat.
The kneeling girl spoke first. “Master, I submit to your desires,” she said without looking up, her voice dripping with practiced seduction.
It felt like a dream. Or a nightmare.
Something unreal–something no good girl from a broken home should ever stumble upon.
Thorne moved forward, slow and calculated.
“What part of ‘do not leave your room’ did you not understand?
Sammy stared at him, stunned, her breath ragged. A thousand words clawed at her throat but caught there like thorns.
She needed a moment—maybe a lifetime to process what she was seeing.
Finally, she found her voice. “Who… are you?”
His gaze burned through her, his energy coiling tighter with every heartbeat. The dim red light caught in his grey eyes, sharpening them to steel.
“I’m the most ruthless man you’ll ever meet,” he said quietly. The darkness in his eyes made her believe it.
She could feel it. She could feel everything—every inch of him, every taut shred of control and heat.
A shiver ran down her spine.
His belt tapped against his thigh once… twice.
“Leave.” His voice cut through the room, sharp and final.
She wanted to scream...or run. She wanted both. But more than anything, a part of her ached to understand why the monster looked at her like that.
And why, in the pit of her chest, part of her wanted to stay.
- Writer
