Chapter 6: The Room That Bleeds
899 Words
The moment the shift changed, I ran.
My feet slapped silently against the tile as I moved through the servant’s hall with breath caught tight in my throat. Every muscle ached, but I kept going. Lucien’s map was burned into my mind, inked in memory like a warpath. I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. The estate was a maze of stone and ritual, but I had purpose. And purpose moved fast.
I reached the wine cellar.
The heavy wooden door creaked like it hadn’t opened in years. I ducked through it, heart pounding, and took the steps two at a time. The air grew colder. Thicker. It carried the scent of earth, mildew, dust. An old world smell, like something sealed and meant to stay that way.
I crossed the cellar floor, past racks of wine sealed decades before I was born, until I reached the third from the right. My hands found the hidden latch Lucien told me about. I pressed hard.
A click. Then stone shifted, not loudly but deep, like the earth itself had given me permission to escape.
I slipped through.
The tunnel opened wide enough for one person. No lights. Just rotting beams above and crumbling dirt beneath. The floor sloped down into shadow. I pressed my palm to the walls for balance, steadying my breathing with every step. Each second stretched like a countdown.
And then I saw it.
The steel panel in the floor.
Lucien had warned me. Step over it. Don’t touch it.
I moved slowly.
Then I made a mistake.
My boot scuffed the edge.
A red light blinked. Silent. Singular.
No siren. No blaring alarm.
But every hair on my body rose.
I’d triggered something.
Behind me, light burst into the tunnel.
Lucien stood at the mouth of the passage, his face shadowed, unreadable.
You have to come with me, he said. His voice held no panic. Only finality.
I backed up. No.
You’re not thinking.
I’m thinking clearly for the first time in days. I’m not going back.
His eyes darkened, voice cooling. You don’t have time to be stubborn. Move.
I turned to run.
He was faster.
His hand caught my arm. The next moment, I was off balance, dragged up the slope, fingers scrabbling for any edge. I twisted in his grip, kicked at his legs.
Let me go,
You don’t understand, he hissed. If you get out, if they find you gone before I can explain, someone dies.
I froze mid-struggle.
Who? I demanded.
But he didn’t answer.
He shoved the cellar door open just as the corridor filled with light.
Damien stood in the center.
Calm. Silent.
He looked between us, his eyes two coals pulled from ash.
Then, Leave.
Lucien didn’t argue. He vanished into shadow the way only someone trained to disappear could.
I was left behind, panting, scratched, furious.
Damien stepped forward. He didn’t look angry. Didn’t look surprised.
You didn’t set off the alarm, he said.
I didn’t respond.
He gestured toward the tunnel. You tripped the loyalty wire.
What the hell does that mean?
It means I built this place for betrayal, he said.
Then he reached toward the wall.
A smooth panel shifted beneath his palm.
A door I hadn’t seen hissed open.
What lay beyond smelled like copper and rot. Like something old… and cruel.
He walked through.
I followed.
Because I needed answers more than I feared the truth.
The door closed behind us with a click that cut through the air like a blade.
The chamber beyond was stone. Every surface dark and sweating. The ceiling arched just enough to feel like a chapel if the chapel had been bled dry. There were no windows. No ventilation. Only a low-hanging bulb that buzzed softly above a single steel chair.
The table beside it looked surgical.
But not clean.
The surface was worn, gouged, slick with old stains, rust or blood, I didn’t want to guess. Metal cuffs bolted into the floor beside the chair. A drain beneath it.
A place meant for silence.
I stopped breathing.
You asked for answers, Damien said, circling me. But answers are earned. Paid for.
I stood still. My wrists throbbed from earlier, my lip stung where I’d bitten through it, but I didn’t sit. I wouldn’t.
He picked up a knife from the table.
Turned it once in his hand.
Not aggressively. Just… considering.
I don’t torture women, he said.
My throat went dry.
But I do test them.
Still, I didn’t speak.
I need to know how much of your father is in you, he continued, voice smooth as ice melting in a glass. How many of his secrets are locked under your skin. Whether you’ll c***k the moment I press too hard.
He turned the knife again. Then laid it down.
I held his gaze. And if I do?
He smiled faintly.
Then I’ll know you’re real.
He stepped aside.
Sit.
The chair stood empty. Waiting.
My pulse drowned out thought. My knees wanted to buckle. My lungs couldn’t find enough air.
But I moved.
Because if I didn’t sit now, I’d never stop running.
And running wasn’t survival anymore. It was surrender. And I was done surrendering.
I stepped forward. Toward the chair. Toward the blade. Toward the man who would strip me of every lie and leave only what I was at my core.
And I sat.
- Writer
