Page 94 of Twisted Addiction
The mansion’s silence pressed against me — quiet as a held breath. Every footstep landed like an argument with myself.
The oak door to the basement loomed, a dark mouth I’d built to swallow people who could be useful later.
Reinforced, cold, smelling of detergent, iron, and the damp leftover of rooms never meant for sunlight — an architecture of control I’d designed for precise purposes.
Tonight its purpose shifted.
The lock clicked under my thumb, and I slid open only the narrow hatch designed for food and brief speech.
The rest of the door remained sealed, a wall of absolute darkness. Through the small slit, I could hear the ragged rasp of her breathing, sharp with panic, carried faintly across the black void.
I called once—low, practiced, the tone I used when I wanted obedience, not answers. “Penelope.”
Silence swallowed the word.
I tried again, sharper now, edge honed into a threat. “Penelope.”
Nothing.
The dark on the other side of the hatch felt like a thing that could swallow people whole. For a heartbeat a ridiculous, cold image flashed through me—her body crumpled on that concrete floor—and something in my chest clenched so hard it hurt.
I forced the sound out of me softer, impossibly softer. “Answer me.” The plea was buried under the command, because I couldn’t afford a plea.
Still nothing.
My patience — my weapon — began to fray. In the quiet I tasted the bluff I’d been practicing: walk away; let the darkness do its work. The idea sat on my tongue like poison.
“Penelope,” I said again, louder, forcing steel through the panic. “This is your last chance. If you don’t respond, I leave today. I’ll walk away.”
The lie tasted metallic.
I wouldn’t leave her to die. I couldn’t. But I needed her to know the shape of my threat. For now, the bluff hung in the air, a thin thing I dared not test too soon.
I held the doorframe until my hands cramped, listening for the faintest movement inside.
The silence answered me, heavy and absolute, and something in me—rage, worry, something pained and older than both—tightened until I thought my chest would split.
“Penelope,” I said again. The sound was softer this time, as if I could coax a life into responding.
Penelope’s voice—soft, fractured, barely a thread—cut through the dark.
“Please...” she gasped, every breath scraping her throat raw. “I won’t—won’t upset you again. I’ll follow... all your rules...”
Another ragged inhale. “I won’t defile you... won’t challenge you. You are my... master.”
My pulse stuttered. Each word was a knife, carving guilt into my ribs.
“Please... I’m sorry...” she sobbed, her voice unraveling into panic. “I don’t... don’t want to die... master...”
The sound tore something loose inside me.
I slammed my hand against the door, yanked the lock, then drove my boot through it when it refused to yield. The crash echoed down the hall, splintering the silence.
“Penelope,” I called, the name catching in my throat.
The darkness inside was absolute—thick, choking, like stepping into blindness.
Her sobs guided me forward.
