To the right, there was a fireplace. To the left was a bookshelf lined with titles I didn’t have time to care about. Against the far wall, there was a desk.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I didn’t waste time. I hurried across the room, fingers grazing the surface, searching for anything—notes, documents, a laptop—anything that could tell me what kind of monster I was dealing with.
Nothing.
I yanked open a drawer.
Empty.
Another.
Papers. Plain white sheets. Useless.
Damn it.
I turned toward the bookshelf, skimming over the spines. Nothing unusual. Nothing screamed hidden secrets. But something – a feeling, a sixth sense, or maybe just my damn gut warning me – told me there was something off.
I stopped. My gaze lingered on one book. It was out of place. Too new. The edges weren’t torn, and the cover was metallic. It looked untouched. Why would someone have a metallic book? Was it just for decoration? He didn’t seem like a man who would do something without a reason.
I hesitated. My pulse quickened, and I slowly reached for it. My fingers just brushed over the metallic book, and the second I pulled it from the shelf, a soft click echoed through the room.
I froze.
A chill ran down my spine.
A hidden door.
My pulse skyrocketed.
The bookshelf groaned as it shifted. The entire structure moved, and I yelped and jumped back, watching with wide eyes.
I stared.
What. The. Hell.
I should’ve backed away. Should’ve left, pretended I saw nothing, and continued my pathetic excuse of an escape plan.
But I didn’t.
Because this bastard had secrets, and if there was one thing I hated more than him, it was being left in the dark.
I inhaled sharply, forcing my feet forward. The hidden doorway was narrow, but enough to accommodate a person or two. I stepped through even though every nerve in my body screamed at me to stop.
The moment I turned the corner, my breath caught.
A red room.
Not just red—crimson. Dark. Sinister. Like a warning carved into the walls themselves.
Leather straps. Chains. Cuffs hanging from the ceiling. A sleek black table lined with polished instruments that gleamed under the soft light. Some familiar. Some… horrifyingly foreign.
A whip coiled neatly at the centre. A bench with restraints. A cage.
Afuckingcage.
A sick feeling curled in my stomach.
