The Report

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‎Chapter 12

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‎The hallway felt like it stretched forever, each step echoing far too loudly in my ears. My palms still tingled from the sting of File 47, but the real weight pressed deeper, curling inside my chest like a stone. I had made it out of the room, yet Marco’s warning clung to me, wrapping tighter the farther I walked. He would report me. I knew it. Maybe not in that moment, but he would.

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‎By the time I reached my room, my body shook so badly I had to grip the edge of the doorframe just to steady myself. The air felt heavier here, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the next move. I shut the door, pressed my back against it, and slid to the floor. The tears I had held back spilled freely, hot and unrelenting.

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‎I did not want to cry, but I could not stop. Every face from those files haunted me. Dozens of women, gone from the world and trapped in Damien’s collection. And Marco, standing there, calm and cold, knowing more than he would ever say. His threat repeated in my head. Leave. Forget. Or he would tell Damien.

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‎I hugged my knees to my chest and rocked slowly, trying to hold myself together. My mind screamed at me to prepare, to plan, to think of escape, but exhaustion weighed me down. The house was a prison, Damien’s control absolute. And now Marco had locked me into a corner.

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‎The sound of footsteps outside my door sent me rigid. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt and scrambled to my bed, pretending to rest. The footsteps passed, fading into silence, but my pulse refused to settle.

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‎Hours crawled by, thick with dread. I barely noticed when the light outside shifted, day bleeding into evening. I lay there motionless, waiting, knowing the moment would come. And when it did, I would have no defense.

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‎It came sooner than I wanted.

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‎The door creaked open, and Damien stepped inside. His presence filled the room instantly, cold and suffocating. I sat up quickly, my hands knotting the blanket in my lap. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes carried that glint I had come to fear, sharp and deliberate.

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‎“Marco spoke to me,” he said.

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‎My stomach dropped. There it was. The report.

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‎I tried to speak, but my mouth opened without sound. My lips trembled, and I closed them again, too afraid of what might spill out. Damien studied me in silence, his gaze heavy and unforgiving. Then he stepped forward, closing the door with deliberate calm.

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‎“Follow me.”

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‎The words were quiet, but they carried no softness. They struck like a sentence handed down in court.

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‎I rose on unsteady legs, every movement jerky and awkward, as though my body had turned to glass and might shatter with a single misstep. My bare feet moved across the floor, carrying me after him. He walked without pause, his pace unhurried yet certain, as if he knew I would follow no matter what.

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‎He led me down a hallway I had seen before, one that made my skin crawl. At the end stood a door I had always avoided, one that seemed to hum with menace even from a distance. Tonight it waited open, its shadowed interior pulling me toward it.

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‎The Red Room.

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‎Flashes of what had happened here before burned through my memory. But this time, I was not coming for pleasure. This time, I was coming for punishment, or even worse.

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‎Damien entered first. I followed, my breath shallow, my heart pounding with each step. The room was dim, lit only by a few low lamps that cast a crimson glow across the walls. Chains and leather straps hung in ordered rows. The scent was sharp, metallic, mixed with the faint sweetness of oil.

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‎He shut the door behind us, the sound echoing finality.

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‎“Do you know why you are here?” His voice was low, unshaken.

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‎My mouth dried. “Because I went into the room.”

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‎His eyes flickered with something unreadable, almost amusement, though it chilled rather than comforted. He stepped closer, closing the space between us.

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‎“You disobeyed me,” he said. “You saw what was not meant for you. And now you will learn.”

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‎The calmness of his tone made it worse than if he had shouted. My legs threatened to give way, but his hand gripped my arm, dragging me toward the center of the room. His touch was not tender. It was possessive, controlled, absolute.

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‎“Please,” I whispered, though I knew it was useless. “I am sorry. I...”

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‎“Silence.”

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‎The command froze me. He moved with precision, securing me against the wooden frame that dominated the center of the room. The leather straps bit against my wrists as he fastened them tightly. Humiliation burned hotter than fear, my tears already spilling as I stood bound before him.

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‎Several leather whips hung on the wall, each promising a different level of pain. He circled, choosing one with deliberate ease.

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‎“Pull down your clothes,” he ordered.

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‎I obeyed, reluctantly, filled with both fear and dread.

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‎“You think curiosity excuses betrayal?” His tone sharpened, still controlled but edged with steel.

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‎I shook my head frantically, choking on sobs. “No, I swear...”

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‎His hand struck, sharp and punishing, the sound echoing through the Red Room. I gasped, a cry breaking free despite my effort to hold it back. Pain seared across my skin, but the deeper wound was the humiliation, the raw exposure of being powerless beneath his control.

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‎He did not raise his voice. He did not lose his calm. Each strike was measured, deliberate, a rhythm meant not just to hurt but to remind me of where I stood. His cold detachment faltered only once, when his grip tightened suddenly, harsher, as though something deeper had cracked through his composure. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by that same calculated control.

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‎Time blurred. Minutes stretched into eternity, broken only by the sharp sounds of his punishment and the choked sobs I could not contain. My body trembled violently, sweat mixing with tears until I could no longer tell one from the other.

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‎When he finally stopped, silence rushed in, suffocating in its weight. My chest heaved, my throat raw from crying. He stood before me again, his expression unreadable, though his eyes burned with a quiet intensity that unsettled me more than the strikes.

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‎“You will remember this,” he said softly, almost too softly. “You will remember what happens when you cross lines I have drawn.”

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‎“Do not make me do this again. I do not want to see you in pain. But there must be consequences for breaking rules.”

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‎His hands released the straps. My arms fell weakly to my sides, too numb to hold me steady. I collapsed to my knees, tears dripping onto the cold floor. Damien did not help me up. He did not comfort. He simply turned, walking toward the door as though nothing had happened.

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‎The door shut behind him, sealing me in silence.

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‎I remained on the floor, curled in on myself, shaking uncontrollably. The Red Room pressed in from all sides, its crimson light burning into my mind. My body ached, but it was the humiliation that gutted me, the knowledge that Damien had broken me not with rage, but with calculated precision.

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‎Later, I dragged myself back to my room, each step heavy with shame. I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow as sobs tore free again. My throat ached, my chest burned, but the tears refused to stop.

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‎By the time exhaustion claimed me, my pillow was soaked, my body trembling with every shallow breath. I cried myself to sleep, humiliated, broken, and more confused than ever.

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‎Damien’s punishment should have left me only with fear, yet tangled within it was something more dangerous. A question that clawed at me in the dark.

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‎Why, beneath the pain and shame, did a part of me still long for the warmth that sometimes lingered in his touch?

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