Chapter 5 Chapter 4
A sharp knock rapped against the door. Sierravalle straightened her shoulders and schooled her features into a look of cold resolve, waiting for it to open. She would not show fear—not to anyone, not ever again.
The old man cleared his throat roughly. “What are you doing? Thinking you can run away, little girl?”
Sierravalle clenched her fists tight, drawing strength from the anger flaring in her chest. “I am not a little girl! I am twenty‑seven years old! And I have absolutely no intention of running anywhere!”
“You are still a child in this world,” he grunted dismissively. “You have many long years ahead before you grow old and worn like me. And it is good you do not plan to run—you will never leave this place alive.”
“What do you want from me?” she asked, making certain her voice held no tremor, no trace of fear.
“My master bids you join him for lunch in the garden,” he replied flatly.
“The garden?” Sierravalle frowned in confusion. She had seen nothing but overgrown brush and shadowed woods around this place.
“Behind the house,” he said simply. “He is waiting for you.”
He held out a plain wooden box she had not noticed before her attention had been fixed entirely on his scarred, weathered face.
“My master says you are to wear what is inside,” he told her. “Then come downstairs and follow the hall all the way to the back.” He set the box down hard on the floor, turned, and left without another word.
Sierravalle rushed to open it. Inside lay a dress of deep, vivid crimson. She unfolded it slowly and gasped, it was so sheer and delicate it was barely more than fine lingerie, meant to reveal far more than it hid.
She tossed it onto the bed, glaring at the closed door in sheer frustration. She could not believe he would send her something so shameless, so deliberately revealing. She would never put it on.
“He is completely insane!” she hissed. “I will not wear this!”
But in the next breath, her resolve shifted. She snatched the garment back from the bed, and a wicked, defiant smile curved her lips.
Sierravalle slipped into the sheer crimson fabric and followed the old man’s instructions. She walked barefoot over cracked stone and worn wood, down the sweeping staircase, and along the dim corridor that led toward the rear of the mansion.
When she stepped outside, she froze in utter shock. There was no garden, only rows of weathered, moss‑covered headstones standing beneath twisted, dead trees. Her stomach twisted sharply as she lifted her gaze to the man waiting there.
He wore a crisp white collared shirt, fitted black jeans, and polished leather shoes. The skull mask still hid his face entirely.
“Come here, Valle. Let us have lunch… with my family.” He gestured to a lavish spread of food laid out directly atop a large, cracked grave slab. “Am I not being generous, Sierravalle?”
Sierravalle stared at him, completely speechless. His gaze swept slowly over every inch of her, and his expression darkened, sharp, like a wild beast ready to spring.
He closed the distance between them in a single stride and gripped her waist firmly. “Who told you to wear anything beneath that?!”
“I only—”
She gasped sharply as he slid his hand beneath the sheer fabric, cupping her intimately without hesitation.
“I hate the color,” he muttered low, and ripped away the last scrap of cloth covering her entirely.
Sierravalle cried out and stumbled back, but he caught her firmly by the hips, holding her exactly where he wanted her.
He looked her over with hungry, unblinking eyes, and hot shame prickled across her skin. She could not understand why she had agreed to put this on, why she had let herself be so vulnerable.
“Your breasts are perfect, your nipples are soft and pink… and your body could make me ache just by looking at it,” he chuckled darkly. “Do not you dare cover yourself. This was made for my eyes alone and it is flawless.”
Sierravalle’s face burned, her heart racing wildly. She could no longer tell if she was burning with rage or something far more terrifying.
“Sit on the grave!” he commanded sharply.
“W‑what? No! That is horrible!” She understood his words clearly, but not why he would demand such a thing.
“You shrink from the dead… but not from me?” he mocked. “Sit. Now, Sierravalle!”
She obeyed instantly, fear overriding her defiance. He spread her knees wide with his hands, then tilted her back until she lay propped up, her fingers laced behind her head.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“What are you doing?”
He did not answer. Instead, he knelt on the grave directly in front of her, his gaze never leaving hers.
“What do you intend to do to me?!” she snapped, though her voice wavered. The cool breeze brushed over her exposed skin, drifting between her legs, and she shivered violently.
“Do not move a single muscle… or I will make this much worse for you,” he warned coldly.
“You are mad!” she spat, though he seemed not to hear her at all.
“Augustus!” he called out. The old man approached, keeping his gaze respectfully averted from her. He handed something small to his master. “Bring Zorro.”
“Zorro! Zorro!” the old man called toward the house.
A sleek black cat darted out from the shadows and trotted straight to the masked man. He nodded toward Sierravalle, and the cat curled up comfortably on her exposed lap.
“I shall return to the house now, Senyorito…”
The man gave a short nod, and Augustus retreated.
“You want me to stay like this?! Are you completely out of your mind?!” Sierravalle hissed at him.
His jaw tightened visibly beneath the mask. He strode forward and squeezed her cheek hard enough to make her wince.
“Let go! You are hurting me!”
“Stop talking. And do not move,” he said in a clear, unyielding tone. His hand slid to her throat and closed around it with deliberate pressure. “I could end your life whenever I please.”
