There were no clocks in the Portrait Room.
Only the sound of paint drying and breath catching.
Naomi stood before her half-finished image. Her skin crawled with awe and fear. The woman in the painting wore only shadows and bruises, her wrists wrapped in gold ribbons instead of rope. But it was her eyes that captured everything—eyes wide open, wet, glassy. Eyes that begged and dared at once.
It was her… but it wasn't.
Vera stood beside her, brush poised, body tense.
"You see it, don't you?" she whispered. "The version of you that only I can bring to life."
Naomi didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat felt like velvet soaked in blood.
"You think I've taken something from you," Vera continued, stepping closer, circling her. "But you came here because you were ready to burn."
Vera's fingers brushed Naomi's cheek. Gentle. Intimate. Possessive.
"And now," she murmured, "I want to know what you'll take from me."
---
The days blurred into rituals.
Naomi was summoned again and again—not just to be touched, tasted, adored, but to watch. To learn. To lead.
She saw the other initiates. Silent shadows of desire.
In Room 8, she was made to kneel beside two masked women as they were punished by Lucienne with kisses that made them scream. In Room 2, Naomi's own body was offered as a lesson in slow obedience, with Vera narrating every inch she explored, every moan she pulled.
But it was in Room 5 where things shifted.
Room 5 had no furniture. Just chains, mirrors, and a floor that glowed faintly beneath bare feet.
There, Vera stood naked for the first time since their night in 405.
Not commanding. Not posing.
Just... waiting.
Naomi stepped toward her, heart thudding. She was no longer the girl trembling behind a mask. Her desire had grown claws. Her silence had learned to bite.
"Touch me," Vera said.
Naomi did more than that.
She pushed Vera against the mirror and pinned her wrists high above her head. She kissed her hard—no worship, no fear. Tongue, teeth, heat. Vera gasped.
And Naomi smiled.
"You're trembling," she said, lips against Vera's throat.
"You finally learned how to take," Vera whispered.
---
Later, when Vera lay panting beneath her, body slick with sweat and thighs painted in pleasure, she whispered:
"There was another girl before you. Amara."
Naomi froze.
"She tried to belong to me. But she wanted more than I could give."
Vera sat up, eyes unreadable.
"She vanished. No goodbye. No note. Just… gone."
The air between them chilled.
"You think she left the Order?" Naomi asked.
Vera didn't answer.
Instead, she got up, walked to a drawer, and pulled out an old pendant—a black locket with a tiny heart carved into it.
"She left this. In my bed. Inside was ash."
Naomi took the locket with shaking hands.
"What burned?"
"My painting of her."
---
That night, Naomi dreamt of the Portrait Room again. But this time, all the faces in the paintings had eyes.
Amara's eyes.
They followed her. Watched her. Judged her.
And in her own portrait, the gold ribbons turned to chains.
---
The next day, Naomi was summoned by Lucienne.
But instead of a room, she was led beneath the building—into the catacombs of the Order.
There were no lights. Just lanterns. The air tasted like salt and secrets.
Lucienne spoke without turning.
"Every initiate who ascends… must pass through the Flame."
"The what?"
Lucienne stopped.
They stood before a tall door made of scorched wood and etched with names. Names of women long forgotten. Naomi's name had been carved recently, the ink still bleeding.
"You are being watched," Lucienne said. "Not by Vera. Not even by me. The Order has its own eyes. Its own punishments."
Naomi felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"Why me?"
"Because Vera never paints anyone twice. And she hasn't stopped painting you."
Lucienne placed a key in her palm.
"This door won't open until you're ready to ask it the right question."
Naomi blinked.
"What question?"
Lucienne vanished into the shadows.
---
Back in Room 403, Naomi stared at the black locket. She opened it again.
Inside, ash had stained the interior. But this time, she saw something new beneath it.
A line. A scratch. Words etched faintly:
"The flame remembers what the flesh forgets."
Naomi didn't sleep that night.
She paced, wrote in her journal, then ripped the pages out. She drew herself without skin. She touched herself to memories of Vera's breath, then cried after the climax, unsure why.
She wasn't afraid of being broken anymore.
She was afraid of being nothing when it was all over.
---
At midnight, she stood in front of the scorched door again.
She held the key in her hand, heart beating in her throat.
And she whispered:
"What if I want to burn?"
The door opened.
——