She entered Room 6 without knocking.
The scent struck first: smoke, myrrh, old blood—Selene's signature. The room was exactly as Naomi remembered. Dimly lit by violet lamps. Heavy with velvet drapes and quiet menace. The chaise lounge where she'd once learned the meaning of obedience. The silver collar that had once circled her throat like a promise. The mirror where her tears had evaporated faster than her moans.
And there—
She sat.
Selene.
One leg crossed over the other, clad in thigh-high black boots and a robe that hung open like a whisper waiting to be heard. Her long, ink-dark hair curled around her pale shoulders like serpents, coiling with intent. Her mouth was crimson sin, curved in a smirk so smooth it might have been painted in poison.
"You came," Selene purred, tilting her head. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten who taught you how to kneel."
Naomi didn't move. "I didn't forget. I learned when to stand."
Selene rose from her seat, the folds of her robe parting just enough to reveal black silk and the outline of a coiled whip at her hip. Her voice dropped lower, cutting the space between them.
"But did you learn how to dominate without becoming me?"
Naomi stepped forward, not flinching. "That's why I'm here. To face the last ghost I buried."
"Ghost?" Selene laughed. "Darling, I'm flesh. I'm memory. I'm the ache between your thighs you still wake up with." She took a slow step toward Naomi, her heels clicking like the tick of an old grandfather clock winding back time. "You think the girls in Room 403 look at you with devotion? No. They look at you because I trained them to. I made you."
"No," Naomi whispered. "You broke me."
"And didn't you love it?"
The words hissed against her neck.
Naomi felt it then—the flutter of her own breath, the tremor inside her belly, the memory of Selene's nails scraping down her back while whispering rules and riddles into her skin. Selene had been her tormentor, her instructor, her most painful pleasure. And now—her rebellion.
"I loved you," Naomi said. "And you used it against me."
Selene froze for half a second. Just long enough for truth to sink into the cracks she hid behind silk and shadow.
"I taught you control," she said.
Naomi met her eyes. "No. You taught me to perform. To wear submission like perfume. To fake softness for the sake of power."
The tension cracked.
Selene grabbed Naomi's jaw, pulling her close, mouth inches away, breath hot and cinnamon-sweet. "And now you want to undo everything the Order stands for. For what? A more tender breed of Mistress?"
Naomi didn't pull back. She let Selene grip her. She let the ache bloom. Then she smiled.
"I want to create Mistresses who don't need to become monsters to survive."
---
Selene shoved her back against the wall.
The old Naomi might have whimpered.
This one? She leaned in.
Selene's mouth crashed against hers in a violent kiss, all teeth and memory. Naomi kissed back—once, deep—then broke away with a gasp that was more growl than plea.
"Still addicted," Selene whispered, dragging a nail along Naomi's collarbone.
"Still pathetic," Naomi countered, grabbing Selene by the wrist and twisting her around, pressing her hard against the wall. Selene laughed, breathless.
"You learned my games too well."
"No," Naomi said, tightening her hold. "I rewrote the rules."
---
The kiss that followed was not gentle.
It was war.
Bodies collided. Fingers tore silk. The air tasted of sweat and unfinished trauma.
Selene bit Naomi's shoulder, left marks like ink stains on parchment. Naomi clawed Selene's back, dragging her nails down until the woman gasped into her mouth.
"Still afraid to love me," Selene hissed.
"I don't fear you anymore," Naomi breathed. "But I remember you. Every bruise. Every word. Every time you said I was only worthy when I obeyed."
Naomi pushed her down onto the chaise.
Selene sprawled like a queen undethroned, legs parted, breathing uneven.
"Do it, then," she said. "Show me you're better."
Naomi knelt.
But not in submission.
In judgment.
She placed her lips against Selene's inner thigh, slow, burning, deliberate. Not out of lust.
But closure.
Selene moaned—but there was no power in it.
Only loss.
Only history breaking apart, pleasure by pleasure.
---
Afterward, silence bloomed like dark wine.
Selene lay half-bare, staring at the ceiling.
Naomi stood, calm, clothes rumpled but pride intact.
"You still want the throne?" she asked.
Selene shook her head. "No. I just wanted to see if you were ready for it."
"And am I?"
Selene sat up, brushing her hair back. "You're not me."
"That's the point."
---
Naomi walked out of Room 6.
The hallway pulsed around her.
She could feel it—the Order watching.
The sisters who followed her.
The whispers of rebellion.
The ache of past sins trying to cling.
But she had faced Selene.
And not once had she begged.
Not once had she bled for anyone but herself.
---
In the Moon Room, Vera stood waiting.
"You saw her?"
"I ended her."
Vera raised a brow. "She's not dead."
"No," Naomi said. "But the girl who once needed her is."
---
She ascended the steps to the velvet throne.
No chains.
No whip.
No leash.
Just presence.
And every eye in the room fell on her.
She sat.
And the Order knelt.
——