Master of Lust-Chapter 328 - -

Chapter - 328

The approach to the Warner Chateau was designed to make visitors feel small, poor, and vulnerable. The road wound up the side of the mountain like a scar, a single lane of asphalt bordered by sheer cliffs on one side and a thousand-foot drop on the other.

Rick drove the lead truck, his knuckles white on the wheel. He was back in the Henri mask, the sweat already pooling under the synthetic skin. Sharon sat beside him, scanning the ridge lines for snipers.

"Thermal scopes are clean," she muttered. "But I feel eyes. He’s out there. The Huntsman."

"Let him watch," Rick said, his French accent automatic now. "He can’t hit us here without burying the truck in an avalanche. He wants us inside."

They reached the Main Gate. It was a massive structure of steel and stone, guarded by two tanks. Actual tanks. Leopard 2A4s, painted winter white, their turrets tracking the truck as it approached.

"Subtle," Rick muttered.

A guard stepped out. He wasn’t wearing the standard snow camo. He was wearing the black dress uniform of the Warner House Guard. He held a tablet.

"Vancroft," the guard said, checking the license plate. "You’re late."

"The roads are icy, you imbecile!" Rick shouted, leaning out the window. "And my soufflé waits for no man! Open the gate before I have your job!"

The guard didn’t flinch. He held up a scanner. "Biometrics. Eyes and hand."

Rick held his breath. This was the two-million-dollar moment. He leaned forward, letting the scanner wash over his masked face. He placed his hand—covered in a thin, synthetic glove that replicated Vancroft’s prints—on the pad.

Beep. Processing...

The seconds stretched. Rick’s hand drifted toward the MP7 hidden under his seat.

Beep-DOOP. [IDENTITY CONFIRMED: HENRI VANCROFT. CLEARANCE LEVEL: STAFF.]

"You’re clear," the guard said, stepping back. The heavy steel gates groaned open.

Rick let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and gunned the engine. They rolled into the courtyard.

The Chateau was a monstrosity. It looked like a medieval castle had mated with a brutalist government building. Stone gargoyles perched next to satellite dishes. It was huge, imposing, and crawling with security.

They parked at the service entrance.

"Okay," Rick said into his headset. "Showtime. Nadia, you’re on wine duty. Get the nano-swarm bottle into the decanter for the head table. Sharon, get the Swan into the ballroom. I’m going to the kitchen to establish dominance."

They split up.

Rick marched into the main kitchen. It was larger than the warehouse, a gleaming expanse of copper and steel. Fifty staff members were already prepping.

"ATTENTION!" Rick roared, clapping his hands.

The kitchen froze.

"I am Chef Vancroft! And tonight, we serve God! If I see a single smudge on a plate, if I see a single wilted leaf of arugula, I will personally feed you to the hounds! Do you understand?!"

"YES CHEF!" the room shouted back.

Rick grabbed an apron and tied it on. "Get to work!"

He moved through the stations, tasting sauces, screaming insults, and subtly checking the layout. The ventilation shaft was behind the walk-in fridge. The service elevator to the ballroom was on the right.

He was chopping shallots with machine-gun speed when the kitchen doors swung open.

The room went silent again. But not because of Rick. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Silas Warner walked in.

He looked older than his pictures. Frail. He leaned heavily on a cane with a silver wolf’s head handle. But his eyes... his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and cruel. He was followed by four Elite Guards and a man in a suit—Graves.

Rick felt a cold chill. He kept chopping, his head down.

Silas walked slowly through the kitchen, inspecting the food. He stopped at Rick’s station.

"Henri," Silas said. His voice was like dry leaves.

Rick looked up, wiping his hands on a towel. "Mr. Warner. An honor. The kitchen is yours."

Silas peered at Rick. He looked at the mask. He looked into Rick’s eyes.

"You look... different, Henri. Have you lost weight?"

Rick’s heart hammered against his ribs. "Stress, Monsieur. The Conclave... it is a heavy burden. I strive for perfection."

Silas hummed. He reached out and dipped a finger into the sauce Rick was preparing—a reduction for the venison. He tasted it.

"A bit acidic," Silas murmured.

"It cuts the fat of the venison, Monsieur," Rick argued, channeling the arrogance of the chef. "It is balanced."

Silas smiled thinly. "You always were argumentative. That is why I keep you. You have passion."

He turned to Graves. "Ensure the wine is breathed properly. The Screaming Eagle. I want it perfect."

"It is being decanted now, Monsieur," Graves said.

"Good." Silas turned back to Rick. "Tonight is important, Henri. There are wolves at the door. I need my guests to be... happy. Sated. Do not fail me."

"I would rather die," Rick said.

"You might," Silas said simply.

He turned and walked out, his cane tap-tap-tapping on the tiles.

Rick exhaled, his knees shaking slightly. That was close. Too close.

He looked at the sauce. He added a pinch of sugar.

Suddenly, Rick’s Terrifying Presence flared. A sharp, stinging warning at the base of his skull.

He looked around the kitchen. The staff was working. The guards were by the door.

Then he saw him.

A new dishwasher was bringing in a crate of vegetables from the loading dock. He was a nondescript man, average height, thinning hair, wearing a beige work uniform. He kept his head down. He moved with a silence that was unnatural in a busy kitchen.

He placed the crate down and looked up. For a split second, his eyes met Rick’s.

They were pale blue. Unblinking. Reptilian.

It was The Huntsman.

Rick froze. The Huntsman knew. He had infiltrated the staff too. He was inside.

The Huntsman didn’t attack. He didn’t raise an alarm. He just offered a small, terrifying smile, picked up a stack of dirty plates, and walked toward the scullery.

He was waiting. He was playing the game.

Rick tapped his earpiece. "Sharon. Nadia. Code Orange."

"What is it?" Sharon whispered.

"The Huntsman is here," Rick said, grabbing a boning knife and tucking it into his waistband under his apron. "He’s washing dishes."

"What do we do?"

"We stick to the plan," Rick said, his voice grim. "But watch your backs. The moment that swan melts... the kitchen turns into a slaughterhouse."

Rick looked at the clock.

18:00.

The guests were arriving. The limousines were pulling up. The Winter Conclave had begun.

Rick picked up a tray of hors d’oeuvres—puff pastry filled with foie gras and spite.

"Service!" he shouted.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the lion’s den.

** ** ** ** **