Page 38 of Monsters Carve Thrones
Then–
Black.
***
RAFE
I hated how often my work took me away from Adela. I shut the car door and made my way up to the gates. But as I passed through them, an eerie sensation washed over me. The townhouse was silent in a way that didn’t feel natural.
Not peaceful.
I stepped inside cautiously, scanning the entry as the door clicked shut behind me. The air felt stale, like no one had breathed inside these walls in hours. My keys hung loose from my fingers, and I didn’t bother setting them down. Every instinct I had, every muscle and nerve in my body, was telling me something was off.
The lights were out.
I flipped the switch beside the door, more out of habit than hope. Nothing. No flicker. No hum. Just... darkness. I drew my gun, a sick feeling twisting in my gut.
That was when I caught the sharp scent of blood. Not enough to indicate a massacre, but unmistakable all the same. I moved through the living room slowly, eyes locked on the dark stain spreading across the edge of the rug. The wine glass lay shattered near the couch, crimson pooling beneath it like a horrid wound.
Beside the stain, a smear of red dotted the hardwood floor in irregular, frantic intervals.
She bled.
She ran.
Shefought.
My pulse hammered in my throat as I followed the trail. Scuff marks marred the wall by the stairs–wide, chaotic, like someone had slammed into it. Near the front door, her knifelay discarded, the same blade I’d made her keep close. Blood streaked the edge.
She’d used it.
I took a step back, just one, and nearly tripped over a broken photo frame on the ground. It had fallen from the console near the stairs, the glass cracked across her smiling face. The picture was from the week we moved in. She was barefoot, laughing, standing in my arms. Now, that moment was violated.
I didn’t realize I’d dropped to my knees until my palm pressed to the floor beside the shards. Cold. Empty.
Gone.
My breath turned shallow. My ribs constricted around it like a vice. I called her name, knowing it was hopeless.
No answer.
I called again, louder, voice cracking under the strain.
Still nothing.
And then everything inside me snapped. It wasn’t a clean break. It was violent, shattering through my chest and tearing through my skull like fire behind my eyes. I launched up and drove my fist into the wall, drywall crumbling under the blow. The second strike was harder. I didn’t stop until blood smeared across the plaster and the bones in my hand throbbed.
She was taken from our home. Fromme. This wasn’t a robbery. It wasn’t some petty hit.
It was targeted. Personal. My rage didn’t burn. It suffocated me, turning cold and focused. Any warmth that might have existed because of her left my fucking eyes. I dead-stared at the blood on the floor, heart roaring. I wasn’t thinking about mercy. I wasn’t thinking about consequences.
Only about blood.
Whoever came into this house, whoever dared to lay hands on her, they didn’t just steal a woman. They declared war. And I was going to answer with fire.
I would tear this city apart, brick by fucking brick. I would track them through every shadow, every back alley, every hidden corridor. I would rip their names from the mouths of cowards and watch the light die in their eyes when they realized what they’d done.
Adela was mine.
