Page 43 of Monsters Carve Thrones
I knew that face.
Waylon.
I sucked in a breath that froze halfway down my throat.
He smiled, his teeth too white for a man with a soul that dark. His brown hair was slicked back, his white shirt crisp,as if he hadn’t been running a black-market empire from the shadows of Europe. “Well,” he said, voice smooth as velvet stretched over something sharp. “You look beautiful.”
I didn’t say a word. Not yet.
He looked me over, lingering on the bruises, the cuts, the blood dried down one leg. His jaw ticked once. “They weren’t supposed to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I made that very clear.”
My mouth was dry, but I forced the words out. “You ordered them to take me. What the hell did you expect would happen?”
Waylon took a step closer, then another. He crouched in front of me, elbows resting casually on his knees, as if this was a friendly conversation and not a hostage negotiation from hell. “I expected them to show some restraint,” he said. “You’re valuable. Hurting you? That was... careless. And they’ve been dealt with.”
My stomach flipped.Dealt with.I didn’t ask how. I didn’t need to. I squared my shoulders. “Why? Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
Waylon tilted his head, and something flickered in his eyes. Not rage or madness. But obsession. “You want the truth?” he said, voice low. “Moreau wasn’t just a partner. He was the glue holding a very volatile empire together. We had clients–serious ones. International, high-value, no-patience types. He kept them fed. Kept them calm. And then Rafe put a bullet in him, and everything went to hell.”
I kept my face still, but inside, my pulse pounded.
“They came to me for answers,” he went on. “Codes. Routes. Access. Information only Moreau had. And guess what? He died with it. Left me holding the wreckage. Now I’m putting out fires every damn day, cleaning up messes I didn’t make. And all the while, Rafe Vaughan walks around like a king. Like he didn’t destroy everything I built.”
His voice turned sharp, venom slipping through the cracks. “So I’m taking something back. Something he cares about. And you, sweetheart, are going to be the final pressure point.”
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “You think I’ll help you? Go to hell.”
He smiled wider. “I don’t need your help. Just your presence. Your pain. Your body.”
I stood, fire licking through every bruised rib, every bloodstained inch of me. “Then you’re just as weak as you’ve always been.”
The smile vanished.
In one motion, he rose and grabbed me, hands like iron shackles, snatching my hips, yanking me forward. I stumbled against him, too close, breath tangled with his.
I shoved. Hard.
He didn’t move.
“You’ve got fight. That’ll make it more fun.” His voice dropped, low and poisonous. “When they take you to the shower... that’s when you’ll know.”
“Know what?” I spat.
“That I’m done being nice,” he whispered. “And you’ll understand what it means to be owned.”
My skin crawled. I tried to shove him again, nails digging into his chest. Waylon didn’t flinch. But he let go, slowly, like releasing something he was savoring.Evil fuck.
He turned and walked to the door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “Be ready, Adela,” he said without looking back. “I like my things polished before I break them.”
When the door shut behind him, I stood frozen. I refused to tremble or cry, my breath surprisingly steady. Because if Waylon thought this would end with me broken–
He’d never met the version of me that Rafe Vaughan had built.
***
The door creaked open about an hour later. I tensed, bracing for the monster’s return, but it wasn’t Waylon who stepped inside.
It was a young woman.
