Page 44 of Monsters Carve Thrones
She had brown hair in a slick ponytail and brown eyes. She wore all black, not tactical like the others, but more like a sharp blazer and boots that had never touched dirt. Her expression twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer as she glanced at me, chained and bruised on the concrete floor.
“Well,” she said, setting down a metal tray with a clatter, “you look like shit.”
“Must be why you’re so comfortable here,” I said. “I bet it feels like looking in a mirror.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she pushed the tray closer with her foot, like she didn’t want to get too close. It smelled like stale bread and cold chicken. My stomach turned.
“Eat or don’t,” she said. “Starving won’t save you.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
She smiled, all teeth and venom. “Riley. I’m Waylon’s right hand.”
“Personal assistant?” I asked, voice dry.
“Personal everything,” she replied, voice thick with smugness. “I get things done. And right now, that includes babysitting you until he decides what to do next.”
I gave her a look sharp enough to cut steel. “He already decided.”
Riley’s expression sharpened, lips curling just slightly. “Oh, right.His little prize. You know what he told me? That he’sgoing to break you in so slow, so sweet, you’ll forget what it felt like to belong to anyone else.”
I said nothing, but the chill that spread through my limbs wasn’t from the concrete. I knew what she meant before she said it. I just didn’t want to hear it aloud.
Riley crouched slightly, her voice low and condescending. “He doesn’t want a hostage. He wants a sex slave. A useless doll to take his fucking nut after a long day cleaning up the goddamn stress you and your boy toy brought down on him. And that shower you’ll be taken to? That’s not mercy. It’s preparation for the most meaningful job you’ll ever have.”
My blood ran cold.
But my face stayed stone.
I stared at her, memorizing every inch of her. Her boots. Her smug little face. The way she looked down at me like I wasn’t worth the dirt under her heels.
She would be one of the first.
The second I was free, she would fucking die.
***
RAFE
The screen bathed the room in a cold blue light, the only thing illuminating the townhouse besides the flicker of amber from the fireplace. I sat cross-legged on the rug, laptop balanced on my thighs, fingers flying across the keyboard. My shirt was half-buttoned, forgotten. My whiskey sat on the floor beside me, sweating into the wood.
Nothing. Still fucking nothing.
“She has to be somewhere,” I muttered, voice hoarse from a day of shouting, snarling, begging–into screens, into phones, into the goddamn void. “He took her, that sack of shit.”
“Rafe,” Laura’s voice was gentle but firm, too calm for how raw I felt. “You need to take a break. You’re spiraling.”
“I’mworking,” I snapped. I knew who took Adela from me. I saw him glaring at her on multiple occasions like someone who was formulating a filthy revenge plan.
“You’reburning,” Nico corrected from the couch, his boots on the table, glass of scotch in his hand. “Difference.”
Kieran was across the room, lounging in an armchair like he belonged in a painting–legs crossed, drink in one hand, knife in the other. Always flipping it, catching it. Restless like the rest of us, but quieter about it.
“She’s not a ghost,” I said through my teeth. “Waylon is a sloppy man. If it was him, he can’t move without being seen. Someone saw something.”
“You’ve hit five darknet forums and torn through half a dozen shell companies tonight,” Laura pointed out. “You’ve been through police scanners, cargo logs, and four secure traffic cams.”
“Seven,” I corrected.
