Page 60 of Monsters Carve Thrones
I closed my eyes when he ripped my shorts off and slammed into me. I kept them closed, breathing through it all.
The room was still and stifling, thick with a silence that pressed against my ears until I could hear my blood moving. Ilay on my side, my hands cuffed to the iron bed frame. A tank top clung to my sweat-slicked skin. My thighs ached. My cheek throbbed.
I should’ve been crying. But there were no tears left...just heat. From rage and exhaustion.
I stared into the dark, the only light a thin slice of moon cutting through the high, barred window. I followed it with my eyes like a lifeline, pretending it was something more than a taunt from the outside world.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
I froze.
The heavy door creaked open. I didn’t move. I watched Waylon from under my lashes, my breath deepening just slightly, faking sleep. After he had raped me, he left me alone for a while, likely eating dinner. My body was too worn to fight, and he knew it.
He set something down.
He undressed slowly. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to stir. Waiting to see if I’d challenge him again. But I didn’t move. I kept my breathing soft and even, my lashes lowered, my body limp. Inside, though, I was coiled.
The mattress dipped beside me.
The warmth of his body hit me like a second wave of suffocation. I could smell the soap from his shower, the musk of wine and sweat on his skin. It took everything I had not to recoil.
His hand slid across the bed, reaching for me, testing the space between us.
Not again. Please.
But he exhaled deeply and rolled onto his back. A few minutes later, I heard the steady rhythm of his breathing.Thank fuck.
***
TWO WEEKS LATER
Time stopped moving like it used to. I had no clock. Just the slow crawl of days that bled into one another, marked only by meals, pain, and the bruises that changed color.
I was thinner now. Hollow in the face. My stomach no longer growled–just twisted in on itself like it had given up. My arms were sore from being restrained for hours at a time. My thighs were littered with bite marks, crescent bruises, old scars starting to fade, only to be replaced again. Some part of me had gotten used to the ache. That frightened me.
He hurt me nearly every day. Sometimes twice. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. It was almost impressive how much he had in him. Like violence was the only way he knew how to breathe.
And still, I had not broken.
But I was tired. My body screamed with every movement. My heart beat slow and heavy behind my ribs, like it was too bruised to be fast anymore. So… I began to think.
What if I gave him what he wanted?
Not really. Not fully. Notme.Just... the illusion.
What if I stopped fighting, stopped spitting, stopped glaring like I still had teeth to bite him with? What if I let him think he’d won? Would he grow bored of a broken toy? Would he finally relax enough for me to get my hands around his fucking throat?
The thought simmered.
So the next time he came into the room, I didn’t scream. I didn’t curse him or twist away from his hands. I looked up at him, calm, quiet, blank.
Waylon paused, clearly surprised.
I knelt where I was told. I opened my mouth when commanded and let him push and prod me like I was his favorite possession. He used me, his mind elsewhere while his dick was in my mouth. Rafe must have been closing in or at least causing him stress. I could see it. I could feel it whenever he’d be extra rough with me.
The fucker was scared.
This time, he seemed distant. Like his use of me was merely robotic, even when he spilled down my throat.
