Page 83 of Monsters Carve Thrones
“Are we underground?” I asked, voice hoarse.
Waylon smirked. “Smart girl.”
I jerked away from him, panic curling in my throat. “You drag me here like a dog and expect me tobehave?”
He turned sharply and slammed me back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of me. My head thudded hard. He leaned in, his breath warm and foul against my cheek. “You want to bark, little thing? I’ll give you something to howl about.”
“Go to hell.”
He smiled wider. “I’ve already been. Left a throne there with your name on it.” Then, with a gleam in his eyes, he dropped his next blow. “Rafe’s been captured.”
My blood ran cold. “What?” I whispered.
Waylon grinned. “Your husband. Caged. Weak. Just like you.”
I shook my head. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. He’s here in Russia. I know exactly where.”
My voice broke as I shoved at him. “Where is he? What did you do?!”
Waylon laughed cruelly. “Relax. He’s alive. For now. But not for long. I give it... a few more days.”
My knees nearly buckled. I screamed and tried to swing at him, but he grabbed my wrists and twisted me until I cried out.
“Temper, temper,” he hissed. “I could send you pieces of him instead.” He dragged me forward by the arm, deeper into the underground halls. Every step echoed. Every breath hurt. But I wasn’t entirely broken. If Rafe was alive, then so wasI.And if he was fighting to survive…
Then so was I.
Waylon’s grip didn’t ease until we reached the heavy steel door. Inside, the air was stale with cigar smoke and testosterone. A long, polished table stretched across the middle of the room, already filled with men. I didn't recognize them, but every single one radiated wealth and danger. Watches that cost more than cars. Eyes like daggers.
Waylon didn’t so much as glance at me as he shoved the door open and dragged me in by the wrist. “She sits,” he said offhandedly, gesturing to a leather chair along the wall.
It shocked me.
He’d never let me sit in on a meeting like this. Not when serious business was being discussed. Usually, I was locked upstairs or on my knees at his feet like a dog if he wanted to show off. But tonight, he acted like I belonged in the room. Or at least, like I was part of the scenery.
I sank into the seat silently, adjusting my sore wrists. I kept my eyes low but my ears open.
Names. Cities. Shipments.
They were talking about drugs. Large shipments. Routes through the Baltic. Someone’s name came up–a man in Odessa had gone quiet, and one of the others didn’t like that.
Then, the man across from Waylon shifted his gaze toward me. “Didn’t expect to see you bringing a girl to this table,” he said. His accent was thick, Slavic. “You sending any girls through this month, or just keeping them now?”
Waylon chuckled. “I don’t deal in that market anymore.”
“A shame,” the man said, eyes still on me. “That one would sell for a lot.”
My stomach turned. I narrowed my eyes and dipped my chin, showing him that I’d fucking kill him if given the chance.
An answering smirk nearly made me see red.
Waylon leaned back, arm stretched casually over the back of his chair. “I said I don’t sell. Doesn’t mean I don’t indulge.” He gave a pointed grin. “If you’re still looking, ask Stepan. He’s knee-deep in new inventory.”
The man’s gaze lingered on me a second longer, then turned back to his drink with a smirk. “Still a shame.”
“Yeah,” Waylon said, voice hardening. “Shame you can’t keep your fucking eyes to yourself. Now, let’s get back to business.”
