Page 21 of The Monster You Made
Lucian’s gaze flickers toward me, agreement without words. The intensity in his eyes unsettles me, not for its sharpness but for the way it mirrors the conviction burning inmy chest. Once, I thought his fire would consume me. Now, I fear what it will do if we stoke it together.
Hours crawl by. The tunnels press close, heavy with damp air and the smell of dust. Above us, the performance continues, arias swelling, applause breaking like waves, speeches weaving crowns of false hope. Each sound grates against my bones. The satchel grows heavier with every cheer.
At last, silence falls overhead. A shift in the air tells me the gala has ended. Boots thunder above as stagehands rush, cleaning, preparing. Lucian eases the grate open, moving like a shadow. One by one, we slip through, emerging into the underchamber. The space is narrow, lit by flickering oil lamps, walls lined with coils of rope and racks of costumes. The floorboards above our heads groan with weight.
A boy carrying a coil of rope nearly collides with me. His eyes go wide, mouth opening for a shout, but Lucian’s hand clamps down over it. “Quiet,” he breathes. The boy freezes, nodding frantically. Lucian releases him with a warning look. He flees, footsteps vanishing into the maze.
Rourke mutters, “One spark away from discovery already.”
But discovery is inevitable. My chest tightens with the knowledge. We are not here to remain unseen; we are here to strike before the mask is set in place.
We press deeper into the underchamber, climbing a narrow stair that opens behind a tapestry near the wings. Through its weave, I glimpse the stage, a sea of gold and crimson, chandeliers blazing, diplomats conversing in murmurs,their jewels flashing under the light. Guards ring the hall, rifles at their shoulders. And at the center, framed by marble arches, stands Declan.
Even in silence, he commands. His smile is practiced perfection, his posture effortless grace. The crowd bends toward him without thought, moths to flame. My throat burns at the sight. All the evidence in the world feels fragile compared to the weight of his presence.
Lucian’s whisper cuts through the haze. “Tomorrow he speaks. That’s when we strike.”
I clutch the satchel tighter. “And if tomorrow never comes?”
The words hang between us, sharper than any blade. Lucian’s jaw hardens, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. I see the answer in his eyes: Tomorrow will come because we will carve it out with blood if we must.
We retreat back into the tunnel shadows before the tapestry can betray us. My breath is shallow, my pulse hammering. The opera house feels like a living beast now, its veins pulsing with guards and servants, its heart beating in time with Declan’s rise. And we are in its belly, knives in hand, waiting to cut upward.
Rourke slumps against the wall, muttering about odds and suicide. Lucian sharpens his blade in silence, the rasp of steel against stone steady, relentless. I sit opposite them, the satchel heavy on my lap, and whisper Marta’s name under my breath. Her hand drew the map that led us here. Her hand bled so we could follow.
Above, bells toll midnight. The first day of the summit is over. The second, the day of Declan’s speech, awaits.
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of it settle into my bones. Tomorrow, the world will see the truth, or we will burn in the attempt.
And beside me in the dark, Lucian’s presence is both sword and wound.
The bells' tolling fades into the oppressive silence of the underchamber, leaving only the drip of distant water and the faint rasp of Lucian's blade against the whetstone.
The air down here is thick, stale, with the scent of mold and earth, but beneath it lingers the sharper tang of sweat and steel—our sweat, our steel. Lucian's presence burns beside me in the dim flicker of our single lantern, a heat that coils tighter with every passing second.
In this godforsaken belly of the beast, with Declan's summit looming like a guillotine, the space between us crackles with unspoken need. I feel it in the way his eyes flick to me, dark and predatory, stripping me bare without a word.
"Vera," he growls low, the sound vibrating through the shadows.
I don't look at him. Can't. My fingers trace the satchel's strap, Marta's map a ghost beneath the leather. "What?" My voice is sharper than I intend, laced with the defiance that's always been our spark.
He shifts, his massive frame unfolding from the wall. Lucian's built like a weapon, broad shoulders straining againsthis worn jacket, arms corded with muscle from years of fighting, scars mapping his skin like battle lines. He's on me in two strides, his hand clamping around my wrist, yanking me to my feet. The satchel thuds to the ground, forgotten.
"You think I don't see it?" His breath is hot against my ear, his body pressing me back against the rough stone. "The way you're shaking. Not from fear. From this." His free hand slides down my side, gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, pulling me flush against him. I feel the rigid length of his cock straining through his pants, throbbing against my thigh. Fuck, he's already hard, like he's been waiting for this moment as much as I have.
I twist in his grasp, not to escape, never to escape, but to fight, to make him earn it. "Let go, Lucian. Rourke's right there." My words are a hiss, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch, my nipples peaking under my shirt from the friction.
He laughs, a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver straight to my core. "Rourke's dead to the world. And even if he weren't…." His lips brush my neck, teeth grazing the pulse point. "I'd fuck you anyway. Make him watch how I own you."
The words ignite something feral in me. I shove at his chest, my nails digging into the fabric, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he spins me around, slamming my front against the wall. The stone bites into my palms as I brace myself, my cheek pressed to the cool dampness. His weight pins me there, one hand fisting in my hair, yanking my head back. The other snakes around, shoving under my shirt, callused fingers rough as they cup my breast, pinching the nipple until I gasp.
"Admit it, Vera," he murmurs, his mouth at my ear, voice thick with lust and that undercurrent of anger, the anger that's always simmered between us, born from the world's cruelty and our shared scars. "You need this. Need me to remind you who's in control down here."
I buck against him, grinding my ass back into his erection, feeling it twitch in response. "Fuck you," I spit, but it's breathless, needy. My pussy clenches at the thought, already wet, soaking through my panties. I've craved this, his dominance, the way he breaks me down only to rebuild me in fire.
His hand leaves my breast, diving lower, fumbling with my belt. He yanks it open with a savage tug, buttons popping as he shoves my pants down my thighs. Cold air hits my skin, but it's nothing compared to the heat of his palm as it cups my mound, fingers parting my slick folds.
"So fucking wet already," he groans, two thick digits thrusting inside me without warning.
