Page 69 of Brutal Crown

Renzo’s eyes sweep the room once before landing on me. And the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. It’s not the wary glance I used to get as the new maid, or even the suspicious side-eyes he gave me when he saw me with Marco once.

This is colder. Sharper. Like my fate has already been decided. Like I’m not a person anymore.

“What… what is this?” I ask in an attempt to sound brave, but my voice comes out smaller than I want.

“Come with us,” he says.

My legs are locked in place. “Why?”

Neither of them answers. Renzo only nods at the other guard, and they both step forward in sync, their boots thudding heavily against the floor.

I step back instinctively. My heel bumps the edge of the bed. “You can’t just ask me to come with you without any reason. Did… did any of the masters ask for me?”

I realize how bad that might have sounded when the second guard scoffs humorlessly. But still, he doesn’t say a word.

He takes two big steps toward me and grabs my arm roughly. His grip is like steel.

“Wait! Stop!” I twist, trying to pull back. “Tell me what’s happening!”

But they don’t.

“Let go of me!” I yell, my voice breaking. “I didn’t do anything!”

Renzo’s hands close around my other arm like I’m some kind of criminal. Panic flares in my chest. I twist, kick, anything to stop them.

“Get your hands off me!” I scream now, louder and more desperate. “What are you doing?!”

Renzo just tightens his grip until pain shoots up my arm, and the younger one pins me by the shoulders. I struggle—god, I fight with everything I have—but it’s like being trapped betweentwo stone pillars. Their strength dwarfs mine. Every move I make is swallowed by their brute force.

Renzo yanks me forward so hard my feet stumble, and my knee bangs against the edge of the dresser. The pain shoots through me like fire, but I barely register it. I’m too focused on the sheer terror threatening to bubble up my throat.

But I stop fighting. I know it’s useless. I’m breathing hard, my face flushed with exertion, shame burning across my cheeks.

I want to cry. I want to scream until my voice breaks.

But I don’t.

I will not cry.

Not for them.

Not for this cursed house.

I’m yanked out of the room like a ragdoll, my bare feet dragging against the marble floor as I fight their grip. We pass a group of maids down the hallway, and I see them freeze. Their eyes are wide, their mouths parted in whispered gasps. One of them grabs another’s arm. They know.

Doors creak open. Whispers and muttering float through the air as we walk by. Some maids pretend not to see me, their eyes wide and frightened. Others speak out more boldly.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

“I didn’t know it was her. She always seemed so quiet.”

One of the older cooks spits in my direction as I’m dragged past. “Shameful girl,” she mutters.

Another woman sneers, “You thought you were special, didn’t you?”

A few others just stare. Not with pity or concern. With hunger, like they’ve been waiting for this, like my downfall is their entertainment.

My legs finally move on their own, but only because I want to stand tall. I refuse to let them see me broken. Even as I’m shoved through the narrow back hall, past the servants’ quarters, andtoward the main house, I hold my head up. My chin shakes, but I keep it raised.