Page 53 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

Leila let her leave without attempting to stop her, sitting stiff in position as Estela walked out of the room.

Leila eventually got dressed, using the clean clothes left for her.

She strode across the room, to the door and knocked. The door opened to reveal Nicolai in the hallway. His expression was stoic.

"Where's Makros?" she asked.

"I don't know."

She frowned. "Well, can you tell me what's happening?"

"No."

Leila regarded him. His demeanor was icy, and he did not appear interested in her foolish questions. She thought about pushing him harder, but something cautioned that he would not like to hear much else from her.

So she nodded, moving back one step into the room. And the moment she closed the door, she heard the lock click. She stood there, paralyzed by the door, fingers curled around the handle before she released it with a deep breath.

"Fuck!"

Her gaze flicked back to the room, the gentle glow of the bedroom lights casting shadows over the glinting tools and restraints. They were motionless, waiting, like secrets only Makros knew how to unlock.

Her feet led her forward before she had decided to go.

She reached for the flogger first, the handle firm in her hand. The leather lashes unfolded, yielding but treacherously so. She ran the strands along the palm of her hand, then down her thigh, testing the feel. The sting of the earlier whipping still ghosted across her skin.

She raised her arm and swung the flogger onto the bed. The impact made a dull thud. She did it again, but harder. The hard and loud crack sent a little zing up her spine.

How hard did Makros swing it when he employed it?

Leila's tongue moistened her lower lip as she walked across the room to the leather restraints hanging from the bedposts. They were so simple. Just a piece of leather and not even metal.

She sat on the bed, gripping one in her hand, pulling on it, turning the buckle, pushing the limits.

If she was restrained again, could she escape?

She inserted her wrist into the restraint, closing it just tightly enough to feel the sting of restriction.

She turned her wrist, pulled with all her might but nothing happened.

"It's so sturdy. But if only I had something to use. Something sharp."

Her gaze flicked to the nightstand, where a letter opener sat still. It was not the ideal tool she had in mind, but maybe at the right time, it could be just what was needed.

Then she picked up the choker. A delicate one compared to all the rest—soft, black leather, a silver ring hanging at the center. She turned to the mirror, buckling it around her neck.

The woman who stared back was not recognizable.

Not because of the bruises, or the dark circles under her eyes, but because she looked... willing.

Leila swallowed and rolled her head to the side, watching how the ring at the front caught the chandelier light. Makros had not yet used it on her, but she imagined him holding it, fingers hooked through the ring, so that she would have to look up at him.

She shivered and removed it.

The gag was beside the choker. A black rubber ball attached to a leather strap. She reached for it, running her fingers over the chill of the surface, holding it against her lips before she shook her head and dropped it.

"Are you insane?" asked the little voice of reasoning she thought had left her.

"You're worse than a whore." That was the voice of the judgmental one.

Leila's fingers encircled the cold metal of the spreader bar next, coaxing it from its hooks.

It was heavier than she had expected, solid, and mean.

She grasped both sides, feeling its weight, then swung it experimentally through the air.

It cut through the silence with a soft whoosh, the motion sending a shiver down her back.

She wheeled about to stand in front of the mirror, the bar held high as if testing how much force it would require to crack a skull.

Makros' skull. Her eyes flashed with it, and her heart began racing.

If she struck him in the correct place, maybe the temple or the back of the head, she could end it.

No more mind games, no more chains, no more control.

Her grip on the bar clenched harder. She could nearly visualize it. The point of contact. The manner in which his body would fall to the ground. But would she truly do it?

She had missed two chances already. Not due to lack of strength but because she wanted it done her own way—with the golden revolver. That was the killing she desired, the way she had sworn to take him out. Not this.

With a frustrated sigh, she placed the spreader bar back on the hook. It wasn't a question of if she could kill him. She could. But she was going to control the narrative, kill him when she was ready, in the way she'd envisioned a million times.

Her gaze flicked to the mirror again, and for a moment she wondered what really possessed her. It's like being with Makros brought out a freak in her.

Fatigue tugged at her muscles, pulling her back into reality. The spreader bar, the choker, the flogger, the restraints, they all slipped away from her mind as she climbed onto the bed, drawing the sheet over her bruised flesh.

Her body ached, but her mind, her mind was discordant.

Slowly, blackness enveloped her.