Page 33 of Monsters Carve Thrones

Waylon.

He was standing with a small circle of men near the back, a glass of something amber in hand, dark hair pulled into a low, messy bun. His brown eyes found me instantly–and slid over every inch of me like he had a right to. Familiar, slow. Like I was a memory he liked tasting. I remembered him. From the night Moreau called. When he stood in my apartment, staring at me with a disgusting hunger.

His eyes hit my legs, my hips, my chest, and then my face.

I raised my chin higher.Fuck him.

Rafe’s body tensed slightly beside me, but his voice was all ice as he approached. “Waylon. Michael. Arnaud.”

They turned. Faces unreadable. The weight of power and unspoken debts suddenly suffocating.

“I’ll keep it brief,” Rafe said, stepping into the center of the conversation like he owned it. “Most of Moreau’s clients arenow mine. My territories have tripled in the last four months. I’m looking to reach further into Europe.”

Waylon’s jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of his drink before speaking. “Europe already has men. Including me.”

Rafe’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Then they should be ready to move–or die.”

An intense quiet followed. A silence that meant something had been drawn. Not a weapon per se, but a line.

Michael laughed once, his short blonde hair reflecting candlelight and blue eyes boring into Rafe’s. “You’ve always been efficient, Vaughan. I’ll support your expansion.”

A few others nodded. The circle shifted slightly, but Waylon’s eyes were still on me.

I felt them like fingertips. Slimy. Intrusive.

I ignored him, turning toward Rafe instead, watching the sharp lines of his profile as he talked empire and blood.

He didn’t see the way Waylon looked at me.

But I did.

The music changed again. A low, reverberating, sinful rhythm rolled through the space. The lights dimmed further, shadows stretching long across marble floors as candlelight began to flicker around us. Waitresses appeared like ghosts, moving through the room in black masquerade masks and lingerie, lighting each table with a golden flame.

I caught the hungry gazes of several men as they followed the waitresses with eyes that said more than words ever could.

Rafe slipped his hand around my waist and guided me into another chamber off to the side–darker, more intimate. The walls were lined with velvet, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and enough tension to choke anyone.

He was still so focused and tense. But I didn’t feel bad about being a distraction. “You know,” I murmured, letting myfingers trail along his arm, “you could at leastpretendto look at me like I’m not just a piece of furniture you dragged in here.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t even blink. But his hand tightened on my waist like a warning.

And then, the moment that thick bass dropped into something slower, he spun suddenly, shoving me hard against the wall.

Air whooshed from my chest at the impact. Candlelight licked across his face. His eyes were dark. His body pressed against mine, hot and heavy and hard. His teeth scraped the side of my neck, and I gasped.

Eyes were on us.

I could feel them.

And fuck, my heart was racing.

His hands glided down my sides like he owned me, gripping the fabric of my dress like he wanted to tear it. I hesitated, barely managing to whisper, “Rafe… what are you doing?”

He looked at me with a hungry and tired stare and smiled.

That smile.

“You’re married to the Dark Monster of New York City,” he said, voice low and sharp. “He’s not known for always being professional.”