Page 46 of Monsters Carve Thrones

It may have been a week.

Itfeltlike a week. Or maybe more. Time melted here, into each breath, each second I counted to keep myself from slipping. They fed me like I was some stray animal they couldn’t quite be bothered to starve or kill. A crust of bread. Cold spaghetti on a cracked plate. Water so warm it tasted like rust.

I hadn’t eaten much of it. Couldn’t. My stomach rebelled more than it craved. The hunger wasn’t what kept me up at night.

It washim. Waylon. His voice. The way he looked at me like I was athing, not a woman. A pawn. Property.

Riley’s words echoed in my head like a sickness I couldn’t scrub out.

His slave.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and curled tighter into the corner of the cot, muscles sore from cold and bruises that hadn’t yet faded. My body ached. My mind was fraying at the edges. And I was nervous.

But I wasn’t broken yet.

I stared down at my hands, dirt smudged beneath my nails, my knuckles raw from fighting, clawing,surviving. My wedding ring was still there somehow. A thin silver band with diamonds that would occasionally flicker in the dim light. I turned my wrist and looked at the crown tattoo just beneath it, the one I’d gotten with a champagne-fueled grin and his hand on my thigh.

Monsters wear crowns, we’d joked.

He wore his like a warlord.

I wore mine like armor.

I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. “I miss you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. “I know you’re coming. I know you are.”

Rafe wouldn’t stop until he found me. I believed that down to my bones. He would carve this place off the map if he had to. Burn it all to the ground. Until then, I had to be strong. I had to stay smart. I had to survive. Because if Waylon wanted a slave, he’d picked the wrong fucking queen.

Hours later, just as I fell asleep again, Riley stepped inside. Her heels clicked against the concrete like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for. Her hair was slicked back again today, and her lips were painted the same color as dried blood. She gave me that same twisted smile she always wore around me.

“Finally,” she drawled, eyes sweeping over me with mock pity. “Time for you to wash the filth off. Not that it’ll help.”

Behind her, three men entered the room. Tall, armed, and cruel. I barely had time to scramble upright before one of them grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.

I stumbled, caught my balance, but they didn’t wait. They each seized a part of me. An elbow, a wrist, and a shoulder, dragging me out of the room like I weighed nothing. My bare feet scraped along the cold floor, my knees buckling every few steps.

But I kept my eyes open.

The hallway they hauled me through was long and narrow, with black marble floors and deep wood paneling. Expensive art. Ornate chandeliers. A lingering scent of cigars and cologne. The walls were covered in mirrors that didn’t reflect light, only power. This wasn’t some off-grid prison.

This was a palace.

Waylon’s.

They weren’t hiding me in a bunker. They were keeping me inhis home.I filed every detail away. Each hallway, each turn, and every possible window and visible door. Every shadow where I could hide, every creak in the floor.

They shoved me into a bathroom as big as my apartment’s kitchen. It had marble counters and gold fixtures. The shower was a glass cube, already running, steam clouding the mirrors.

Riley turned, folding her arms. “Strip her.”

“No,” I snapped, stepping back.

They didn’t care. One of them stepped forward and tore Rafe’s shirt, the fabric giving with a brutalrip. Another yanked at the waistband of the spandex shorts. I cried out as they pulled, scraping my hips, leaving nothing but bruises.

My wrists were still cuffed, and I couldn’t cover myself, not really. Not with three sets of eyes crawling over my skin like insects.

One of the guards let out a low whistle. “Didn’t know the boss had such good taste.”

The other laughed. “Too bad we can’t fuck her. Wouldn’t mind breaking the rules for a piece like this.”