Page 72 of Monsters Carve Thrones

“I’m not.”

He leaned in, his breath warm and sour against my cheek. “Then, at least pretend I don’t fascinate you.”

I turned my head sharply. “You repulse me.”

That grin stayed, but his eyes darkened. “You’ll do as you’re told, pretty thing. Or I’ll make it hurt.”

“I’m sure you’d love that.”

“Oh, I would.” He whispered it like a promise. “But I’d rather watch you give in.” He stepped back and set his glass down. “Now,” he said, unbuttoning his slacks, “be a good girl. And lie down.”

My heart thundered behind my ribs. Not from fear. From fury. Reluctantly, I walked over to the bed, watching one of Waylon’s guards close the door. My breath was ragged, my heart erratic. Now, seeing this criminal underworld from a different view than before I met Rafe, I understood more why he was the way he was when I met him. They’re all fucking evil. Even Rafe. But he was a villain who made me fall helplessly in love with him. And he would never hurt me again.

“I was so eager to see this body,” Varga said, approaching the bed where I now sat. I tried not to look at his muscular frame, covered in tattoos and scars. “Come here, baby,” he saidwith a growl, grabbing my hips and yanking me to the edge of the bed. Moments after stripping me, he was inside me. “Are you not going to fight me?” he asked, his face twisted into a sadistic grin.

“No,” I murmured.

“But I like that,” his huge hand wrapped around my throat, tightening hard. “Don’t disappoint me. Waylon won’t be happy about that.”

I clawed at his hand, desperate for air.

“There you go,” he chuckled, letting me breathe finally. “Fight me.”

This sick piece of shit. Jesus.

A sharp slap landed across my face, and I yelped. Fury burned radically through my veins, and as much as I hated myself for giving him what he wanted, I had to try. I kicked, scratched, and bit. But all of it seemed to spur him on. He was aggressive and definitely a man who enjoyed forcing women more than most. He was the most sadistic man I had ever experienced.

I would remember this night. I would remember every inch of his face.

***

The next morning, I sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, wrists still red from the leather cuffs. After Varga had his annoyingly rough time with me last night, Waylon forced me to shower. And when I had finally returned to the room to get some fucking sleep, he took me again like he had to mark his property.Three times in one night. Three goddamn times.Fuck these men.

I was so tired.

The door creaked open, and my gaze snapped to it. Thankfully, it wasn’t Waylon or Riley this time. Instead, a thin brunette woman in a gray uniform stepped in, her arms full of linens. Her face was pale, no older than forty, with warm brown eyes and shaking hands. A housekeeper. She didn’t look at me immediately, but I studied her like a hawk. She moved briskly, changing the sheets, folding the corners, and tucking the sides.

“Does he always keep the rooms this cold?” I asked.

Her head snapped up, startled. Not used to conversation.

“Sorry,” I added, my voice hoarse. “It’s just… I used to have a thing for warm rooms.”

She hesitated. Her lips parted, then closed again. I watched her consider whether it was safe to respond. Finally, she murmured, “He doesn’t like it too warm. Says it makes people too comfortable.”

I gave a soft, dry laugh. “Comfort’s a dangerous thing, I guess.”

She glanced at the door, then leaned slightly closer as she smoothed the pillow. “There’s hot tea on the tray,” she said quickly, eyes still on the bed. “Not drugged. I made it.”

My stomach turned, and I suddenly wanted to cry. “You don’t have to–”

“I didn’t say I had to,” she cut in, barely above a whisper. “I said I made it.”

Our eyes met. “I’m Adela,” I said quietly.

“My name is Olesya.” She blinked twice. I knew that look. Recognition. Sympathy carefully hidden behind years of her own survival. I imagined she was a slave here just as I was, except she was his housekeeper and I was his whore.

She tucked the last corner, then straightened the tray on the nightstand. A porcelain cup steamed faintly beside a cracked saucer and a tiny spoon. “I’ve returned from another one of his properties. Now, I will come in the mornings and evenings,” shesaid under her breath. “Usually alone. You’ll know when it’s safe to talk.”