Page 77 of Monsters Carve Thrones

But the truth?

I was fine-tuning a performance. My back ached. My ribs were bruised. My muscles trembled from lack of real food, and the carved-up skin around my wrists throbbed with every beat of my heart. But I wasnotbroken.

So I let myself cry, just enough. I murmured things in my sleep. There were many nights when I honestly dreamed of Rafe and awoke with a jolt.

It kept Waylon unstable and on edge.

If I was still thinking about Rafe, it meant Waylon hadn’twon. But if I sounded like I was falling apartbecauseof Rafe’s absence, then it fed into his twisted sense of power. I could use either to my advantage.

I could practically see it churning behind his eyes whenever he entered the room. He’d stare at me longer, linger over me like I was losing my ever-loving mind. I’d allow him to think he was winning.

Tonight, I stared at the ceiling, waiting for morning. My tank top clung to my damp skin. I hadn’t truly slept in days, but I’d mastered the art of pretending I had.

I turned my head slowly and let my lashes flutter like I was waking from another nightmare. I ensured my voice cracked right this time. “Rafe…” I whimpered, tossing my head on the pillow, brow furrowed like I was drowning in dreams.

The door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame. My eyes snapped shut. I felt his heavy steps and rough breathing. Then the mattress shifted violently under his weight.

“You really think he’s coming for you?” Waylon snarled, his voice low and venomous as he gripped my arms and shoved me beneath him. “Wake up,sweetheart. Hey,wake up.” He shook me furiously. “He’snotcoming. He’s never coming!”

I blinked slowly, dazed on purpose. Let him think I was waking from the nightmare, trembling. “W…Waylon?”

His eyes glinted in the dark. They were cold, hollow things trying to mimic control. He crushed his mouth to mine like a punishment, a violent claim meant to erase the name I’d whispered in my fake sleep.

I let him.

I kissed him back, soft and slow, like I was afraid of him. Curling my fingers against his shoulders, I let him press his weight over mine. Let him believe.

Even as he breathed, “You belong tomenow,” I kept my expression fragile and wide-eyed like I was submitting. “You’remyplaything, understood?”

He didn’t notice the fire behind my eyes. He didn’t see that every soft moan was calculated. That every shiver was a performance. That I was cataloging everything–his weaknesses, his tells, the sloppiness of his obsession.

He thought I was falling apart. But really, I had never been more focused. I let him take what he wanted. Because Iwas taking something back. And when it was over, he collapsed beside me and muttered something about how I was “finally learning.” I just lay there, eyes open, staring into the dark.

The moment his breathing evened out, I whispered so low only the shadows could hear. “You’ll never fucking break me, you sack of shit.”

***

A low thunder rolled softly beyond the windowpanes. Waylon liked to sleep with the curtains open. He said he enjoyed seeing the estate from above, as if he were king of all he surveyed.Barf.

He wasn’t asleep yet.

His arm was heavy across my waist, his skin hot and damp against mine. I’d learned his rhythms by now–when he was too tired to be cruel and just wanted the illusion of intimacy. This was one of those nights. I could feel it in the way his fingers absently traced my side. No pain. Just possession.

I shifted slightly, turning toward him. “You always sleep like this?” I asked, keeping my voice low, almost sleepy. “Wrapped around someone like they’ll run away if you let go?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but I felt his muscles tense. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. He pulled back enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Just… talking,” I murmured, brushing my fingers across his chest. “It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t pull away. “What do you want to know?”

I tucked my head back against his shoulder, made it look soft. Small. “Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand moved up to my hair, fingers combing through it roughly, absently. “I knew who you were before Moreau ever did,” he said. “You were fire in a silk dress. Dangerous. Controlled. Strong. You didn’t needanyone.”