Page 85 of Monsters Carve Thrones

“Why did you even bring me?” I asked. “It’s not even midnight yet.”

His mouth curved into a cruel smile. “You’ve been such agoodgirl lately,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I thought you deserved a field trip.”

That wasn’t an answer. Not a real one. I knew it. So did he. But I didn’t press. He didn’t like it when I did. The bag came down the rest of the way, and the world vanished in scratchy blackness.

The ride back was tense.

His hand settled heavily on my thigh again. His fingers twitched every so often–whether from stress or something darker, I didn’t know.

Then I caught the scent. A trace of stale perfume rising from the shirt I wore. The fabric clung to me, and now that I noticed it, I couldn’tunnotice it. Cheap, sugary sweetness that turned my stomach. It didn’t belong to me. It belonged toher–Waylon’s last “whore,” the one Riley smirked about.

I swallowed hard, forcing down bile. My hands curled into fists on my lap, nails digging into my palms. I wouldn’t vomit. Iwould not.

When we pulled into the gates of the estate, the cold night air hit me like a slap when the car door opened. I stumbled slightly as they dragged me out, the bag still over my head. Gravel crunched beneath my feet, then tile, then the heavy creak of doors.

Home sweet fucking home.

They removed the bag once we were inside my prison. The room looked the same as it always had. The guards didn’t speak as they fastened the cuffs around my wrists again, tethering me to the iron bar at the head of the bed. The leather bit into my skin, irritated and raw from constant friction.

I glared at them as they shut the door behind them. The lock clicked. Then, it was just him and me. Waylon stood by the window for a long moment, gazing out at the darkness like his mind was elsewhere. The light above us flickered once.

He looked... tired.

He rolled his shoulders, peeled off his jacket, and finally turned toward me with slow steps. His gaze ran over me–tied up, dirty, worn down–but there was a gleam in his eyes that made my skin crawl.

“You won’t be waiting for him anymore,” he said softly, almost like it was meant for himself.

I stayed silent. Let him hear his own madness echo back at him.

He came closer, crouching beside the bed, running a knuckle along the bruised skin just under my collarbone. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. You can stop dreaming about him. He’s gone.”

My jaw clenched.

He smiled again. “It’s just a matter of time before I get that lovely text that he’s dead.”

I kept my face blank. Calm. Even when my ribs felt like they were caving in. Even when the image of Rafe, bloodied and broken, flashed through my mind like a knife to the throat.

He thought this would destroy me.

He had no fucking idea.

Waylon stood and began undressing slowly as if this were just another night in a normal relationship. As if I were anything close tohis.

I didn’t speak. Just watched him from under my lashes.

He tied his hair back as he always did before bed–dark, shoulder-length strands twisted into a messy bun at the crown of his head. His brown eyes narrowed at the ceiling like he was calculating something, already mentally a thousand miles away.

I watched him, quiet and still, but this time with purpose. His muscular frame moved in long, deliberate strides as he crossed to the dresser. Tattoos wrapped across his back and down his arms, black and red ink stretched over tan skin. Symbols I hadn’t cared to look at before. Now, I studied them. Not out of awe or fear, but curiosity. Weakness always left a mark if you knew where to look.

Waylon was a frightening man.

But not like Rafe.

Rafe was a different kind of monster–unhinged, explosive, deadly in silence and in rage. There were moments I saw it in his eyes, the way he handled people, how he killed.It terrified me. And oddly enough, it was also the one thing I found myself counting on. Because that terrifying man would tear the world apart for me.

But he was gone. Captured. Probably tortured by now. And if I wanted out, I couldn’t wait for a rescue. I would have to do it myself.

Waylon let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached the bed.