Page 89 of Monsters Carve Thrones

My eyes flew open, terror roaring through me. “Olesya,” I choked. She was kneeling beside me, face pale, her hand trembling where it hovered above my cheek. I gasped, lungs sputtering as air returned. My throat ached. The taste of copper filled my mouth.

“She’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive.” Her voice was shaking. I blinked at her, struggling to stay upright.

And then I saw Waylon standing near the window. Shirtless, tattoos shadowed in the low light. He was smoking, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched like stone. He didn’t look at me.

Heknewwhat he’d done. He just didn’t care.

I glanced down,trulytaking in all of the bruises that peppered my legs, hips, and stomach. And now, my throat. It ached just to swallow.

He…he almost killed me.

Olesya looked at him, then back at me and down to the evidence of what he’d just done. And Isawit.

The fear.

The decision.

The moment she realized she couldn’t keep watching this happen. That it wouldn’t stop unless someone stopped it. Her answer was in her eyes.

Yes.

***

The water was scalding hot, just how I liked it. I needed it to burn. To sear away the feel of his hands, the echo of his voice still rasping in my ears. The bruises along my neck throbbed with the pulse of blood returning to oxygen-starved veins.

A guard stood outside the bathroom door, watching the hallway.

I stared at the steam curling upward, the tile slick beneath my feet, and let the heat sting my eyes. Not from tears. Not anymore.

A soft knock broke through the hiss of water. Then, a familiar voice. “Just checking on her injuries,” Olesya said calmly.

The guard grunted. “Don’t take too long.”

The door creaked open and closed again. The second I saw her face, I knew.

She moved quickly, efficiently, her hands folding a towel like it mattered. “Are you alright?” she asked softly.

My throat ached, but I nodded. “Fine.”

Her fingers grazed the edge of the counter where my clothes sat. Slipped something under a rolled pair of socks.

I kept my expression blank.

She glanced at the door. The water helped disguise our voices, but we couldn’t risk much. I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around myself. My fingers closed over the paper without looking. I stepped closer, like I was leaning in to whisper. Her eyes met mine, wide and determined.

I read the note under the veil of steam and trembling hands:

What’s the plan?

I looked up at her, nodding just once.

She waited, breath still. Her eyes shone with something that made my throat tighten.

I mouthed,I’ll tell you later.

She gave a tiny, imperceptible nod. Her hand reached up like she was checking my face for swelling, but her thumb brushed my cheek in something tender. Almost maternal. It nearlyshatteredme. “You’ll be alright,” she murmured, more for herself than me. Then louder, to the door, “No need for a doctor. I’ll let Mr. Waylon know.”

She turned and left.