Page 13 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

The words should’ve scared me. Instead, they bloomed like a bruise against my ribs. I swallowed. “I still want to go.”

He exhaled through his nose, just the barest trace of amusement, like he expected that answer all along. “Then you’ll look real nice for me.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “Something black. Something that tells the room you belong to me without ever having to say it.”

I leaned in, brushing my mouth against his just enough to breathe him in. “I always look nice for you.”

The way his eyes darkened told me he knew exactly what that meant.

I ended up slipping into a snug black floor-length dress.

It clung to my curves and flared out below my hips, a high slit cutting up to the top of my thigh.

The straps were thin, and the neckline plunged between my breasts, showing off ample cleavage.

I paired it with my trusty red-bottom black heels.

His hand gripped the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white.

Jaw clenched. That beautiful black suit stretched over muscle and power, a god carved in wrath and wool.

Rafe hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, his mind clearly circling whatever carnage awaited him at this secret little hell-gala.

But I didn’t need him to speak to feel him. Because I was already aroused. Perhaps it was the storm clouds rolling in above the highway, which matched the dark vibe of the night. Maybe it was the smell of his spicy cedar cologne. Or maybe it was just his control, his silence, his tension.

I bit my bottom lip and slowly parted my thighs beneath the slit of my dress. The silk pulled tight against my skin as I shifted in the seat, watching him from the corner of my eye.

His gaze flicked down. Quick. Precise.

Then, back to the road.

His knuckles flexed on the wheel. His neck cracked as he rolled it, easing the pressure. “Behave,” he warned, his voice a growl.

I smirked, resting my head against the leather seat. “You know I’ve never been good at that.”

He didn’t look at me, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m in the mood,” I murmured, “to feel alive.”

That did it. His smile cracked wider. It was dark and delicious.

“Both times,” I said softly, voice like a sin, “when you took me on the cocktail bar roof… and when you broke into my apartment wearing that fucking mask…” My hand ventured between my thighs, fingers swirling lightly over my underwear.

His jaw flexed. I kept going, loving the way it made him unravel.

“You made me feel both scared and alive. And it was the best fucking thing I’ve ever felt, Rafe.”

He chuckled, low and full of heat, turning the wheel as we approached the exit. “If you want to feel alive again,” he said, voice dropping to something lethal, “I’ll fucking do it.”

I turned to face him, eyes glittering. “Promise?”

He glanced at me then, and it was the kind of look that made my spine arch. His voice shifted, and the air changed. “If you want this,” he said, slower now, sharper, “just know that you’ll get it. All of it. But handle it with the grace of the goddess I know you are. Got it?”

Goddess .

The word settled between my legs like friction. I nodded once, lips parted. There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite place–like he was warning me of a high I wouldn’t come down from. Or maybe an experience that would have my heart racing with fear or adrenaline.

And I didn’t care.

I couldn’t stop staring at him. His black, tousled hair. The curve of his jaw. His razor-sharp side profile, barely lit by the flicker of city lights.

Then I saw the rain. It began in soft taps across the windshield, growing heavier by the second.

“It’s storming,” I said.

Rafe didn’t even flinch. “How fitting,” he murmured, casually adjusting his hips as if he was getting hard. “Give me your underwear.”

I stopped teasing myself, my fingers freezing. “What?”

“You heard me, baby,” he murmured, his eyes darting to me quickly before returning to the road. “Give them to me. Now.”

The authority in his voice triggered a wave of goosebumps over my skin. “Yes, sir ,” I purred, slowly pulling my red thong down my legs.

He held his hand out, and I placed them there. Without a word, he pocketed it. “Good girl.”

I bit my lip, clenching my thighs together. What was he planning? “I like this already,” I giggled.

His face remained serious as he pulled onto a dark drive leading to a Victorian mansion.

Something about his energy was off-putting in a villain kind of way.

It reminded me of when I first met him. When I actually was a little scared of what was going through his mind.

He was wild and unpredictable. And a fucked up part of me. .. missed that.

The moment we walked through the arched doors, I felt eyes burn into me. They were the kind that stripped you and measured your worth in blood or diamonds. The kind that didn’t blink when someone vanished in the middle of the night.

Rafe’s hand rested protectively on my lower back. He guided me forward with quiet command, and I followed, heels clicking across marble, head high. “Keep your head up,” he murmured under his breath, voice brushing my ear. “You walk in with me. You carry weight. Let them feel it.”

I nodded once, steadying my breath.

The room was a cathedral of decadence and shadows.

Velvet draped the walls, crystal chandeliers flickered above us, and everyone seemed to be dressed in black.

I could sense power, wealth, and death in the air.

Men in tailored suits. Women in silk with dead eyes.

People clutched drinks, laughing too easily, watching us.

“This doesn’t look like a formal meeting,” I said, my voice low.

Rafe smirked slightly. “This isn’t a sit-down meeting, baby. It’s a monthly gathering. The monsters come out to drink and discuss their empires.” He leaned in closer. “I just have a few to speak with.”

The room pulsed with whispers as we moved.

I could feel the ripple we left behind. The sharp stares.

I wasn’t sure if they were more afraid of him or intrigued by me.

Perhaps both. Music played, a slow, seductive rhythm.

I recognized a few people beneath the dim lights, including one that made my spine stiffen.

Waylon .

He was standing with a small circle of men near the back, a glass of something amber in hand, dark hair pulled into a low, messy bun.

His brown eyes found me instantly–and slid over every inch of me like he had a right to.

Familiar, slow. Like I was a memory he liked tasting.

I remembered him. From the night Moreau called.

When he stood in my apartment, staring at me with a disgusting hunger.

His eyes hit my legs, my hips, my chest, and then my face.

I raised my chin higher. Fuck him.

Rafe’s body tensed slightly beside me, but his voice was all ice as he approached. “Waylon. Michael. Arnaud.”

They turned. Faces unreadable. The weight of power and unspoken debts suddenly suffocating.

“I’ll keep it brief,” Rafe said, stepping into the center of the conversation like he owned it. “Most of Moreau’s clients are now mine. My territories have tripled in the last four months. I’m looking to reach further into Europe.”

Waylon’s jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of his drink before speaking. “Europe already has men. Including me.”

Rafe’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Then they should be ready to move–or die.”

An intense quiet followed. A silence that meant something had been drawn. Not a weapon per se, but a line.

Michael laughed once, his short blonde hair reflecting candlelight and blue eyes boring into Rafe’s. “You’ve always been efficient, Vaughan. I’ll support your expansion.”

A few others nodded. The circle shifted slightly, but Waylon’s eyes were still on me.

I felt them like fingertips. Slimy. Intrusive.

I ignored him, turning toward Rafe instead, watching the sharp lines of his profile as he talked empire and blood.

He didn’t see the way Waylon looked at me.

But I did.

The music changed again. A low, reverberating, sinful rhythm rolled through the space.

The lights dimmed further, shadows stretching long across marble floors as candlelight began to flicker around us.

Waitresses appeared like ghosts, moving through the room in black masquerade masks and lingerie, lighting each table with a golden flame.

I caught the hungry gazes of several men as they followed the waitresses with eyes that said more than words ever could.

Rafe slipped his hand around my waist and guided me into another chamber off to the side–darker, more intimate. The walls were lined with velvet, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and enough tension to choke anyone.

He was still so focused and tense. But I didn’t feel bad about being a distraction. “You know,” I murmured, letting my fingers trail along his arm, “you could at least pretend to look at me like I’m not just a piece of furniture you dragged in here.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t even blink. But his hand tightened on my waist like a warning.

And then, the moment that thick bass dropped into something slower, he spun suddenly, shoving me hard against the wall.

Air whooshed from my chest at the impact. Candlelight licked across his face. His eyes were dark. His body pressed against mine, hot and heavy and hard. His teeth scraped the side of my neck, and I gasped.

Eyes were on us.

I could feel them.

And fuck, my heart was racing.

His hands glided down my sides like he owned me, gripping the fabric of my dress like he wanted to tear it. I hesitated, barely managing to whisper, “Rafe… what are you doing?”

He looked at me with a hungry and tired stare and smiled.

That smile.

“You’re married to the Dark Monster of New York City,” he said, voice low and sharp. “He’s not known for always being professional.”

My throat went dry.

His fingers moved to his belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate confidence.