Page 15 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

The house was still, cloaked in that soft silence that only came after a good day.

It had been almost a week since that lovely night at the mansion where he fucked me in front of those people.

We’d had sex every single day, sometimes twice.

We couldn’t get enough of each other and, honestly, it was a dream come true.

He was everything I needed and craved. And of course, he always reminded me how dumb he was for me, even while pounding his muscular body into mine without mercy.

Those were my favorite times to be praised.

I padded barefoot down the hall, wine glass in hand, savoring the last of the red blend Rafe had opened with dinner.

He had been pulled away for some last-minute meeting.

Undoubtedly, it was one of those that would likely end in blood.

But thankfully, he’d promised to be home before midnight. I wasn’t worried.

The townhouse felt lived-in now. Ours . The flickering candlelight in the kitchen, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering on the couch cushions, the distant hum of the dishwasher…

it all made me feel content. I’d slipped into one of his black shirts and my black silk underwear, legs bare, hair wet from a bath that had turned into a full-on soak while I read one of the novels Laura had insisted I try.

I turned a page, lying comfortably on the couch. I was halfway through a paragraph when the lights went out. Every bulb died at once–no flicker, no warning. Just total , suffocating black.

I froze. Wine glass hovering midair.

Silence.

No hum from the fridge. No traffic from outside. Just the pulse pounding in my ears. My eyes snapped to the hallway. Maybe a breaker? No. The power box wasn’t finicky, and Rafe had backups and layers of failsafes to prevent exactly this kind of failure.

So... something was wrong . My pulse spiked.

I set the glass down without a sound, blood roaring in my ears, and ran up to the side table drawer in the bedroom. The knife was still there, Rafe’s “just in case” warning echoing in my head. I slid it into my hand.

A shadow drifted across the stairwell. Not Rafe. Too tall. Too slow.

My stomach plummeted. This was not one of Rafe’s games. “Who’s there?” I snapped.

No answer. Just silence stretching like a wire.

Then– creak.

A boot on the step.

I bolted toward the stairs and stared the door, skidding to a halt when I realized it was already open. Wind pushed in through the crack ominously. My breath caught, and then they were on me. Two men in masks, dressed in black from head to toe. One surged forward.

Panicked, I backed into the coffee table, the glass of wine shattering and spilling over the floor. I slashed. The blade bit into his arm and ripped . Hot blood sprayed across my forearm.

He hissed, but the second was faster, barreling into me, crushing the air from my lungs. I kicked. Bit. My elbow cracked against his jaw, and he stumbled –I almost got free.

Then the third came from behind, cold metal slamming into my neck.

A hiss. Something injected.

Heat. Slow, viscous, and fucking unnatural .

“No,” I gasped, clawing at the needle, my limbs already going numb. My knees gave out. I dropped hard.

“She’s a feisty little bitch,” one of them laughed, stepping over the glass I’d broken.

“Let her squirm,” said another, boots crunching close to my face. “It won’t matter in a few minutes.”

A third knelt near me, breath hot behind his distorted mask. “Fucking shame. She’s gorgeous. Almost makes you feel bad.” He dragged a gloved hand down my jaw.

I tried to spit at him, but my tongue wouldn’t obey. My mouth hung slack, jaw twitching.

“She’s still got fight in her,” another muttered, nudging my ribs with his boot. “Think Rafe taught her that?”

“Poor bastard,” the first said. “He’s gonna lose his shit.”

“You’re so fucked, sweetheart,” someone whispered.

Then I felt fingers in my hair, yanking my head back just to see the fear in my eyes. Everything tilted. The hallway spun.

The world folded .

Then–

Black.

***

RAFE

I hated how often my work took me away from Adela. I shut the car door and made my way up to the gates. But as I passed through them, an eerie sensation washed over me. The townhouse was silent in a way that didn’t feel natural.

Not peaceful.

I stepped inside cautiously, scanning the entry as the door clicked shut behind me.

The air felt stale, like no one had breathed inside these walls in hours.

My keys hung loose from my fingers, and I didn’t bother setting them down.

Every instinct I had, every muscle and nerve in my body, was telling me something was off.

The lights were out.

I flipped the switch beside the door, more out of habit than hope. Nothing. No flicker. No hum. Just... darkness. I drew my gun, a sick feeling twisting in my gut.

That was when I caught the sharp scent of blood.

Not enough to indicate a massacre, but unmistakable all the same.

I moved through the living room slowly, eyes locked on the dark stain spreading across the edge of the rug.

The wine glass lay shattered near the couch, crimson pooling beneath it like a horrid wound.

Beside the stain, a smear of red dotted the hardwood floor in irregular, frantic intervals.

She bled.

She ran.

She fought .

My pulse hammered in my throat as I followed the trail. Scuff marks marred the wall by the stairs–wide, chaotic, like someone had slammed into it. Near the front door, her knife lay discarded, the same blade I’d made her keep close. Blood streaked the edge.

She’d used it.

I took a step back, just one, and nearly tripped over a broken photo frame on the ground.

It had fallen from the console near the stairs, the glass cracked across her smiling face.

The picture was from the week we moved in.

She was barefoot, laughing, standing in my arms. Now, that moment was violated.

I didn’t realize I’d dropped to my knees until my palm pressed to the floor beside the shards. Cold. Empty.

Gone .

My breath turned shallow. My ribs constricted around it like a vice. I called her name, knowing it was hopeless.

No answer.

I called again, louder, voice cracking under the strain.

Still nothing.

And then everything inside me snapped. It wasn’t a clean break.

It was violent, shattering through my chest and tearing through my skull like fire behind my eyes.

I launched up and drove my fist into the wall, drywall crumbling under the blow.

The second strike was harder. I didn’t stop until blood smeared across the plaster and the bones in my hand throbbed.

She was taken from our home. From me . This wasn’t a robbery. It wasn’t some petty hit.

It was targeted. Personal. My rage didn’t burn. It suffocated me, turning cold and focused. Any warmth that might have existed because of her left my fucking eyes. I dead-stared at the blood on the floor, heart roaring. I wasn’t thinking about mercy. I wasn’t thinking about consequences.

Only about blood.

Whoever came into this house, whoever dared to lay hands on her, they didn’t just steal a woman. They declared war. And I was going to answer with fire.

I would tear this city apart, brick by fucking brick. I would track them through every shadow, every back alley, every hidden corridor. I would rip their names from the mouths of cowards and watch the light die in their eyes when they realized what they’d done.

Adela was mine.

And I would not stop until she was back in my arms and every single person responsible was begging to fucking die.

***

ADELA

The hum of engines was the first thing I heard.

It thrummed through my skull, and it made my teeth ache.

My head pounded with a pressure that felt unnatural.

Oh yeah, I’d been drugged. My limbs were heavy.

My mouth was dry. My skin prickled, caught between cold and heat, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming.

But then I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me was curved, white, and smooth with a faint sheen. My body jerked with a rush of adrenaline.

Where the fuck was I?

I bolted upright, or tried to. A thick strap cinched across my lap, holding me down.

I was in a leather seat, the kind I’d only ever seen on Rafe’s private plane.

My wrists were unbound, but weak, and my legs were sprawled uselessly in front of me.

My body ached. My inner thighs throbbed.

I was still wearing Rafe’s black oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties. Nothing else.

Oh God.

Did they…?

I scanned the cabin in a panic. Three men sat across from me, none of them familiar.

Not from the city, not from Rafe’s world.

Not even from Moreau’s. They wore dark clothes, tactical vests, and holsters strapped to their thighs like it was normal.

One of them was staring at his phone. The other two were watching me.

My voice cracked as I tried to speak. “What the fuck is going on?”

The one closest to me grinned, amused by my anger. “Look who’s awake.”

I pressed my back against the seat, trying to hide the way my hands shook. “Where the hell am I?”

“Up in the sky, sweetheart,” the other one said, smirking. “Relax. You’re on a first-class trip.”

I felt sick. Violated. Confused. “Did you…?” My throat closed. “Did you touch me?”

Their laughter wasn’t kind.

“Not yet,” the first one said. “We were told to deliver you intact. Couldn’t use you, unfortunately .”

I gritted my teeth. Rage surged through the fog of confusion. “Then why am I here?”

“Because we took Rafe Vaughan’s most prized possession,” one of them said, leaning back casually. “His perfect little queen.”

I blinked at him, my pulse spiking. “Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, gorgeous.”

I swallowed hard, willing my body to stay calm. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t beg. Rafe’s voice echoed in my mind: Never beg anyone but me.