Page 17 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

ADELA

(TW: Mild sexual assault)

I was lying on the cold concrete, one arm cradling my ribs, when the door opened. Heavy steel hinges groaned. Light poured into the small room, enough to show the silhouette of the man stepping inside.

I sat up fast, too fast, vision tilting. My wrists burned against the restraints. My lip throbbed. My skin still stung from where they’d kicked and clawed at me after I ran.

But the man who entered didn’t wear a mask.

He didn’t need to.

I knew that face.

Waylon .

I sucked in a breath that froze halfway down my throat.

He smiled, his teeth too white for a man with a soul that dark. His brown hair was slicked back, his white shirt crisp, as if he hadn’t been running a black-market empire from the shadows of Europe. “Well,” he said, voice smooth as velvet stretched over something sharp. “You look beautiful.”

I didn’t say a word. Not yet.

He looked me over, lingering on the bruises, the cuts, the blood dried down one leg. His jaw ticked once. “They weren’t supposed to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I made that very clear.”

My mouth was dry, but I forced the words out. “You ordered them to take me. What the hell did you expect would happen?”

Waylon took a step closer, then another.

He crouched in front of me, elbows resting casually on his knees, as if this was a friendly conversation and not a hostage negotiation from hell.

“I expected them to show some restraint,” he said.

“You’re valuable. Hurting you? That was.

.. careless. And they’ve been dealt with. ”

My stomach flipped. Dealt with. I didn’t ask how. I didn’t need to. I squared my shoulders. “Why? Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”

Waylon tilted his head, and something flickered in his eyes.

Not rage or madness. But obsession. “You want the truth?” he said, voice low.

“Moreau wasn’t just a partner. He was the glue holding a very volatile empire together.

We had clients–serious ones. International, high-value, no-patience types.

He kept them fed. Kept them calm. And then Rafe put a bullet in him, and everything went to hell. ”

I kept my face still, but inside, my pulse pounded.

“They came to me for answers,” he went on.

“Codes. Routes. Access. Information only Moreau had. And guess what? He died with it. Left me holding the wreckage. Now I’m putting out fires every damn day, cleaning up messes I didn’t make.

And all the while, Rafe Vaughan walks around like a king.

Like he didn’t destroy everything I built. ”

His voice turned sharp, venom slipping through the cracks. “So I’m taking something back. Something he cares about. And you, sweetheart, are going to be the final pressure point.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “You think I’ll help you? Go to hell.”

He smiled wider. “I don’t need your help. Just your presence. Your pain. Your body.”

I stood, fire licking through every bruised rib, every bloodstained inch of me. “Then you’re just as weak as you’ve always been.”

The smile vanished.

In one motion, he rose and grabbed me, hands like iron shackles, snatching my hips, yanking me forward. I stumbled against him, too close, breath tangled with his.

I shoved. Hard.

He didn’t move.

“You’ve got fight. That’ll make it more fun.” His voice dropped, low and poisonous. “When they take you to the shower... that’s when you’ll know.”

“Know what?” I spat.

“That I’m done being nice,” he whispered. “And you’ll understand what it means to be owned.”

My skin crawled. I tried to shove him again, nails digging into his chest. Waylon didn’t flinch. But he let go, slowly, like releasing something he was savoring. Evil fuck.

He turned and walked to the door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “Be ready, Adela,” he said without looking back. “I like my things polished before I break them.”

When the door shut behind him, I stood frozen. I refused to tremble or cry, my breath surprisingly steady. Because if Waylon thought this would end with me broken–

He’d never met the version of me that Rafe Vaughan had built.

***

The door creaked open about an hour later. I tensed, bracing for the monster’s return, but it wasn’t Waylon who stepped inside.

It was a young woman.

She had brown hair in a slick ponytail and brown eyes.

She wore all black, not tactical like the others, but more like a sharp blazer and boots that had never touched dirt.

Her expression twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer as she glanced at me, chained and bruised on the concrete floor.

“Well,” she said, setting down a metal tray with a clatter, “you look like shit.”

“Must be why you’re so comfortable here,” I said. “I bet it feels like looking in a mirror.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she pushed the tray closer with her foot, like she didn’t want to get too close. It smelled like stale bread and cold chicken. My stomach turned.

“Eat or don’t,” she said. “Starving won’t save you.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

She smiled, all teeth and venom. “Riley. I’m Waylon’s right hand.”

“Personal assistant?” I asked, voice dry.

“Personal everything,” she replied, voice thick with smugness. “I get things done. And right now, that includes babysitting you until he decides what to do next.”

I gave her a look sharp enough to cut steel. “He already decided.”

Riley’s expression sharpened, lips curling just slightly. “Oh, right. His little prize . You know what he told me? That he’s going to break you in so slow, so sweet, you’ll forget what it felt like to belong to anyone else.”

I said nothing, but the chill that spread through my limbs wasn’t from the concrete. I knew what she meant before she said it. I just didn’t want to hear it aloud.

Riley crouched slightly, her voice low and condescending.

“He doesn’t want a hostage. He wants a sex slave.

A useless doll to take his fucking nut after a long day cleaning up the goddamn stress you and your boy toy brought down on him.

And that shower you’ll be taken to? That’s not mercy.

It’s preparation for the most meaningful job you’ll ever have. ”

My blood ran cold.

But my face stayed stone.

I stared at her, memorizing every inch of her. Her boots. Her smug little face. The way she looked down at me like I wasn’t worth the dirt under her heels.

She would be one of the first.

The second I was free, she would fucking die.

***

RAFE

The screen bathed the room in a cold blue light, the only thing illuminating the townhouse besides the flicker of amber from the fireplace.

I sat cross-legged on the rug, laptop balanced on my thighs, fingers flying across the keyboard.

My shirt was half-buttoned, forgotten. My whiskey sat on the floor beside me, sweating into the wood.

Nothing. Still fucking nothing.

“She has to be somewhere,” I muttered, voice hoarse from a day of shouting, snarling, begging–into screens, into phones, into the goddamn void. “He took her, that sack of shit.”

“Rafe,” Laura’s voice was gentle but firm, too calm for how raw I felt. “You need to take a break. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m working ,” I snapped. I knew who took Adela from me. I saw him glaring at her on multiple occasions like someone who was formulating a filthy revenge plan.

“You’re burning ,” Nico corrected from the couch, his boots on the table, glass of scotch in his hand. “Difference.”

Kieran was across the room, lounging in an armchair like he belonged in a painting–legs crossed, drink in one hand, knife in the other. Always flipping it, catching it. Restless like the rest of us, but quieter about it.

“She’s not a ghost,” I said through my teeth. “Waylon is a sloppy man. If it was him, he can’t move without being seen. Someone saw something.”

“You’ve hit five darknet forums and torn through half a dozen shell companies tonight,” Laura pointed out. “You’ve been through police scanners, cargo logs, and four secure traffic cams.”

“Seven,” I corrected.

She blinked. “Seven. Fine. And you haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t stopped since she went missing,” Nico muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “You look like you’re about to eat the goddamn laptop.”

The cursor blinked.

A code cracked open. One of the backdoor ports I’d planted weeks ago in a logistics firm tied to Waylon’s old network. My heart kicked once in my chest. I leaned closer.

Coordinates. Flight paths. Timing.

My blood started to buzz.

“I have something,” I said, voice low.

All three of them straightened.

“What is it?” Kieran asked, flipping the knife one last time before palming it. Eyes sharp now. Hunter mode.

“Private jet. No call sign. Landed outside Moscow six hours after she was taken. Manifest is scrubbed, but someone paid off customs under the name ‘Redshift Logistics.’ That’s one of Waylon’s fronts. He used it back when he and Moreau were moving girls and drugs out of Russia.”

Laura went still. “You think that’s where she is? Do you think she’s being...trafficked?”

“No,” I said slowly, “This is too personal. He wouldn’t traffic her.

He’d more than likely keep her…” I trailed off, trembling at the thought of what he could put her through.

“For himself.” I clenched my jaw so tight that it could shatter.

I cracked my knuckles and pulled up a secondary server I’d infected months ago.

“If this fucker made a single mistake, I’ll have him. ”

***

I woke to the sound of nothing. No traffic. No voices. Just the steady hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint creak of old floorboards settling beneath the silence.

The glow from my laptop had gone dark, screen asleep. My neck ached from how I’d curled into the corner of the couch. I shifted slowly and winced.