Page 18 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

Across from me, Laura was curled beneath a throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other still wrapped around a half-empty bottle of wine.

Her makeup had smudged, mascara dried like bruises under her eyes.

Kieran was stretched out at the other end of my couch, boots still on, mouth slightly open, breathing deeply.

Nico had taken the chair in the corner, head leaned back, arms folded, scowl still carved into his sleeping face like he hadn’t even let go in sleep.

It was three in the morning.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, muscles protesting.

My hand hovered over the laptop, but I didn’t touch it.

Not yet. The bedroom door was cracked open up the stairs, seemingly waiting for her to return.

I stared at it too long, a horrid burn crawling from my heart up my throat.

My gaze snagged on the soft cotton robe she always left on the hook beside the door.

For a moment, I thought of going up there and laying on the bed.

But the pain was already crushing my throat, and I didn’t want to wake everyone with my sobbing.

So I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because if I did… I’d smell her.

And for a few seconds, I’d believe she was back. That I’d roll over and find her there, curled into the sheets like nothing had happened. I’d kiss her shoulder, and she’d hum that little sound she made when she was half-asleep.

But she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t anywhere near here.

And if I let myself believe she was, even for one second, I wouldn’t survive what came after. So I stayed on the couch, surrounded by the only people in the world I trusted, and stared into the dark like I could will her back with nothing but the force of my grief.

“I’m coming, baby,” I whispered. “Just hold on.”

***

ADELA

I didn’t know what time it was. Not anymore.

The only light in this room came from a bulb that buzzed and flickered every so often, like it was debating whether to die or keep on suffering.

There were no windows, no clocks, just stone walls, stale air, and a cold concrete floor that had become my prison.

It may have been a week.

It felt like a week. Or maybe more. Time melted here, into each breath, each second I counted to keep myself from slipping.

They fed me like I was some stray animal they couldn’t quite be bothered to starve or kill.

A crust of bread. Cold spaghetti on a cracked plate. Water so warm it tasted like rust.

I hadn’t eaten much of it. Couldn’t. My stomach rebelled more than it craved. The hunger wasn’t what kept me up at night.

It was him . Waylon. His voice. The way he looked at me like I was a thing , not a woman. A pawn. Property.

Riley’s words echoed in my head like a sickness I couldn’t scrub out.

His slave.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and curled tighter into the corner of the cot, muscles sore from cold and bruises that hadn’t yet faded. My body ached. My mind was fraying at the edges. And I was nervous.

But I wasn’t broken yet.

I stared down at my hands, dirt smudged beneath my nails, my knuckles raw from fighting, clawing, surviving .

My wedding ring was still there somehow.

A thin silver band with diamonds that would occasionally flicker in the dim light.

I turned my wrist and looked at the crown tattoo just beneath it, the one I’d gotten with a champagne-fueled grin and his hand on my thigh.

Monsters wear crowns , we’d joked.

He wore his like a warlord.

I wore mine like armor.

I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. “I miss you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse from disuse. “I know you’re coming. I know you are.”

Rafe wouldn’t stop until he found me. I believed that down to my bones. He would carve this place off the map if he had to. Burn it all to the ground. Until then, I had to be strong. I had to stay smart. I had to survive. Because if Waylon wanted a slave, he’d picked the wrong fucking queen.

Hours later, just as I fell asleep again, Riley stepped inside.

Her heels clicked against the concrete like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for.

Her hair was slicked back again today, and her lips were painted the same color as dried blood.

She gave me that same twisted smile she always wore around me.

“Finally,” she drawled, eyes sweeping over me with mock pity. “Time for you to wash the filth off. Not that it’ll help.”

Behind her, three men entered the room. Tall, armed, and cruel. I barely had time to scramble upright before one of them grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet.

I stumbled, caught my balance, but they didn’t wait. They each seized a part of me. An elbow, a wrist, and a shoulder, dragging me out of the room like I weighed nothing. My bare feet scraped along the cold floor, my knees buckling every few steps.

But I kept my eyes open.

The hallway they hauled me through was long and narrow, with black marble floors and deep wood paneling. Expensive art. Ornate chandeliers. A lingering scent of cigars and cologne. The walls were covered in mirrors that didn’t reflect light, only power. This wasn’t some off-grid prison.

This was a palace.

Waylon’s.

They weren’t hiding me in a bunker. They were keeping me in his home. I filed every detail away. Each hallway, each turn, and every possible window and visible door. Every shadow where I could hide, every creak in the floor.

They shoved me into a bathroom as big as my apartment’s kitchen. It had marble counters and gold fixtures. The shower was a glass cube, already running, steam clouding the mirrors.

Riley turned, folding her arms. “Strip her.”

“No,” I snapped, stepping back.

They didn’t care. One of them stepped forward and tore Rafe’s shirt, the fabric giving with a brutal rip . Another yanked at the waistband of the spandex shorts. I cried out as they pulled, scraping my hips, leaving nothing but bruises.

My wrists were still cuffed, and I couldn’t cover myself, not really. Not with three sets of eyes crawling over my skin like insects.

One of the guards let out a low whistle. “Didn’t know the boss had such good taste.”

The other laughed. “Too bad we can’t fuck her. Wouldn’t mind breaking the rules for a piece like this.”

Riley smirked. “Don’t get carried away,” she said, turning for the door. “Waylon likes her pretty. Put your dick anywhere in her, and he’ll rip it off and gut you with it.” She left without another word, the door slamming behind her.

Silence fell.

I stood there, bare and vulnerable, breathing hard through my nose. The men stared. Their eyes were hungry, their smiles sickening.

One stepped forward. “She said we couldn’t put our dicks in her,” he said.

I didn’t look away or flinch. I stepped into the shower slowly, letting the water hide me.

The shower pole was cold against my skin as they cuffed my wrists to it–arms raised, body exposed. I kept my face still, but inside, everything screamed. Not from shame. Not even fear.

From fury.

One of them stepped in, taller than the others, broad through the shoulders, with a smirk carved into his face like it had always been there. He held a bar of soap in one hand, a washcloth in the other, as though this was routine.

“You don’t get to act shy,” he said, voice low and greasy. “You’re property now.”

He started to scrub my arms, my shoulders, my back. Hard, like I was something dirty that needed to be scoured clean. His fingers weren’t careful. They dipped where they shouldn’t, lingered where they weren’t welcome. I flinched once, and only once, then locked myself into stillness.

The other two stood by the wall, laughing, their eyes glued to me like I was a show they’d paid for.

“What’s your name?” I asked suddenly, loud enough to carry over the water. I looked straight at the man touching me.

He blinked, thrown. “What?”

“Your name. You’ve got hands on me. Seems fair I know who you are before I gut you.”

That made the other two snort, but the one inside the shower with me leaned closer, his breath hot against my cheek. “Derek. That’s all you get.”

“Good,” I said.

His face twitched into a smirk. I cataloged every detail. The scar on the left one’s chin. The cigarette burn on Derek’s wrist. The way the last one, Jason, was inching his way closer.

Derek suddenly squeezed the washcloth clean and tossed it to the side. His blue eyes narrowed on my lips as his fingers ventured between my thighs. Instantly, I jerked away from him, the cuffs digging into my wrists.

“Your body is fucking amazing,” he murmured, dipping his middle finger inside of me. I refused to cry. With his other hand, he unbuckled his pants.

“What are you doing, dude?” Jason asked, his voice rising an octave like he was scared Riley would come back.

“ Not putting my dick in her,” he answered, kissing my neck as his finger sank in deeper. I bit back an insult. I knew I should probably behave considering I was naked and handcuffed in a fucking shower. “Waylon won’t know. I’ll wash her off.”

Menacing smirks formed on the other men’s faces as they watched Derek tease himself against my thigh, uncomfortably close to their forbidden zone. Derek’s mouth found my breast, sucking while he touched me with one hand and stroked himself with the other.

I stared at the ceiling, disappearing into myself for a moment. At least it was only his fingers. It only took a few minutes for Derek to finish on my inner thigh.

“God, I wish you weren’t spoken for, pretty angel,” he rasped, tucking himself back into his pants. “Come on, guys. Want in?”

I sighed heavily. God dammit. Being a woman involved with criminals and the filthiest men of the underworld, this kind of shit was always expected at some point. So I endured while the other two did the same. This was already so stupid.

Derek threw gray sweatpants and a lacy white tank at me. I dressed, ready to face whatever hell Waylon had planned for me. And I stared down these men as they dropped me off at my cell. Because when the time came, I’d make sure they didn’t just die.

They’d remember why .