Page 22 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

RAFE

The hotel bathroom was quiet, and the only sound was the soft drip of water from the showerhead. Steam clung to the mirror in a foggy haze, but I didn’t bother wiping it away. My reflection came through anyway–gaunt, drawn, and hollow-eyed.

The dark circles under my eyes looked bruised. I hadn’t really slept since Adela vanished. I couldn’t. Not when every second wasted was a second she spent in some godforsaken hell.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, sighed, and pulled on a pair of dark sweats and a black hoodie. It was late. Paris had long since quieted, the hum of traffic replaced by wind against stone and distant footsteps echoing along the cobblestones.

I stepped out onto the balcony of our penthouse suite.

The crisp wind hit first, brushing over my face and tugging at the loose strands of hair near my temples.

The city below glittered with lights, and there in the distance, the Eiffel Tower pierced the night sky.

It was lit up, gold against velvet black, too beautiful for the kind of grief twisting through my chest.

I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” came a voice softly behind me.

Laura .

I glanced over my shoulder. She padded barefoot onto the balcony, wrapped in an oversized sweater, her blonde hair loose and wind-tangled. Her blue eyes scanned me, and I recognized an exhaustion that mirrored my own.

“You look like shit,” she added, but there was no malice in her voice. Just truth.

I took a drag and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the wind. “That’s because I feel like shit, Laura.”

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she leaned against the balcony rail beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. The night was quiet, but inside, we could hear Nico and Kieran cooking. Something sizzled on the stove, faint laughter, and the clink of a pan.

For a moment, it felt almost... normal. But it wasn’t.

“I miss her,” Laura said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” My jaw clenched. “So do I.”

We stood there in silence. Paris stretched around us like a painting. Somewhere far below, music drifted up from a saxophone on the street. The wind kicked up again, rustling Laura’s hair across her cheek. She didn’t brush it away.

She turned to me suddenly, something flickering in her eyes. “Can I…?” she asked, lifting her arms a little.

I blinked. Was she asking if she could hug me? I hadn’t been really touched since Adela. After a second, I gave a slight nod.

Laura stepped forward, slipping her arms around my waist, careful and soft like she was slightly nervous. I stood stiff for a moment, stunned. Then I closed my arms around her, holding her back. She was shaking slightly. So was I.

Adela wasn’t just mine. She was Laura’s best friend, her other half.

We were both breaking in different ways, mourning the same woman.

I kept one arm around her, the other lifting the cigarette to my lips again as I leaned into the railing.

We stood there like that for a long while–two warriors cracked open by someone they loved.

“I’m going inside,” Laura finally murmured, pulling back with a sniffle. “Gonna pour some wine before Nico burns whatever the hell he’s cooking.”

I nodded, watching her go. She hesitated in the doorway, gave me one last teary-eyed look, then disappeared into the warm, golden light inside. It was wild to know that she once hated me. I stayed on the balcony, still waiting for the world to give me one goddamn clue.

As I entered the suite, the scent of garlic and roasted vegetables met me. Christ, it all felt wrong with Adela missing.

Kieran was plating something on the marble kitchen island–a rustic pasta dish Nico had scrounged together from overpriced ingredients at the corner marché. Laura was already seated at the small round dining table, a glass of red in hand, her eyes distant.

I slid into the empty chair beside her. No one said anything for a moment.

Then Kieran tossed a dish towel over his shoulder. “We eat first. Then we get back to work.”

“Agreed,” Nico added, cracking open a beer. “Last time you skipped meals, Rafe, you passed out on the floor and scared the shit out of all of us.”

I didn’t argue. I was too tired to.

Dinner was quiet at first, with the clink of forks and the occasional sip of wine or beer. But eventually, the air shifted back toward strategy.

“She could be anywhere,” Laura muttered, pushing food around her plate. “That’s what makes this so goddamn impossible.”

“She’s not just anywhere ,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I meant. “She’s with him. And if I know a powerful man like Waylon, he won’t go far from what he thinks he can control. I wouldn’t.”

Kieran leaned back, arms crossed. “That’s what bugs me. If we were him, we’d assume he’d never be stupid enough to take her to Moscow. But maybe he’s smart enough to use that assumption. Hide her in plain sight.”

“Or he split his operation.” Nico leaned forward. “Half the files we’ve pulled from his old partners show signs of sudden asset transfers. Bank accounts emptied. One shell company disappeared completely–based in Budapest.”

Laura’s brow furrowed. “So, Europe. We knew that much. But where?”

I stared down at my plate, my appetite already gone. “He isn’t untouchable.”

Kieran gave me a long look, then nodded slowly. “So what’s next? Who do we hit?”

“We start with Kazimir,” I said, voice flat. “He used to broker deals for Waylon’s arms pipeline. He’ll know where Waylon’s been moving product–and women.”

Nico let out a low whistle. “Kazimir’s protected. That’s not going to be a friendly knock on the door.”

“It won’t be a knock,” I said, lifting my glass and draining what was left.

Laura exhaled sharply. “Rafe…”

I turned to her. “He has my wife. I’m not interested in goddamn diplomacy.” Silence fell again. The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Tomorrow,” I said finally. “We fly to Warsaw. That’s where Kazimir’s last account pinged. After that… we go to Moscow.”

Kieran raised his glass. “To following the blood.”

Laura clinked her wine glass against his.

The suite was dark when I stepped out onto the balcony again. The beauty and grace of the Eiffel Tower in the distance mocked me. It had no idea what it was overlooking–just another monster on the hunt.

Behind me, the others were asleep. Laura had curled up on the couch with a blanket. Nico and Kieran had taken opposite ends of the bed in the guest room. Silence filled every corner like smoke. I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small glass vial.

Oxy .

Not something I made a habit of. Not anymore.

But sleep… I hadn’t touched it in days. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face.

That last smile, her mouth against mine, her scent on my skin.

And then I saw blood. Heard the slam of her body against the floor.

Saw the front door swing open and that bloodied knife.

I poured two crushed pills into my palm and dry-swallowed them, the bitter powder sticking to my tongue. I lit a cigarette next, holding the smoke deep in my lungs as I leaned forward over the railing, elbows braced on the cold wrought iron.

Paris blinked beneath me. Beautiful. Indifferent.

My head started to float. My limbs slackened. The ache in my chest dulled–just slightly. Like the grief was still there, just muffled under a blanket of static.

I let my eyes fall shut.

In the silence, I imagined her voice. The lilt in it when she teased me. The edge in it when she was angry. I imagined her hand on my chest, her laugh when I kissed her neck. I imagined holding her again. I’d grip her so tightly, she’d never be taken from me again.

But when I opened my eyes… there was only Paris.

And smoke.

And pain.

Eventually, I went back inside, stumbling slightly. The world was blurry at the edges, soft and seemingly unreal. I stripped my hoodie off, tossed it on the floor, and collapsed face-first on top of the bed.

Didn’t bother with the blankets. Didn’t need them. The drugs were already pulling me under. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t sleep.

It was nothing.

And right now, that was the closest I could get to surviving.

***

ADELA

I woke to the scent of leather and perfume. The cuffs still bit into my wrists–thick, black leather, fastened too goddamn tight. My arms ached. My body ached. But I kept my chin high as the door creaked open and Riley strutted in with a shit-eating grin.

Her brown hair was perfectly curled, a smug little smirk already tugging at her glossy mouth. “Well, well,” she purred, heels clicking across the stone floor. “You’re awake. How was your first night in your new suite? How did Waylon treat you?”

I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Riley’s eyes flicked to the bruises painting my thighs. She tsked softly, pretending to be sympathetic. “Rough, huh? He’s not exactly gentle when he’s excited.”

Still, I said nothing. I sat upright on the bed, back straight, wrists resting calmly in my lap despite the pain.

She leaned in slightly, inspecting me like she was admiring Waylon’s work. “You should be flattered, you know. He doesn’t give this much attention to the others.”

I looked up, meeting her gaze with ice. “The others?”

The smirk slipped for a second, then came back sharper. “You’re not the only woman he’s chained to his bed before.”

I tilted my head. “What happened to them?”

She narrowed her eyes at me, annoyed. “He’s a sick fuck, my boss. A couple of them, he strangled while having his way with them. Others, he just killed them. I’ve had to clean up a lot of blood. Some died right where you’re sitting.”

My teeth gnashed together. Great. Now I had to wonder if he was going to kill me every time he choked me during sex.

“You’re not special, sweetheart. You’re just another plaything with an expiration date. Once he’s bored of you…” She shrugged. “Well. Let’s just say, I hope you like being disposable.”