Page 31 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

ADELA

It had been a week since Waylon started letting me out of the room more.

He called it a reward–my “good behavior.” I called it what it was: strategic submission .

I smiled when he expected it. I thanked him when he brought me food.

I let him do unspeakable things and whispered how grateful I was into the sheets afterward.

Every act was a razor in my throat, but I swallowed them with a sweet, broken-laced voice he adored.

Because I needed this.

I needed the freedom to move. To observe. To plan. The guards still watched me like a caged lioness who might bite their throats if they looked away too long. They weren’t wrong. I would. I would tear the flesh from their necks if I had even half a chance.

But today… I had more than half a chance.

Olesya came in late afternoon with clean towels and a tray of stale bread, grilled meat, and some unidentifiable stew. She didn’t meet my eyes, not with the guards flanking the hallway, but she did drop a hand towel a little too dramatically. It fluttered to the floor near the dresser.

One of the guards stepped forward, reaching for it.

“Oops,” she murmured, eyes flicking to me so fast I almost missed it. “I am clumsy today.”

He sighed and crouched, scooping it up. His attention was elsewhere for just three seconds.

I moved fast.

My hand slid beneath the lip of the desk drawer, a drawer I’d clocked days ago, cracked and splintered in the back. I’d spotted something there, and today, it was still there.

A fountain pen. The nib was jagged and sharp, the body cracked but sturdy. Likely not the best for writing, but perfect for stabbing.

My fingers wrapped around it, and I slid it up the sleeve of my cardigan with a practiced motion. My heart pounded, but I kept my expression blank. I turned, picked up the glass of water, and sipped it slowly, even as adrenaline sang like fire in my blood.

Olesya finished tidying, thanked the guards sweetly, and left. But I definitely didn't miss the slight tug of a smile before she turned away.

And just like that, I had a weapon.

***

Later that night, when the estate went quiet and only the buzz of the hallway cameras kept me company, I dug my fingers under the mattress. I tucked the pen beneath it quietly, my heart pounding in my ears.

No one would find it.

I lay back on the bed, sweat clinging to my thin tank top, my ribs sharper than ever.

My body ached constantly now, like my muscles were eating themselves.

I could barely eat more than a few bites each day, considering it was just nasty meat in a sauce that made me gag.

If I ever got out of here, I’d probably never be able to eat spaghetti again.

Anything with noodles made me nauseous now.

I made sure to toss and turn just loud enough for the guards to hear. Some nights, I whimpered. Others, I woke screaming. But I always said his name. “Rafe…” I moaned into the dark, curling inward as if from a nightmare. “Please... Rafe…”

If Waylon was watching, he’d see a woman unraveling. A prisoner caught in the throes of her own haunted past, whispering the name of a man who would never come.

But the truth?

I was fine-tuning a performance. My back ached. My ribs were bruised. My muscles trembled from lack of real food, and the carved-up skin around my wrists throbbed with every beat of my heart. But I was not broken.

So I let myself cry, just enough. I murmured things in my sleep. There were many nights when I honestly dreamed of Rafe and awoke with a jolt.

It kept Waylon unstable and on edge.

If I was still thinking about Rafe, it meant Waylon hadn’t won . But if I sounded like I was falling apart because of Rafe’s absence, then it fed into his twisted sense of power. I could use either to my advantage.

I could practically see it churning behind his eyes whenever he entered the room. He’d stare at me longer, linger over me like I was losing my ever-loving mind. I’d allow him to think he was winning.

Tonight, I stared at the ceiling, waiting for morning. My tank top clung to my damp skin. I hadn’t truly slept in days, but I’d mastered the art of pretending I had.

I turned my head slowly and let my lashes flutter like I was waking from another nightmare. I ensured my voice cracked right this time. “Rafe…” I whimpered, tossing my head on the pillow, brow furrowed like I was drowning in dreams.

The door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame. My eyes snapped shut. I felt his heavy steps and rough breathing. Then the mattress shifted violently under his weight.

“You really think he’s coming for you?” Waylon snarled, his voice low and venomous as he gripped my arms and shoved me beneath him. “ Wake up, sweetheart. Hey, wake up .” He shook me furiously. “He’s not coming. He’s never coming!”

I blinked slowly, dazed on purpose. Let him think I was waking from the nightmare, trembling. “W…Waylon?”

His eyes glinted in the dark. They were cold, hollow things trying to mimic control. He crushed his mouth to mine like a punishment, a violent claim meant to erase the name I’d whispered in my fake sleep.

I let him.

I kissed him back, soft and slow, like I was afraid of him. Curling my fingers against his shoulders, I let him press his weight over mine. Let him believe.

Even as he breathed, “You belong to me now,” I kept my expression fragile and wide-eyed like I was submitting. “You’re my plaything, understood?”

He didn’t notice the fire behind my eyes. He didn’t see that every soft moan was calculated. That every shiver was a performance. That I was cataloging everything–his weaknesses, his tells, the sloppiness of his obsession.

He thought I was falling apart. But really, I had never been more focused. I let him take what he wanted. Because I was taking something back. And when it was over, he collapsed beside me and muttered something about how I was “finally learning.” I just lay there, eyes open, staring into the dark.

The moment his breathing evened out, I whispered so low only the shadows could hear. “You’ll never fucking break me, you sack of shit.”

***

A low thunder rolled softly beyond the windowpanes. Waylon liked to sleep with the curtains open. He said he enjoyed seeing the estate from above, as if he were king of all he surveyed. Barf .

He wasn’t asleep yet.

His arm was heavy across my waist, his skin hot and damp against mine. I’d learned his rhythms by now–when he was too tired to be cruel and just wanted the illusion of intimacy. This was one of those nights. I could feel it in the way his fingers absently traced my side. No pain. Just possession.

I shifted slightly, turning toward him. “You always sleep like this?” I asked, keeping my voice low, almost sleepy. “Wrapped around someone like they’ll run away if you let go?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but I felt his muscles tense. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A pause. He pulled back enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Just… talking,” I murmured, brushing my fingers across his chest. “It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t pull away. “What do you want to know?”

I tucked my head back against his shoulder, made it look soft. Small. “Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand moved up to my hair, fingers combing through it roughly, absently. “I knew who you were before Moreau ever did,” he said. “You were fire in a silk dress. Dangerous. Controlled. Strong. You didn’t need anyone .”

I let my breath catch, as if flattered. “And that drew you in?”

“No. That made me want to own you.”

He didn’t even hate me. He wanted control. Something that sparkled so brightly he felt dim beside it.

“I never belonged to Moreau,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “You belonged to Vaughan. That’s why I took you.

” He was quiet for a moment, then said something that surprised me.

“I was never supposed to be like him, you know. Moreau.” A scoff.

“I worked under him, but I was smarter. I did everything right, but he still had everything. The men. The power. The women. An obsession with you.”

I leaned into the silence, choosing not to speak yet. Letting him fill the void.

He continued, voice lower now. “So I took it all back. Piece by piece, after Rafe put a bullet in him.”

“And does it feel better?” I asked, so softly he almost didn’t hear me. “Taking and owning instead of earning?”

He looked at me sharply. But there was something else there. Curiosity or uncertainty, maybe.

I trailed a hand across his stomach. “You don’t have to answer. You already did.”

I felt his breath catch. A seed. That’s all I needed to plant. Doubt. Vulnerability. The illusion of connection.

I turned in his arms and kissed his jaw gently, even if my heart clenched. “Goodnight, Waylon.”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t let me go either. As much as I loathed showing this demon affection, I knew I’d have a better chance at surviving.

And seeing my husband again.

***

RAFE

I came to with blood in my mouth. The taste was copper and rust, thick on my tongue, and my jaw ached like someone had taken a bat to it.

My head was splitting. Pounding .

I spat red on the cold stone floor beneath me. I tried to move and found my wrists bound behind me, the sharp burn of zip-tie plastic cutting into skin already rubbed raw. My vision swam before focusing on grim concrete walls, a single flickering bulb, and chains bolted to the floor.

A basement.

I knew the smell. Damp. Mildew. Sweat. I’d spent so much time on the other end of this sort of torture.

Laura was slumped to my left, blood trickling from her temple.

Nico sat against the wall with his lip split and breathing shallow.

Kieran knelt nearby, his shoulder clearly dislocated, lips moving in a silent prayer or curse. I couldn’t tell.

Waleria’s fucking trap had snapped clean. I growled low in my throat.

That bitch.