Page 34 of Monsters Carve Thrones (Crowned Monsters Duet #2)

Waylon was distracted. He was beginning to truly believe that I’d never get away from him.

They were discussing a delay in one of the routes.

Something about customs, and a man who was supposed to “take care of it” disappearing.

It seemed serious, judging by the shift in tone and the way one of them slammed a glass down.

But Waylon didn’t rise to it. He was watching. Calculating. He was trying to solve something. Which meant he wasn’t watching me.

Good .

Let him get lost in whatever business endeavors required his attention. I just needed to remain calm and wait for the perfect opportunity. I had to get Olesya to agree to help me. Hopefully, she’d agree for both of our sakes.

The conversation circled tighter around the missing shipment.

“We can’t afford delays right now,” said the man at the end of the table–older, with a scar down his temple and a gold tooth that flashed when he spoke.

Yikes . “The Russians are breathing down our backs again, and the Croats are sniffing around in Montenegro. If this product doesn’t land where it needs to, we lose more than money. ”

Waylon didn’t blink. “Then we find out who’s responsible.”

Another man, younger, leaned in. “Could be a mole. Someone feeding intel. You’ve already had heat lately. That stunt in Warsaw…people are still talking.”

A pause.

Waylon’s fingers tapped once against the table. “Warsaw was handled.”

“Clearly not if someone got close enough to leak names.” A heavy silence followed that.

I pretended to fidget uncomfortably in my seat. My stomach twisted, not from fear, but from a cold, vicious thrill.

They were unraveling. Just a little.

A man to Waylon’s left shifted the subject. “We can clean it up,” he said. “If the shipment doesn’t move by Friday, we torch the warehouse and blame it on Angelo and his crowd. Buy ourselves a few weeks.”

Waylon grunted approval. “Do it.”

“And the Odessa contact?” someone asked.

Waylon’s voice dipped low. “Find out if he’s still breathing. If not, get someone else in that position. I want routes open again by the end of the month.”

It felt like listening to a war council. I had no fucking idea what they were discussing, but I still listened closely. I sat still, replaying everything. Odessa. Friday. A warehouse. Russians. Croats. These names. These threats. I clung to each thread like a lifeline.

“Gentlemen, let’s reconvene next week.” Waylon finally stood, straightening his jacket. “We’re done here tonight. I'm tired, and my pet needs to go to bed.”

“Lucky man,” one of them said with a sick grin.

Waylon just grunted again. Chairs scraped against the floor. Men drained the last of their drinks and moved toward the door. Some gave me curious looks. One winked. I forced my expression to stay blank, even when my hands curled into fists in my lap.

Waylon reached for me.

I stood before he could tug me. He liked that. His obedient dog. His hand curled possessively around my waist as he guided me out of the room. His palm was hot through the thin cotton of the t-shirt, fingers digging in just enough to remind me who he thought I belonged to.

But I didn’t flinch.

I smiled at one of the guards we passed, jolting as I felt the bag going over my head again. I didn’t fight it, though. There was genuinely no use. But before they pulled it completely down, I turned to Waylon, meeting his eyes through the dim hallway light.

“Why did you even bring me?” I asked. “It’s not even midnight yet.”

His mouth curved into a cruel smile. “You’ve been such a good girl lately,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I thought you deserved a field trip.”

That wasn’t an answer. Not a real one. I knew it. So did he. But I didn’t press. He didn’t like it when I did. The bag came down the rest of the way, and the world vanished in scratchy blackness.

The ride back was tense.

His hand settled heavily on my thigh again. His fingers twitched every so often–whether from stress or something darker, I didn’t know.

Then I caught the scent. A trace of stale perfume rising from the shirt I wore. The fabric clung to me, and now that I noticed it, I couldn’t un notice it. Cheap, sugary sweetness that turned my stomach. It didn’t belong to me. It belonged to her –Waylon’s last “whore,” the one Riley smirked about.

I swallowed hard, forcing down bile. My hands curled into fists on my lap, nails digging into my palms. I wouldn’t vomit. I would not.

When we pulled into the gates of the estate, the cold night air hit me like a slap when the car door opened. I stumbled slightly as they dragged me out, the bag still over my head. Gravel crunched beneath my feet, then tile, then the heavy creak of doors.

Home sweet fucking home.

They removed the bag once we were inside my prison. The room looked the same as it always had. The guards didn’t speak as they fastened the cuffs around my wrists again, tethering me to the iron bar at the head of the bed. The leather bit into my skin, irritated and raw from constant friction.

I glared at them as they shut the door behind them. The lock clicked. Then, it was just him and me. Waylon stood by the window for a long moment, gazing out at the darkness like his mind was elsewhere. The light above us flickered once.

He looked... tired.

He rolled his shoulders, peeled off his jacket, and finally turned toward me with slow steps. His gaze ran over me–tied up, dirty, worn down–but there was a gleam in his eyes that made my skin crawl.

“You won’t be waiting for him anymore,” he said softly, almost like it was meant for himself.

I stayed silent. Let him hear his own madness echo back at him.

He came closer, crouching beside the bed, running a knuckle along the bruised skin just under my collarbone. “You don’t have to pretend anymore. You can stop dreaming about him. He’s gone.”

My jaw clenched.

He smiled again. “It’s just a matter of time before I get that lovely text that he’s dead.”

I kept my face blank. Calm. Even when my ribs felt like they were caving in. Even when the image of Rafe, bloodied and broken, flashed through my mind like a knife to the throat.

He thought this would destroy me.

He had no fucking idea.

Waylon stood and began undressing slowly as if this were just another night in a normal relationship. As if I were anything close to his.

I didn’t speak. Just watched him from under my lashes.

He tied his hair back as he always did before bed–dark, shoulder-length strands twisted into a messy bun at the crown of his head. His brown eyes narrowed at the ceiling like he was calculating something, already mentally a thousand miles away.

I watched him, quiet and still, but this time with purpose.

His muscular frame moved in long, deliberate strides as he crossed to the dresser.

Tattoos wrapped across his back and down his arms, black and red ink stretched over tan skin.

Symbols I hadn’t cared to look at before.

Now, I studied them. Not out of awe or fear, but curiosity.

Weakness always left a mark if you knew where to look.

Waylon was a frightening man.

But not like Rafe.

Rafe was a different kind of monster–unhinged, explosive, deadly in silence and in rage.

There were moments I saw it in his eyes, the way he handled people, how he killed .

It terrified me. And oddly enough, it was also the one thing I found myself counting on.

Because that terrifying man would tear the world apart for me.

But he was gone. Captured. Probably tortured by now. And if I wanted out, I couldn’t wait for a rescue. I would have to do it myself.

Waylon let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached the bed.

“Tired?” I asked softly.

He gave me a sideways glance. “You could say that.”

I nodded. “Then take my clothes off.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned toward me fully, eyes gleaming. “Do you want me, sweetheart?”

“No.” My voice was flat. “I just can’t stand the smell of her perfume anymore.”

The way his smile twisted made my skin crawl. He stepped closer and crouched beside me, his hand curling around my cuffed wrist, thumb brushing lightly over a healing bruise. “You are such a strange thing,” he whispered. “Beautiful even in your hatred.”

Then, to my surprise, he uncuffed me.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just sat up and let him undress me, piece by piece.

He worked slowly, dragging the fabric from my body like he was unwrapping a gift.

His fingers brushed the bruises along my ribs, the red marks across my hips from too-tight restraints. His gaze burned as he drank me in.

“You don’t even realize it,” he murmured. “How exquisite you are.”

I said nothing.

“So much so that I might consider allowing you to live. After Rafe is dead, I won’t have any concerns.” He leaned forward, planting a kiss on my lips. “You’ll learn to love this. Love me .” He kissed me again.

I kissed him back tentatively.

“You’ll moan my name when I make you come. Even though I know you probably feel conflicted about your orgasms, you won’t for long.”

I swallowed down the urge to vomit.

He left me in only my underwear for a long beat, his gaze sweeping down my form like he was debating whether he’d take more. Then, almost anticlimactically, he turned away and pulled a black tee from the drawer.

One of his. It was soft and worn, with a faint scent of clean cotton and tobacco. He slipped it over my head, and I pulled it down over my thighs with trembling hands. It hung baggy over me, swallowing my frame in comfort that felt out of place in this nightmare.

He secured the cuffs again with a tired smirk. Then he slid into the bed beside me, stretching his long limbs and exhaling deeply.

“Sleep,” he said, voice low, eyes already fluttering closed.

I turned my face toward the wall, my mind reeling with the knowledge that I could kill him right then.

I could reach under the mattress, retrieve that pen and stab him in the throat.

But I needed to be smarter. I needed Olesya on my side to accomplish my plan.

So, I’d endure however much more abuse I needed to from this man until I sorted everything out.