Page 28 of Monsters Wear Crowns (Crowned Monsters Duet #1)

(TW: CNC: Consensual non-consent sex)

Rafe didn’t wait for my response, not that I was about to argue after that . He was already moving, barking orders to his men in that low, lethal tone that made everyone around him snap to attention. And me?

I was still staring at the photo. DEATH .

My hands curled into fists. The fear was there. I wasn’t foolish enough to pretend it wasn’t, but it was swallowed by something far sharper. Anger.

No one threatened me. No one pushed me into a corner. Moreau had no fucking idea whose cage he was rattling.

“Adela.” Rafe’s voice snapped me back to the present. He was watching me with that intense, unreadable expression. “That was a fucking threat, in case you didn’t know.”

I nodded. He was right. I let him lead me through the house, past his men, and into the night. The air was warm and heavy, thick with the promise of a storm. Lauren waved at me before sliding into one of Rafe’s black SUVs.

As the car pulled away, Rafe finally spoke. “We’ll get your things tomorrow.”

“I don’t need–”

He cut me off with a look. “You’ll stay with me until this is over.”

“I don’t like being handled,” I said flatly .

“Good,” he murmured. “Neither do I.”

***

The elevator doors slid shut with a quiet hiss, and I leaned against the cool metal wall, my phone still in my hand. Rafe’s last message stared back at me, blunt and commanding as always.

Pack your things. I’ll be there late tonight.

I rolled my eyes and typed out a quick response.

You could try saying please, you know.

The reply was instant.

I could. But I won’t.

My teeth sank into my lower lip, not out of frustration, exactly.

But still, my mood was soured. Days of this, the tension, the waiting, the feeling of eyes always watching me, had worn me thin.

This whole thing had spiraled so fast. One minute, I was sipping a martini in my favorite dress, flirting with the most dangerous man I’d ever met.

Now? I was being hunted simply for being involved with him.

I sighed and slipped my phone into my purse as the elevator doors opened to the lobby. The building was quiet, the warm golden light spilling across marble floors. I grabbed my mail, a few envelopes, and a glossy magazine and headed back up, my heels tapping softly against the floor.

When I stepped inside my penthouse, the sun had dipped below the skyline, drowning the city in indigo and gold. The quiet should have been comforting. It wasn’t.

Something was off .

The air was too thick, pressing against my skin. The silence stretched, unnatural. I shut the door, the soft click of the lock echoing louder than it should have. My keys hit the marble counter with a hollow clatter. And then…I felt it.

A presence.

I inhaled sharply. My gaze flicked to the far edge of the living room, where shadows bled into glass. A figure stood there. Still. Waiting.

A man.

Masked.

His face was completely hidden beneath the black fabric, his posture deceptively relaxed–like a predator waiting for its prey to panic. Ice poured down my spine. Every muscle in my body locked up, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans.

“Get out,” I said, my voice a quiet, lethal command.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe .

I narrowed my eyes. “You think you scare me?” My voice was steady, but my fingers twitched toward my purse. My gun was inside. If I could just–

He took a smooth and unhurried step forward, and I instinctively moved away and into the kitchen. A gloved hand slipped into his jacket. My stomach clenched. Then, with a flick of his wrist, steel caught the dim light. A knife. Long. Sharp. Deadly.

I swallowed hard, my fingers brushing the cool edge of my phone in my bag. The man saw. His head tilted, slow and intentional like he was warning me.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Get out of my fucking house, you low-life asshole. You’re nothing ,” I sneered. “I’ll give you my expensive watch. But that’s it. If you leave now, I won’t shove the barrel of my gun down your fucking throat and shoot.”

He said nothing. The knife twirled effortlessly between his fingers. Then, he reached out. And with terrifying ease, he flicked the lock on my door. The click was deafening. My stomach turned to stone.

Within the next moment, he lunged. Instinct roared through me, sharp and unforgiving. I didn’t hesitate. My fingers curled around the knife tucked beneath the side table, the cool steel grounding me as I turned, slicing upward in a single, fluid motion –

And met resistance.

A hand.

His fingers closed over the blade, stopping it inches from his chest. I choked on my sharp inhale, my heart pounding as I stared at the impossible sight before me– blood , deep and crimson, sliding in slow, deliberate drops onto my floor.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as react. A man should pull back. A man should curse, recoil , and clutch his wound with pain-widened eyes.

But he wasn’t just a man, was he?

I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling around the hilt as he squeezed, the slick warmth of his own blood coating his palm.

Slowly, purposefully, he pried my grip open, forcing the knife from my grasp until the steel clattered to the floor.

A breath, a blur, and suddenly, I wasn’t standing anymore.

My back hit something solid. A broad chest. An arm wrapped around my waist, yanking me against him.

His other hand clamped over my mouth before my scream could tear free.

Panic exploded in my chest.

I fought .

I twisted and kicked back, but he was solid as a wall. Indestructible. My heels scraped against the marble floor as he dragged me, forcing me against the cold glass.

“Shhh,” he whispered. The voice was distorted and rough.

My blood turned to ice.

His blade appeared again, gleaming in the dim light. He trailed it down my throat, slowly and deliberately, the metal cold against my skin. I went still. Not because I was giving in. But because I needed time .

Think. Think.

My gun was too far. And my knife was on the floor.

His grip shifted. In a swift, practiced motion, he pulled black rope from his pocket and bound my wrists together .

I gritted my teeth, fury surging beneath the terror. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” I hissed.

He tilted his head again, mockingly. The blade followed the line of my collarbone, down, slow, teasing. Then, he forced me onto the couch.

The bindings dug into my wrists as I fought against them, my breath ragged. “ Stop ,” I growled, my voice a warning. “Let me go, or I’ll slit your fucking throat.”

Instead of answering, he dragged the blade in a slow, teasing slide down the valley of my cleavage. My pulse roared in my ears, my body wound so tight I thought I might snap. The silent menace of him, and the way he exuded control made my stomach twist.

The knife paused .

The ropes around my wrists bit deeper as I fought against them, the coarse fibers scraping my skin raw. My breaths came fast, too fast, my chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow bursts.

And still, he watched me .

Not a single word. Not a single fucking sound.

Just the slow, deliberate shift of the knife in his grip.

He lowered it, dragging the flat of the blade along my thigh.

My skin erupted in goosebumps, heat and ice clashing in my veins.

The sensation was unbearable –the cold bite of the steel, the rough pull of the ropes, the sheer force of his presence.

“If you hurt me,” I snarled through clenched teeth, my voice a blade of its own, “I swear, you’ll die for it.”

His head tilted, slow and smooth, like a predator studying its prey. The knife glided higher.

I forced my face to stay defiant. Forced my voice to remain steady, even as my heart slammed against my ribs. “If anything happens to me,” I warned. “Rafe Vaughan will rip your fucking throat out.”

That finally got a reaction. The figure went still. Completely still. Several long moments passed before he moved. A lazy shift, like he had all the time in the world, as he crouched before me. My stomach plummeted.

His fingers reached up, curling under the edge of the mask. And he pulled it off. The breath left my lungs in a brutal rush. That wicked grin. That ice-blue gaze.

“Oh, love,” he purred. “I told you. Your apartment isn’t as safe as you think.”

My pulse thundered, fury and something far more than fury crashing through me like a storm. “You–” My breath heaved. My hands clenched into fists. “I could have fucking killed you!”

“Please.” Rafe leaned in, dragging his bloody knuckles down my jaw. His touch was light, almost tender, but the heat in his gaze? It made my throat go dry. “Admit it,” he whispered. “You’re glad it was me.” He casually removed his jacket, wiping his blood on it. “You really fucking got me.”

“You–” My voice shook. “You insane, manipulative–”

The knife clattered to the floor, but his hands were on me in the next breath, seizing my wrists and pinning me against the couch with effortless strength.

A sharp gasp tore from my lips. He loomed over me, his weight pressing me down. His lips curled into a sinful smile.

“Are you scared, little doe? ” he taunted, voice dripping with amusement.

The blade of his gaze cut deeper than the knife ever could. He reached down, fingers wrapping around the knife’s handle, and then, slowly, torturously, he ran the cold steel up the center of my throat.

I swallowed. Hard. Any sane woman would shove him away or, at the very least, run. But I wasn’t sane. I was furious . I was breathless . And I was burning .

“Let me go,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

Rafe didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. His grip tightened around my wrists, dragging them above my head in one smooth motion, forcing my back into a deep arch against the couch.

My breath hitched. His body caged mine, heat radiating off him like a furnace, and I hated the way my pulse betrayed me–leaping, pounding, wanting .