Page 60 of Monsters Wear Crowns (Crowned Monsters Duet #1)

His brow furrowed. “Adela–”

“One of his men found me.” I swallowed hard.

Rafe tensed. “What did he say?”

I hesitated. But there was no point in softening the blow. “Moreau still wants me on his side. And after last night…” My voice faltered, but I pushed through it. “He thinks I might be ready to listen. This man watched what you did to me.”

The room turned ice-cold.

Rafe’s face didn’t change, but the energy around him shifted into that slow, quiet burn I’d seen so many times before. “That’s not going to happen,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.

“I know.” My throat tightened. “But you need to understand why he thinks he has a chance.”

He stepped closer, but I held my ground.

“Rafe, I–” I took a shaky breath. “I can’t stay here.”

The words landed like a blow. His face hardened. “No.”

“I need space.” My voice cracked, but I forced myself to keep going. “I want to go back to my apartment.”

“That’s not safe.” His voice dropped lower. “Not with Moreau watching you.”

“It’s safer than being here.”

The silence between us was almost painful.

His eyes flashed. “You think I’d let anything happen to you? ”

“You already did.” My voice broke on the words, and his face went pale. “Rafe…I don’t feel safe with you anymore.”

I saw the moment it hit him. He stepped back with a sharp inhale as if I’d physically struck him. For the first time since I’d known him, Rafe Vaughan looked… lost . He turned away, raking a hand through his hair. His breathing was ragged, his shoulders tense.

“Adela–”

“I’m going,” I said quietly. “Tonight.”

He didn’t turn around. But when he finally spoke, his voice was hollow. “I’ll have someone take you.”

The words felt like a surrender. But they didn’t feel like victory.

***

The ride back to my apartment felt like a funeral procession. Rafe didn’t come with me. I hadn’t expected him to, but some twisted part of me had wanted him to fight harder. To beg me to stay.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, Kieran drove me in silence. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail, and his brown eyes focused on the road. I sat stiffly in the back seat, watching the city lights blur past. The night felt cold and empty.

When we pulled up to my building, Kieran killed the engine but didn’t move to get out. He turned slightly, his dark eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “You want me to come up?” he asked, his voice gruff.

I shook my head. “No. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Boss’ll want me posted outside.”

Of course, he would. Even now, Rafe couldn’t fully let go. I should’ve been angry. But instead, it just hurt. “Do whatever you want,” I said quietly, opening the door. “I don’t care. ”

The lobby was empty when I stepped inside.

But it didn’t comfort me. Not tonight. I made it to the elevator without breaking.

Made it all the way into my penthouse without a single tear falling.

But when the door clicked shut behind me, the silence felt suffocating.

I dropped my bag on the table and stood there, just…

breathing. My reflection stared back at me from the glass wall–rumpled, pale, eyes red-rimmed but dry.

I felt hollow.

I made it to the bathroom on autopilot. The warm water in the tub stung as I sank into it, my skin still tender from…everything. I couldn't help the flinch when I thought back to the bath I took after he…

I tilted my head back against the edge, closing my eyes. And finally, the tears came. Silent, shaking sobs that wracked my whole body. I hated myself for it. For the weakness, for the ache I couldn’t push down. But I let it happen. Because there was no one here to see me fall apart.

Except there was .

I felt him before I heard him. That shift in the air, that subtle awareness that someone had entered the room. My eyes snapped open, and Rafe was standing in the doorway. His face was unreadable, his icy eyes locked on me.

“Rafe–” My voice cracked, but the word didn’t even make it out before I saw the flicker of regret flash across his face. I scrubbed a hand over my face, pushing the wet hair back. “I told you I needed space.”

“I know.” He swallowed hard, taking a step closer. “But I…” His voice broke. “I hate the way we left things.”

My chest ached. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you ra–”

“I know .” He cut me off. “I know, Adela. And I’m so, so sorry.”

The words hit me like a gut punch. Rafe Vaughan didn’t apologize . But there he stood, shirt rumpled, eyes filled with something so close to fear that it made my heart hurt.

“I’ve never felt this before,” he said quietly. “What I feel for you.” The vulnerability in his voice broke something inside me. But I wasn’t ready to forgive him. Not yet.

“Can you please leave?” I whispered, my throat tight.

He didn’t move.

“Rafe–” My voice wavered. “Please. I came back here to get away from you.” For a second, I thought he’d refuse. But then he nodded slowly and stepped back.

He paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he said softly.

Then he was gone.

And I didn’t stop him.

***

RAFE

The house was quiet now. A hollow shell of everything it once was.

I stepped over broken glass in the foyer, the jagged remains of the security panel still sparking faintly from where I’d ripped it out of the wall hours ago.

Blood had dried on my knuckles. My suit jacket was long gone, my shirt torn, half-buttoned, and streaked with soot, ash, and sweat.

I didn’t pause until I reached the bedroom.

The bed sat untouched in the center of the destruction.

The linens were rumpled–hers. Her scent still lingered on the pillows.

I could almost see her there. The way she arched for me.

The way she whispered my name when her walls finally came down.

The way she clung to me like I was the only solid thing left in her world.

My throat tightened. Then the other memory hit. The one I couldn’t fucking push away.

Her tears. Her voice screaming for me to stop. The way she fought–not with fists, but with something worse. That look in her eyes. That terrible, hollow look that told me I had crossed a line I could never uncross.

I stumbled back a step.

My hand went out blindly, smashing into the dresser.

Wood cracked beneath my palm. I tore through the room like a storm, dragging lamps off tables, shattering mirrors, splitting the closet doors in two with my bare hands.

The sound was deafening, the crash of glass and splintered wood echoing through the halls.

And still, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t penance.

I threw my shoulder into the wall until my bones screamed. A painting crashed to the floor behind me. I didn’t stop. Not until I saw the gun.

It was on the nightstand, half-covered by a fallen bedsheet. Still hot from the fight. The muzzle blackened with residue, like it had soaked in the rage that had passed through this house.

My breath stuttered when I grabbed it. The weight was as familiar as any of the hundreds of guns I’d used to kill with over the years. My hand wrapped around the grip like it belonged there. My fingers twitched, and I paced like a caged animal. Like a man haunted by the thing in the mirror.

How dare I?

How fucking dare I.

I had raped her. Pinned her down. Ignored her voice. Her pain. All in the name of some twisted obsession I’d once called love. My legs gave out.

I dropped to my knees, the gun still clenched in my hand, the barrel dangling like it knew where it was supposed to go. I stared at the floor. “Why?” I whispered. “Why the fuck am I like this?”

I thought of my father–the monster in the wine-dark suit, always reeking of bourbon and violence. The fists. The screaming. The bruises I used to hide like a dog too ashamed to bite back. I thought of how hard I’d sworn I’d never become him.

And yet here I was .

The barrel found my chin. Pressed up, slow and steady, until the metal kissed my skin. My finger hovered on the trigger. I didn’t cry. I didn’t have any tears fucking left.

And now she was out there. Vulnerable. And I had made her even more so.

I exhaled, shaky and wrecked, my adrenaline rapid-firing through me. I lowered the gun. No. I couldn’t. Not yet. Not while Moreau still breathed. Not while the wolves were circling. I had to make sure she lived. Even if I didn’t deserve to. Even if she never forgave me.

I set the gun down beside me, resting it on the shattered floorboards, and let my head fall forward into my bloodied hands.

The Orchard House stood quiet beneath the night sky, surrounded by rows of vibrant apple trees.

A slow, dull ache crept into my chest as I pulled up.

God, this place reminded me of my mother.

The soft way she used to hum while peeling apples in the kitchen.

The sound of her slippers across old wood floors.

The scent of cinnamon and fresh earth and something gentler than anything I’d ever been.

I used to think this place was hers. But now, standing there, I realized she had only been borrowed by it, like a good ghost the house had chosen to keep.

A memory flickered. Adela’s laugh echoing in my backyard. The night of the stars. I remembered sitting there, watching her and thinking… if we ever had children, I’d want them to grow up here.

That thought hit me like a fist to the ribs.

I clenched my jaw and pushed it down. I wasn’t the kind of man who should have children.

I’d always known that. Knew it in my blood, in my bones, in every scar my father ever left on me.

I couldn’t risk being him . Couldn’t let some poor kid look up at me and call me father .

The curse had to end with me.

I stepped onto the porch, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Warm wood. A soft creak under my boots. The scent of dust and faint apples still lingered in the walls, like nothing had changed. It was such a contrast from the modern, sleek mansion.