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Underestimating The Girl They Thought They Could Break

Hypothetical Question: If your house was haunted, would you rather have a creepy ghost that does nothing but make eye contact, or one that moves your stuff just to confuse you?

Carina

A week later, they come for me.

I don't go quietly.

I bite and claw, kick and scream until my voice is raw. My nails rake across flesh, drawing blood, and for a brief, glorious second, I hope I'll be beaten for it.

Beaten, not taken.

But they're trained for this. They expect the fight.

Four guards drag me through the house, my bare feet skidding against the polished floors. My silk robe hangs off my shoulders, torn in places from my struggle.

Martha, the housekeeper, watches it all.

She doesn't move. She doesn't speak.

Her face is as cold and blank as it's always been.

I used to wonder if she pitied me. If she ever felt even a flicker of remorse for standing by while my father starved me, struck me, broke me.

Now, I know the truth.

Martha never cared.

And I won't waste my breath hating her.

I learn fast that Lucian is even more of a monster than my father.

Lucian isn't just cruel. He's patient about it.

He doesn't lash out in sudden bursts of fury like my father. He calculates his punishments and ensures they have a purpose.

Pain should teach lessons. Fear should break wills.

That's what he believes.

That's what I learn.

The first time I talk back, he hits me.

The impact sends me stumbling, my head snapping to the side. A bright, white-hot burst of pain spreads across my face, ringing in my ears.

The metallic tang of blood pools in my mouth. I straighten slowly, blinking away the haze.

I won't cry.

Lucian doesn't flinch at my reaction.

My eyes stay locked on the room behind him. This room that's become yet another prison cell. A bed is the only furniture in the room. I don't even have a wardrobe—Lucian brings me a carefully chosen outfit for me each morning.

He watches me, his lips curling in amusement. "Your father assured me you'd be obedient by now," he murmurs. "Yet here you are, still snarling like a feral cat."

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "I guess he oversold me."

The air between us crackles with tension. His jaw tightens as his fingers twitch at his sides. "Careful," he warns, his tone deceptively calm.

"Push me too far, Naomi, and you'll regret it." He also refuses to use my new name, and each time I hear the name Naomi, it makes me feel like I’m still a child, being beaten and broken by all the men in my life. Perhaps I haven’t changed as much as I thought.

I want to tell him I already regret every second in his presence. Instead, I swallow the words, biting my tongue until I taste copper. Every time I fight him, he wins in some way. But I can't always stop myself.

Lucian steps closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. His cologne—a sharp blend of bergamot and something darker—fills my nose, making me want to recoil. He's too controlled and precise, which scares me more than rage ever could.

"Do you know why I don't break my toys all at once?" he murmurs, reaching out to tilt my chin up with a single, unrelenting finger.

I jerk away, but his hand clamps down on my jaw, his grip firm and bruising.

"Because I enjoy the process," he says, voice laced with satisfaction. His thumb presses into my cheekbone, just enough to make me wince. "Breaking someone takes patience. Precision. It's an art. And you, my dear, are proving to be a rather stubborn canvas."

I force myself to meet his gaze, summoning every ounce of defiance. That's all I have left.

"And you're just another pathetic man trying to feel powerful by tearing someone else down," I retort, my voice steady despite the tremor in my fingers. "Must be exhausting."

The slap comes fast. A sharp, cracking sound fills the air before pain explodes across my face.

I stumble but catch myself, my pulse hammering as I taste blood. Tears threaten, but I lock them down, refusing to let him see my weakness.

Lucian leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear. "Keep testing me, Naomi. I enjoy the challenge."

His tone is almost amused. Almost. But I hear the warning beneath it.

He steps back, straightening his cuffs as if nothing happened. That's what terrifies me most.

"Reflect on your behaviour," he commands with a dismissive wave before turning to leave.

The door clicks shut, and only then do I let myself breathe.

My legs give out, and I sink to the cold floor, pressing a hand to my burning cheek. The pain is nothing compared to the war raging inside me.

I hate him. I hate how he plays his games, and it makes me anticipate what's coming next. He hasn't forced himself on me—not yet—but the waiting, the fear of when or if it will happen, it’s its own kind of torture.

I press my palm harder against my bruised skin, welcoming the sting.

I won't break.

I can't.

I close my eyes and picture Nate. His arms are around me. His voice is steady, anchoring me when the world tilts off its axis.

He's my light. My tether.

And he's out there. Waiting.

"I'll get out of this," I whisper to the empty room, my voice raw but resolute. "I'll get back to him."

And I'll make Lucian and my father regret underestimating the girl they thought they could break.