Page 1 of Monsters Wear Crowns
Prologue
The cold kiss of metal pressed against my throat. The sharp scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, blending with the coppery tang of blood.
My pulse pounded, a frantic, stuttering rhythm that seemed deafening in the silence. The world had narrowed to this moment, this breath, this choice.
“Tell me,” his voice was low, rough, laced with something dark and dangerous. “Is this what you wanted?”
I met his eyes. A thousand unspoken things burned there–anger, lust, and something terrifyingly close to possession.
I should have been afraid.
I was.
But beneath the fear, something else coiled tight inside me. I didn’t answer. I wouldn’t.
His lips curved, a cruel smile that promised I had already lost. The pressure against my throat eased, but his hand caught my chin in a rough, unforgiving grip as he tilted my face up to his.
“You wanted to play with monsters,” he murmured, his breath brushing my lips. “Now you’ll see how they break their fucking toys.”
The shot rang out.
And the world tilted.
Chapter 1
The city had no idea I existed. Not really. From my penthouse, I could see it all. The endless waves of yellow cabs, the soft blur of lights streaking across the skyline, the sharp silhouettes of buildings rising up against the darkening sky. From here, I was safe from the chaos of New York City, a sprawling network of people who lived and worked as if they mattered, but ultimately, it was just noise.
My apartment was everything I’d ever wanted. A clean, modern oasis high above the frenzied energy below. White marble floors glinted beneath the soft glow of pendant lighting, and the walls were lined with sleek, contemporary art pieces–colorful splashes of paint that felt sharp against the neutrality of the space. The furniture was minimalist, designed for comfort, but carefully curated to reflect power. Everything was in its place, nothing out of order. My best friend, Laura, always told me that it didn’t have enough warmth. But a certain coldness was all I’d ever really known.
I sank into the plush grey couch, running a hand through my long black hair as I kicked off my red heels. The tension from the day melted away as I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet wrap around me. Every day was a wild struggle, filled with the complexities of a woman overseeing a tech empire.
The glass in my hand was cool, the amber liquid insidecatching the light as I swirled it lazily. I sipped, allowing the warmth of the whiskey to slide down my throat, burning away any remnants of stress. Everything here–everything I’d built–was perfect. I was in control. I had become who my father trained me to be.
For now, anyway.
I sometimes felt my facade cracking under the solitude. I filled my nights with friends and men. But none of them ever satisfied my hunger. I was no delicate flower. I was a volatile fire, impossible to tame. The only thing that ever got close to fulfilling that aching inside me was my dirty books. I had about fifty of them on the bookshelf in my bedroom.
Just as my muscles finally relaxed, the doorbell rang. The sharp chime cut through the quiet, yanking me out of my haze. My fingers tightened around my glass, my pulse leaping in protest. No one came here uninvited. I was on the top floor.
I didn’t move at first, staring at the door as if I could will it to be an illusion. A mistake. A neighbor pressing the wrong buzzer. Then it rang again. Louder. Sharper. A cold ripple spread across my skin.
I set my glass down carefully, stood, and pulled the silk of my robe tighter around me. The warmth of the whiskey still clung to me, but something else settled deep in my stomach now. A slow, creeping nausea.
I moved toward the door, each step measured. My mind raced through possibilities–solicitor? Someone lost? But no. That didn’t make sense. I pressed my eye to the peephole. For a split second, there was nothing but an empty hallway. Then, he stepped into view.
Tall. Broad. Wrapped in black.
A hood obscured his face, casting deep shadows over his features. But Ifelthis stare. Felt the weight of it pressing through the door, through the thick walls of my apartment, as if it could reach inside and grip me by the throat. God, he was tall. He musthave been around 6’5”.
My breath stuttered.
He didn’t shift like someone waiting for a response. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his phone, or glance around nervously. He wasstill. Watchful. Waiting. His head tilted, a deliberate and horrifying action that revealed his mouth. He was smirking, a faint dimple appearing on his right cheek under the warm light in the hallway. My fingers curled into my palm. I should have stepped back and called security. But I couldn’t move.
Then, slowly, he lifted a hand.
Not to knock. Not to reach for the handle.
He dragged two fingers down the surface of the door. A whisper-soft stroke of skin against wood. A touch that sent something sharp curling through my stomach.
