Page 50 of Monsters Carve Thrones
And I couldn’t wait to be unleashed on them.
The lock clicked again. I didn’t move or even flinch. I sat, arms wrapped around me like armor that wouldn’t save me, muscles tight, heart slow and steady like I was preparing for war. Because I was.
The door creaked open, and there he was.
Waylon stepped inside like he owned the very air I breathed, one hand in his pocket, the other running casually along the edge of the wall. He was dressed in black slacks and a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins prominent in his forearms.
His eyes dragged over me.
Not like the guards. Their gazes were crude and lazy.
His eyes were fuckingworse. They were calculated and possessive, the stare of a man who finally got what he wanted and would fight to the death to keep it.Lucky me.A smirk played at the edge of his mouth as he leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. “You clean up,” he said, voice like velvet over broken glass. “Nicely.”
I didn’t respond. He didn’t deserve my voice.
His gaze traveled lower. I clutched myself tighter. His smile widened. “You know why I’m here,” he said.
Yeah, I did.The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. My skin too tight over my bones.
“Get up,” he said simply.
I didn’t move.
“I said. Get.Up.”
Still, I stayed seated. I wanted to make him drag me. I wanted him to know I’d never go easy.
His eyes darkened with irritation, yes, but amusement too. Like he enjoyed the defiance. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. When he reached me, he crouched, bringing himself eye-level. “You think this is still your choice,” he murmured. “That’s cute.”
His hand reached out, brushing a lock of wet hair behind my ear. I flinched. He smiled like that was his favorite reaction.
“Don’t worry,” he added, his breath brushing over my jaw. “I’ll be gentle if you behave.”
I snapped my head toward him, spit landing on his cheek.
His expression didn’t change. But his fingers curled suddenly into my hair, yanking my head back with brutal force. I gasped. “That,” he said low, his nose nearly brushing mine, “was a mistake.”
I met his stare without blinking. “So was letting me live this long.”
He studied me like I was a painting he didn’t quite understand. Something dangerous and unpredictable. Then he chuckled. “You’ll break,” he whispered. “And when you do, you’ll be mine ineveryway.”
“Fuckoff, Waylon, you piece of dog shit.”
He stood and snatched my wrist. I bared my teeth, but it did nothing as he yanked me up. Cold stone gave way to velvet runners beneath my bare feet as he dragged me down one corridor after another. He hadn’t said a word since pulling me away, and I didn’t ask questions. Not yet. I was too busy memorizing every turn, every gilded doorway, every flickering candle and security camera tucked into corners.
His estate wasn’t just expensive... it was perfectly curated. It had ornate paneling and antique oil paintings of dead-eyed noblemen. It reeked of old money and old secrets.
He stopped only once, pulling open a tall set of double doors carved with lions. A guard I hadn’t seen before bowed his head slightly as we passed. I didn’t miss the sidearm clipped to his hip or the faint bruising along his jaw. Maybe he’d been one of the idiots who let the others touch me.
Good. I hoped it hurt.
Waylon’s grip tightened as we entered what could only be described as his private quarters. The bedroom was lavish in that cruel, mocking way with its gold-framed mirrors, silk sheets, and a chandelier. But it was a cage. Nothing more than a beautifully wrapped hell. The windows were sealed, and the walls were too pristine, like a hotel trying to forget it was also a prison.
One corner held a long table filled with files, laptops, and weapons. Another wall was lined with books, and for a moment, I hated that I noticed that detail. Hated that the man who took me might also read. He shoved the doors shut behind us with a quiet click.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, releasing my wrist. His voice was velvet over knives.
I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the ache. “I’m observing.”
