Page 49 of When Kings Bend

As we pull up to Wolf's place, a shiver runs down my spine. The driver stops, and I fumble for the fare, my hands trembling. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, battered and bruised, but there's a spark of defiance in my eyes. I can do this. I have to.

"Thanks," I mutter to the driver, pushing the door open and stepping out. The cold air hits me, stinging my cuts and bruises. I square my shoulders and head towards the entrance, each step a painful reminder of what I've been through. But I'm still standing. And as long as I'm standing, there's hope.

My legs are unsteady but determined. I make my way to his office, the path familiar despite the haze of pain and drugs. I know exactly where he keeps his stash.

Once inside, I head straight to the hidden compartment behind the bookshelf. My fingers fumble for a moment before finding the small white bag. I pull it out, my hands trembling with anticipation. With quick, practiced movements, I pour the contents onto the table and use my fingers to form large white lines.

I don't have anything else to use, so I bend down and sniff them off the table, the harsh chemical smell burning my nostrils. The instant the drug hits my system, a rush of euphoria washes over me. I throw my head back and laugh, the sound echoing in the empty office.

For a moment, the pain fades, replaced by a heady mix of relief and reckless abandon. The world around me blurs, and I am invincible, untouchable. I know it won't last, but right now, it's exactly what I need.

"Freedom!" I scream, not caring who hears me. This is my fucking domain now. The sound echoes through the empty halls, a declaration of my newfound power. I stride over to the bar and grab a bottle of whiskey, unscrewing the cap with a savage twist.

My eyes land on Wolf's desk, littered with plans and pictures of young women, reminders of his twisted control. With a wicked grin, I start pouring the liquor over everything, soaking the papers and photographs. The sight is so satisfying, all of his meticulous plans dissolving into a soggy mess.

When the bottle is empty, I don't hesitate. I smash it against the wall, the sound of shattering glass sending a thrill through me. I grab another bottle, my hands steady now with purpose. I take a swig, the burning liquid fueling my fire.

"I own this place now," I whisper to myself, feeling a surge of defiance. This is my moment, my revenge. Everything he built, everything he controlled—it's all mine to destroy. I take another drink, savoring the taste of rebellion and freedom.

I walk through the brothel, the sound of my heels clicking against the stone floor echoing in the empty halls. The bottle of fine whiskey in my hand—sloshes with each unsteady step. I stagger, but I keep moving. The chaos on the yacht made everyone forget me.

Alecto had rushed back to the pier after Niamh was pulled from the water. Thank God for the high society on that yacht; with their abundance of high-ranking medical professionals, they had rushed to Niamh’s side as Diarmuid had frantically tried to pull her from the edge of death. Poor little ballerina Niamh was causing all sorts of worried brows and frantic whispers. She was still unconscious when I slipped into a cab and left. I wonder if it had been me dragged deep under, if anyone would have blinked, or would I, even now, be rotting at the bottom of the ocean with Wolf?

The fabric of my dress clings uncomfortably to my skin, catching on the open wounds. My thighs, my face, my entire body still ache from the damage Wolf inflicted on me. Every step is a reminder. But it will heal. Eventually, all wounds heal. He will never get to lay his hands on me again.

I take another swig from the whiskey bottle, feeling the burn down my throat. For the first time in a long time, I am in control of my own fate. I don’t know what my cure is yet, but I will be the one to choose it. No more being forced into corners and cages.

The halls are eerily empty. Surely, no one here has heard about what happened yet. They don’t know that Wolf is gone. Gone. The thought brings a twisted sense of satisfaction. Oh, ladies. It is only Amira who haunts these hallways now. I grin and run my hands along the walls, my finger catching on the edge of some ancient painting. I watch with satisfaction as it tilts and falls from the wall to crash on the ground behind me.

When the staff are around, they avoid me. They hate me. I can see it in their eyes, in the way they scatter like mice when I pass. But what they don’t understand is that I was just as much a victim as they were.

I laugh bitterly to myself. Victim or not, I’m still standing. And for now, that’s enough. I can’t see the staff, but I know they hide like rats in their rooms. I don’t want them here; I don’t want to see their accusing gazes or hateful stares anymore. My steps grow more rushed, and a scream tears from my throat.

I scream and bang on doors, my voice raw and wild. "Get out! Everyone, get out!" I'm a madwoman, tearing through the rooms like a whirlwind. I fling open every door, tearing into each room and unleashing destruction on everything I touch. The maids look at me, stunned for a moment.

“Are you fucking deaf?! Get out!” Two scurry past me like the rats they are. Every picture on the wall I rip down, every chair I turn over, all of the bedding I rip free from the beds, knocking over lamps, and their meager possessions rain down on the floor.

I re-enter the hall and howl from the top of my lungs. “Get out, now!!!” Doors open, and maids with bent heads rush from their rooms. I laugh.

“Run! Run! That’s all you can do now!!”Darkness overtakes me, and all I am is a symphony of rage and chaos.

The women scream in fear, their cries mingling with mine. But as for my screams, I don’t know what they are. I’m not ready to slow down and figure out what I’m feeling. I just know that I hate this place. I hate every inch of this fucking place. I want to destroy it all. It doesn’t exhaust me to tear each room apart; it drives me to do as much damage as I can. A lamp sails across the room and smashes through one of the closed windows. Glass rains down, and a breeze stirs the curtains.

I’m back in the hall, and I lift one of my heeled shoes and kick open the door to one of the love rooms. Pillows. Blankets. Beds. Hearts. All mocking facades of affection. There was no love here. There was never love here.

Taking another long drink from the whiskey bottle, I start piling pillows and blankets in the middle of the room. The fabric rustles with a sinister whisper, feeding my fury. I stagger to the fake fireplace against the wall and light the candles, each flame a spark of defiance. Laughing manically, I carefully walk back to my pile, setting the candles among the mass of fabric. I'm precise with the candles but careless with the junk I heap on top of them.

Before long, the pile begins to smoke. A vibrant orange flame catches, crackling and dancing. The sight only fuels my madness. I throw anything I can find into the growing inferno—sheets, cushions, even the gaudy heart-shaped decor. When I run out of objects, I take one last swig of the whiskey, the burn in my throat a match for the fire in my heart. With a defiant cry, I toss the bottle into the flames.

It explodes with a deafening roar, shards of glass scattering like deadly confetti. The far wall catches, the fire spreading rapidly, consuming everything in its path. The room transforms into an inferno, a chaotic symphony of destruction.

I stand there, watching the flames engulf the room, a twisted sense of satisfaction curling through me. This place, this lie, is burning down, and with it, a piece of my past. Let them hate me. Let them fear me. In this moment, I am free.

I'm laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks, my eyeliner running in dark streaks. There are still people here. I bang on the remaining doors, yelling at everyone to leave. "Get out! Get out now!" But my screams are unnecessary; they’re already running from me, their terror palpable. Girls who had been brought here from training, moving at the speed of light.

I stop at the door to the basement, where my mother’s corpse is surely rotting away. No one had removed her from her cage, and the moment I open the door, the smell has me dipping my head into my shoulder.

The smell hits me like a brick wall as soon as I step into the basement, making me gag. My stomach churns, but I force myself to keep moving. I have to. I make my way to the cage at the far end, the dim light casting eerie shadows on the walls. Two bodies lie inside, twisted and mangled. As I approach, rats scurry away, their tiny claws scratching against the concrete.