MasukAdrian
The name had mattered. That was why I read it again as the car slowed at the wrought-iron gates. St. Aurelia International Academy.It was not ostentatious or cold. Stone and glass balanced in a way that suggested permanence without arrogance. When I had reviewed the files at three in the morning, this was the detail that had held my attention longest.There were no donor wings named after living benefactors. No glossy mission statements promisingGwenControl, I was learning, did not collapse all at once. It frayed. Thread by thread. Decision by decision. Breath by breath. The problem was noticing when the threads began to loosen. Camilla noticed. Of course she did. She arrived the next morning, unannounced. Not unusual but earlier than expected. That was new. I saw her from the upstairs window this time, the same vantage point I had once used to observe her like something distant and untouchable. Not anymore. Her car rolled into the driveway with that same quiet confidence, but there was something sharper in the way she stepped out. Less fluid, yet more deliberate. She was looking at me through the windows. I didn’t move away. I let her see me standing there, still and unhidden. Downstairs, the house shifted immediately to accommodate her presence. My mother’s voice softened. My father’s posture straightened. Even the staff moved with a subtle increase in attentiveness. Camilla DiCarpo had arrived. And the world, as alwa
Gwen The manager did not return immediately. That, in itself, was information. I stood where I was, near the center of the studio, letting my eyes wander without appearing to search. The space had evolved in my absence, new equipment, updated branding, unfamiliar staff....but the bones of it remained mine. The layout. The light. The intention behind it. They had built on my foundation. Without me. I walked slowly toward the far wall where my original designs used to hang. They were gone now, replaced by newer work, clean, technically competent, but lacking something I couldn’t quite name. Risk, perhaps. Or hunger. “Ms. Cruz?” I turned. The manager stood a few feet away, a folder in his hand, his expression carefully neutral, but not entirely successful. There was tension there now. Awareness. “Thank you for checking,” I said calmly. He cleared his throat. “The ownership… is a bit complicated.” Of course it was. “Explain,” I said. He hesitated, then opened the folder. “Five years
GwenThe first move is never the loudest. It is, in actual fact, the quietest. The one no one notices until it is too late to undo. I understood that now.Not in theory. Not as something I had once been taught in boardrooms and strategy sessions, but in my bones. In the steady rhythm of my pulse as I stood in front of the mirror that morning, fastening a pair of simple earrings with hands that no longer trembled. I chose them deliberately.Not the expensive ones my mother favored. Not the understated ones Camilla had once complimented. These were mine. From before. From a version of me that had built something with her own mind, her own instincts, her own will. A reminder of who I was before the kidnapping. I dressed without calling for help. Another deviation. By the time I stepped into the hallway, the house was already awake, humming with quiet efficiency. Staff moved through their routines, my family settled into theirs, and for the first time since my return, I did not feel like
Alejandro/ Inferno The Haven of Shadows was never meant to impress anyone. It was not carved from marble or crowned with banners like the courts of kings. No towering walls. No ceremonial guards.Just stone. Old, breathing stone that had seen too much blood to pretend it was holy. Twenty–nine souls lived within it. Only, twenty–nine. Not an army or a kingdom. More like a blade.Every member was chosen because they were necessary, not because they were loyal, not because they were strong, but because they were irreplaceable.Tonight, all twenty–nine were present. No one spoke. They had felt it before I entered. The shift in the air, the pressure and the way shadows leaned instead of standing.Koa stood to my right, silent as ever, his hand resting near the hilt at his waist, not in threat, but in instinct. Across the chamber sat the Five Ancients. Valerius Drakos. Cassian Drakos. Ragnar Frostbane, Seraphine LaRoux and Eldric Moreu. And beside them, Eamon sat still and watching. Always
GwenThe thing about cages is that you don’t notice the bars until you start testing them. Once you do, you feel them everywhere.I woke before dawn with my heart racing, not from a nightmare, those had grown dull with repetition, but from clarity. The kind that arrived quietly and refused to leave. My body lay still beneath the sheets, but my mind was already moving, retracing conversations, glances, silences that had once felt benign and now revealed their teeth. Camilla believed I was manageable. That belief was her advantage. And, if I was careful, her undoing.I dressed slowly, choosing clothes that signaled compliance rather than challenge. Soft fabric. Neutral colors. The version of Gwen the Cruise family had grown accustomed to; recovering, grateful, subdued. It cost me something to put that costume back on, but rage, I was learning, did not require spectacle to be lethal. It required patience.Downstairs, the house breathed its familiar rhythm. Staff murmured. Doors opened a
GwenSilence used to terrify me. Not the peaceful kind, the heavy kind. The kind that pressed in on my ears until my own thoughts sounded dangerous. The kind Mason used as punishment. The kind Camilla weaponized, dressing it up as “rest” and “reflection” while my mind was being slowly unstitched. But this silence was different. This silence was chosen.I sat by the window in my room long after midnight, the villa asleep around me, the Mediterranean stretching black and endless beyond the glass. Somewhere across that water, Kayla was dreaming. I wondered what filled her sleep now, classrooms and crayons, laughter that didn’t flinch, stories she was learning how to finish out loud. I wondered when I had stopped believing I deserved the same.My phone rested in my palm, warm from repeated use. I had replayed the video Adrian sent earlier so many times that I could recite it from memory. Kayla walking through the school gates without hesitation, her small fingers curled around her backpac
Author's POVTo my lovely readers. I thought it necessary to clarify a few things concerning, A Kiss For Every Bruise. In this story, I am not romanticizing trauma, nor am I simplifying abuse. I have no intention of turning healing into a miracle cure.I am only trying to do something far more diff
Adrian’s POVKayla tested me again on the fourth morning. Not in any dramatic way. Not with tears or tantrums or fear. That would have been easier. That would have made sense. Instead, she tested me with silence.Breakfast was already set when she climbed onto her chair. Same chair. Same table. Sam
Adrian’s POVSafety, I was learning, had a shape. It was not loud. It did not announce itself. It did not arrive with declarations or promises or heroic acts. It arrived quietly, over time, through repetition. Through predictability. Through what did not happen.Kayla sat on the carpet across from
Adrian’s POVMiguel warned me this would happen. Not with gravity. Not like a lecture or a diagnosis. He had said it casually, the way men talk about storms they’ve already survived.“She’s going to test you,” he had said, leaning against the kitchen counter while Kayla sat on the floor lining up t







