Runaway

Madden walked closer to Onora. She stepped backward, her heart racing like a feral beast trying to escape its cage. His steps continued, low clicks and soft thuds.

Each step brought him nearer, and each step drove her farther back. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she knew it was bad, dangerous—and she was too soft for that.

Onora’s back pressed against the wall as he took another step closer. He pinned her to it, her breath stopping as he leaned in, their faces just an inch apart.

What was he going to do? Kiss her savagely like they do in movies until she lost her breath completely?

He placed his nose against her neck, his warm breath grazing her skin. Maybe he wanted to give her a hickey to claim her—or maybe take it to the next stage.

“My lord, the slave in the torture room looks dead,” a man in a suit reported with his head bowed, his voice laced with respect.

He glanced at their position, then his eyes widened. “My lord, I am sorry if I interrupted anything,” he said quickly, dropping to his knees.

Madden stepped back. “Run, little girl, now that you can.” He smirked, then turned to the man in the suit.

Onora exhaled deeply—all the breath she had been holding in. She thanked God the man had come, and yet cursed him inwardly.

Madden entered the torture room, his gaze locking on the man hanging there. He looked dead, just as reported.

Madden walked toward him, his steps venomous. He raised the man’s face with his chin. His face was still swollen, and the blood on his cut lips seemed to have stopped bleeding—it was half dried.

“Beautiful,” Madden muttered. His lips curled into a smirk. He placed his fingers on the man’s pulse and realized he still had thin lines of survival.

“Take him to the infirmary. Make sure he survives, then give him enough food for today. His torture continues tomorrow.” His voice was cold.

“Yes, my lord,” the man in the suit bowed. Immediately, other suited men entered and carried the prisoner away from the room.

---

ONORA’S SUITE

Onora walked in, her gaze darting around the room until she found her kitty on the bed stand.

It ran to her. She rubbed its fur gently, and it meowed softly.

“Don’t worry. Mr. Tiger won’t hurt you anymore. I know he’s mean and bullies us because he’s bigger than us,” she whispered to the cat.

“Meow,” the cat replied.

“Oh, you don’t know who Mr. Tiger is? He’s the mean, big-ass bully called my husband,” Onora snarled.

“If that man in the suit hadn’t come, I think I would still be there—his long, stupid nose against my neck, his big body covering every part of me.” Onora sneered, holding her forehead dramatically. Anger surged through her, for reasons she didn’t even know.

“And guess what? He told me to leave while it wasn’t too late. It really hurts when everyone around you rejects you.”

Onora sniffed, a tear sliding down her cheek.

She hadn’t wanted to cry, but it just came. Even in this so-called paradise, no one loved her. The man she was forced to marry wanted her out of the house. Her stepmother saw her only as a sacrificial lamb, and her stepsister hated her for reasons she didn’t understand. It hurt so much—pain she couldn’t even describe.

“I think we’re leaving tonight. They don’t want us here, so we won’t be here,” Onora said, wiping her tears.

She didn’t know how she would run away, but she would. She must.

---

The sharp clicks of heels echoed against the tiles. She walked in like she owned the place. The men in suits lunged toward her, their guns pointed directly at her, but she didn’t seem to care.

She continued her catwalk, a smirk on her lips as the guards held her back.

“Who are you?” one demanded.

“Call your boss. He knows me,” the woman replied.

They glanced at each other before one of the men ran to summon him.

While they called for him, she stood there admiring her nails. Then he came—Madden.

She smirked when she saw him.

“What are you doing here?” Madden asked, his voice cold as his glare pierced her.

“I don’t think that’s the right way to welcome a partner,” the woman smiled.

“What are you doing here, Agatha?” Madden asked again.

“Grandlord sent me to inform you that today we will be going on a mission,” Agatha replied.

“Cartel members are not allowed in my side of the castle. He could have sent—”

“Your nosy best friend? Come on, she’s a member of the cartel.” Agatha rolled her eyes.

Madden’s fingers wrapped around her neck and slammed her against the wall. She hit his hands, struggling to breathe, his grip tightening around her throat.

“Don’t ever cut me off. I’ll spare you just this once,” he snarled like a beast.

Agatha fell to the tiles, coughing, his fingerprints bruising her neck. Then he left.

---

It was dusk. The clouds glowed brown as the sun sank into the horizon. From above, it looked peaceful—but below, it was not.

On the muddy ground, footsteps echoed as boots stamped against the earth.

Onora ran. She wore a luxurious gown designed with silver and diamonds. Men in armor chased after her—more than a hundred of them. She pushed herself to keep pace, desperate not to be caught.

The armored men bore different designs: one set etched with wolves, another with dragons, one in pure black, and the last with skulls.

She fled into a cemetery, running until she reached a wall. She turned—no men. The footsteps had stopped.

Her gaze caught a cave. It glowed blue, red, and green, while shadows lingered in its darkness.

It called her name. Onora. Onora. Onora.

Slowly, she stepped inside. With every step, the voice grew louder.

There it was—the source of the call. A throne made of thorns, fangs, and bones.

“Reunite or destroy,” it whispered.