Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Lila’s POV

My wrists ached. The handcuffs from my last escape attempt had left bruises. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring ahead of me.
Two failed escapes, two times caught. First by Caius, then by the guards. In both cases, I was punished. My skin burned, the memory of Ronan's dildo machine, the clamps, the vibrator, sparking shame and heat I couldn’t shake.
I hated how my body craved his punishment, but a new plan took root, risky and sharp. Ronan’s obsession with breaking me wouldn't go away, but I’d turn it into a weapon. If I could learn his curse, his weaknesses, I’d use it to free myself, to find Mara. Yeah, I had to do that. 
I stood, my bare feet sinking into the rug. My gray dress scratched my skin. I needed to move, to act, to get closer to his secrets. Sitting still was death. 
I wore my shoes, strode to the door, my steps quick, my breath shallow, and headed for the attendants’ quarters. Vera would know how I could blend in, stay busy, listen for whispers about his curse.
The east wing’s halls were dim, crystal brands flickering. My shoes clicked on marble. Guards patrolled, their glowing eyes scanning, but I kept my head low, my hands clasped to hide the trembling. 
I reached Vera’s door and knocked. 
She opened it. “Lila? What’s wrong?”
“I need something to do,” I said, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “I can’t just sit in that room, waiting.”
Vera’s lips pursed, her hands folding. “You’re a guest, Lila. Guests don’t work.” Her eyes searched mine, wary, like she sensed my plan.
"I’ve been here too long,” I snapped. “I’m no guest. I’m a prisoner. Give me something, Vera. Please.” 
My heart pounded, my skin prickling. I needed her help, needed to stay close to the mansion’s pulse.
She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “The kitchen needs hands. They’re short on staff, preparing for the next feast.” 
Her eyes flicked to my wrists, the bruises, and I saw pity there. My stomach twisted, but I nodded, my jaw tight.
“Thank you,” I said, turning away, my pulse racing. The kitchen meant people, conversations, maybe secrets about Ronan’s curse. I’d be patient, careful, and I’d find what I needed.
The kitchen was a cavern of heat and noise, the air thick with the scent of raw meat and iron. My first day, I stood at a steel counter, my hands shaking as I sliced slabs of bloody flesh, the undead’s way. It was red, dripping, barely cooked. My stomach churned, bile rising, the smell choking me. I gagged, my eyes watered but I swallowed hard, kept cutting. 
The knife was heavy, my fingers slick with blood, my whip marks throbbing under my dress. I couldn’t show weakness. Not here, not with undead cooks watching, their glowing eyes sharp. By the third day, the nausea faded, my hands steadier, the meat’s stench just another weight to carry. My heart still raced, Mara’s face driving me, her coughs a constant echo.
I met Paula on the second day, an undead with short black hair and glowing eyes that softened when she smiled. 
She worked beside me, her hands quick, slicing meat with ease. “You’re not bad at this,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “For a human.” Her smile was warm, and my chest loosened, a rare relief.
“Thanks,” I muttered, my lips twitching, my hands steady on the knife. I liked her, her ease, her lack of judgment. My pulse slowed, and I leaned closer, my voice low. 
“What’s it like, being undead? Do you… feel the curse?” My heart thudded, the question risky, but I needed answers, needed anything about Ronan’s curse.
Paula’s eyes flicked to me, wary, but she shrugged. 
“It’s heavy,” she said, her voice soft. “A burden you can't shed. The king carries the worst of it, they say. Old magic, old pain.” Her hands paused, blood dripping from her knife.
My breath caught, my fingers tightening on my own blade. Old magic. Old pain. It was something, a thread to pull. I nodded, kept my face neutral, my heart racing.
I asked more, over the next days. I asked about the undead, their lives, the curse’s weight. 
Paula answered, some answers were vague but honest. Her glowing eyes told me she wasn't lying. 
My chest ached, guilt pricking me for using her, but Mara’s life was worth it. I chopped meat, my hands raw, my whip marks pulsing, and listened, storing every word, every hint. Ronan’s curse was a shadow, and I’d find its shape.
One night, I worked late, the kitchen quiet, the other cooks gone. The air was thick, the scent of blood and bone clinging to my skin. My hands ached, wrists sore from hours of slicing, my dress was damp with sweat. 
I wiped my brow, my knife clinking on the counter, when footsteps echoed behind me. My heart lurched. I turned, but an undead was on me, his glowing eyes wild, his hands pinning my shoulders to the wall.
My breath seized and my back slammed against cold stone. Pain shoot through my spine. His teeth was bared, aiming for my neck. I screamed, my voice raw, my hands clawing at his face, nails scraping skin.
His teeth grazed my throat, a sharp sting, but he missed, his head jerking back. A shadow moved, fast, and a blade flashed. The undead grunted, blood spurting, and collapsed, his body thudding to the floor. 
My chest heaved, my legs trembling, my neck burning where his teeth had touched. Caius stood there, his red robe stark, his glowing eyes cold. His knife dripped blood, his face blank. My heart pounded, fear and rage tangling. He didn’t speak, just turned, his boots clicking, and walked away, leaving me shaking against the wall.
I slid to the floor, my breath ragged, my hands clutching my knees. The kitchen’s air choked me, the blood’s stench thicker now, mixing with my sweat. My whip marks throbbed, my neck stung, a faint trickle of blood seeping. Why had Caius saved me? 
My stomach clenched. He wasn’t my savior, not with those mocking smirks, his threats to finding out who I was. My hands shook, my nails digging into my palms. I stood, legs wobbling, and grabbed my knife, its weight grounding me.
I was alive, but not safe. Ronan’s obsession, Caius’s games, the undead’s hunger. Everything scared me. They all circled me, tightening like a noose.
My chest ached as Mara's face came back to me. I still heard her coughs now. Again, I wouldn't give up. I would use Ronan’s need to punish me, twist it to learn his curse, to find a way out. 
My heart pounded, my skin was hot despite the kitchen’s coldness. I would manipulate him, play his game, even if it meant more pain, more shame. 
My body tensed, remembering the dildo machine, the clamps, the pleasure I hated. I’d do anything for Mara, maybe even become the perfect toy Ronan wanted. The good girl.