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Chapter Four: The Monster's Den
Mira stepped into the mansion.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
She walked toward the study. Empty. No trace of him.
Her heels clicked against the floor as she moved down the hall, searching for the butler—until her eyes landed on the calendar hanging on the wall.
She froze.
Then slowly turned to face it.
Her face drained of color.
"Fuck," she muttered. "Today's the day…"
How the hell did she forget?
At that moment, the butler stepped into the hall, stopping short when he saw her.
"Miss Mira? You're still here?" he asked, startled. His expression quickly turned to a frown. "You forgot, didn't you? You were supposed to be at the secret villa. Not here."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked off. "I'll call the driver. You're leaving now. Follow me."
Mira said nothing.
She followed in silence.
The ride was quiet. Cold. She turned to the window, trying to calm the storm swirling in her stomach—but the outside world offered no comfort.
The road ahead was deserted, a long stretch of cracked pavement framed by brittle trees that stood unnaturally still. The air was icy, yet not a single leaf moved. No birds. No rustling. Just silence—as if the entire forest held its breath.
It made her skin crawl.
Her knuckles whitened in her lap.
She knew this road.
She knew where it led.
To that place.
The mansion that bore witness to her terror. The place where the real Mira shattered.
The pain she lived through there—it wasn't just physical. It was the kind of agony that made death feel like mercy. And when she was barely breathing, when she'd lost every shred of will to fight… she realized something.
She was still terrified of dying.
And that made her greedy—for life, for revenge, for control.
Her laugh broke the silence of the car—dry, sharp, and bitter.
If her family hadn't betrayed her, she never would've crossed paths with him. The monster. The one who tore her apart and then taught her how to survive the pieces.
And now?
Now she's twisted enough to be grateful.
Disgusting, right?
"Maybe I should kill him," she muttered, chuckling again. "Yeah. I'll thank him with flowers on his grave."
The driver glanced at her through the mirror. The look in his eyes said it all—she's gone mad.
And maybe… she truly had.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I'll rip your eyes out," Mira said coldly.
The driver snapped his gaze back to the road.
When the car finally pulled up to the building, Mira drew in a slow breath and stepped out. The cold air bit her skin, but she didn't flinch. She walked straight into the building, her heels echoing against marble as she moved through the hallway.
Halfway down, she stopped in front of a marble statue, gripped its outstretched arm, and twisted.
Click.
A hidden door creaked open from the wall.
Without hesitation, Mira stepped inside, descending a narrow staircase. The deeper she went, the colder it got.
At the bottom, the room opened into a surreal scene. In the center of a wide, glass-enclosed chamber was a bed floating on still water, almost glowing under faint white lights. Hospital machines stood nearby, monitors blinking rhythmically. A pale figure lay on the bed—unmoving, hooked up with tubes.
Outside the glass, the room was almost luxurious. A sleek red chair sat like a throne, facing the chamber. Nearby was a private bar stocked with whiskey bottles. A narrow indoor pool stretched along one wall, and above it, a slanted ceiling where water began to pour in—a soft, continuous cascade that slid down a transparent partition like a waterfall.
It looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
But Mira knew better.
The man in the red chair was already watching her. He didn't move much—just pressed a button. A metal door slid over the glass wall. The sound echoed—sharp and deliberate.
Then the water started pouring, thick and fast, disguising the chamber behind it.
A secret room inside a secret room inside a secret room.
Psychopath. Mira thought grimly as she walked forward and stopped just short of him.
"You're late," Damien said, sipping his whiskey. His voice was smooth. Too smooth.
Mira opened her mouth to speak, but he lifted his hand.
"I hate spoiled pets," he said lazily. "When I saved you from those animals, you swore you'd play your part. But lately, it seems revenge is all that clouds your brain. You've forgotten your true master. And I—" he sipped again, "—I hate when my chess pieces start thinking they're kings."
Mira dropped to her knees, silent.
Footsteps echoed. Men in white lab coats emerged from a side panel and surrounded her. One by one, they began taking blood—no words, no emotion.
Then came the injections. Clear liquid. Thick liquid. Burning liquid.
Mira trembled.
Her teeth clenched.
Then it hit.
Pain—blinding, boiling, ripping through her head like fire. She screamed. Her nails tore into her skin, fingers twitching, scratching. Blood dripped from her lips as she bit down to hold it in.
The lab men kept going. Typing. Injecting. Drawing more. Testing.
Recording.
Then—done.
They left.
Damien placed his glass down and walked toward her. He knelt, gently cupped her face, and smiled like he was petting a dying animal.
Then his fingers curled into her hair.
He yanked her up, dragged her like a rag doll across the floor, and slammed her against a wall. A panel clicked open.
He threw her inside.
No emotion. Just a spray of sanitizer, a white handkerchief, and the door slamming shut behind her.
Mira hit the ground hard. Her body twitched from leftover tremors.
She groaned.
Then a sound.
Low.
Wet.
Growling.
She turned.
A metal cell at the far end of the room.
Twelve glowing eyes stared back at her.
Mira's breath caught.
Her memories surged—bits and flashes of the past—pain, screams. Her head spun.
---
Mira dropped her heels and crouched, knife ready. The dogs lunged, teeth bared, snarling like beasts starved for blood.
The first slammed into her chest, knocking her backward. The air whooshed out of her lungs. She barely had time to roll aside as its jaws snapped shut where she'd been standing.
She scrambled up, knife flashing in the dim light. She drove it deep into the thick neck of the closest dog. It howled, staggering, blood pouring from the wound.
Another dog charged, claws raking her arm, sharp pain exploding as she hissed and yanked the blade free. She slashed wildly, catching it under the eye. The beast screamed, thrashing, but didn't back down.
One latched onto her leg. Mira dropped to the ground, clawing at its eyes, biting her lip to keep control. She ripped her knife free and plunged it into its throat. Hot blood splattered across her face.
A dog tackled her from the side. She gasped, scraping her nails down its snout. It yelped, releasing her, but the pain in her ribs was sharp and searing.
Blood dripped from her arms, her mouth, the floor slick beneath her. Mira's breaths came ragged, her muscles burning.
She twisted, caught a dog's jaw in her hands and squeezed, feeling bones crack beneath her fingers. It whimpered, lunged away.
More came at her — six snarling, hungry demons. She didn't hesitate. With a yell, she stabbed the nearest dog deep in the throat, twisting the blade. It gurgled, collapsed in a heap.
Her fingers dug into fur, pulling and ripping, dragging a dog down. She sank the knife into its throat. It gurgled, eyes glazing over, twitching before stilling.
Mira twisted, stabbed into its side, feeling the blade pierce deep. The dog collapsed, twitching, blood pooling beneath it.
She rolled off, scrambling to her feet as another dog lunged low, claws raking deep into her side. Hot, sharp pain exploded. She gritted her teeth, swinging the knife in a brutal slash. The blade sank into thick fur, cutting deep into muscle. The dog yelped and staggered, blood spraying.
Another slammed into her from the side. Mira twisted sharply, ramming her elbow into its snout. The beast reeled back, shaking its head, snorting rage. Without pause, she drove her knife into its neck, twisting hard. The dog gurgled and collapsed, body going limp.
Blood was running down her arm, mixing with sweat and grime. Mira's breath was ragged, heart pounding like a war drum. She barely had time to brace herself before a dog snapped at her ankle. She dropped to the floor and grabbed the dog's fur, yanking its head back violently. It snarled, jaws snapping inches from her face. Teeth scraped her skin, sharp pain flaring.
She kicked hard against its ribs, hearing the sick crunch of breaking bones. The dog screamed and released her. Mira rolled away, knife slashing without hesitation. The blade caught the beast in the throat, piercing deep. The dog collapsed, twitching violently before going still.
The other dogs circled, jaws foaming, eyes blazing with hunger. One leapt at her chest. Mira met it with a savage roar, slamming her fist hard into its jaw. The dog yelped and stumbled back, stunned. She wasted no time, slashing the knife across its throat in one clean, brutal stroke. Blood sprayed across her face.
A dog snapped at her arm again—Mira howled in pain, blood spurting. She clenched her teeth and bit down hard on the dog's snout, tasting wet fur and hot blood. The beast snarled, shaking its head violently to throw her off. She rolled away and stabbed upward, piercing the dog's belly. It howled and collapsed, twitching.
Pain exploded in her ribs, arms, and legs, but she kept moving. She ducked, dodged, slashed, and stabbed with cold, ruthless precision. Every movement was survival. Every breath was a battle.
Finally, with a grunt, she thrust the knife deep into the last dog's throat. The beast collapsed, choking and gurgling. Mira fell back against the wall, trembling, knife slick with blood in her hand.
She spat onto the floor, tasting copper and dirt. Her body shook from adrenaline and exhaustion, every muscle screaming. But she was alive.
Mira stood over the twitching bodies, chest heaving, knuckles white around the bloody knife.
---
Mira sat in the blood-drenched pit, her body trembling, cuts burning, breath shallow. Her face, smeared with dirt and dried blood, looked hollow under the flickering light. The door above creaked open. Two servants stared down, stunned. They descended quickly, carefully lifting her from the carnage and carrying her out in silence.
In her room, the doctor worked without words—cleaning wounds, stitching gashes, wrapping bandages around her arms, ribs, and legs. Mira didn't flinch. Her eyes never left the ceiling. When the doctor finally left, she sat in silence for a moment… then slowly stood.
Barefoot, wrapped in a silk robe , Mira walked down the hall. Her steps were soundless. She reached Damien's suite. He was reclined on his bed, draped in a black silk nightgown, reading a leather-bound book with calm detachment.
Mira walked straight to the fruit plate on the side table and grabbed the silver knife resting beside it. Damien glanced up, unfazed.
She marched to him, eyes blazing. He raised a hand to stop her.
SLAP.
His hand dropped. Mira lunged, gripping his throat, forcing the knife against his artery. Blood trickled from the pressure.
"You fucking bastard," she spat, voice low and trembling with rage. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now. No—scratch that. You deserve to die. Every second you breathe is an insult to life."
She yanked his head back by his hair, the blade digging deeper. Blood ran down his neck.
Damien looked at her. Calm. Cold. Amused.
"You want to kill me?" he whispered. "Then do it. Should I arrange our burial together? We'll rot side by side."
Mira's hand trembled. She knew it—if she killed him, she'd die too. Not today maybe, but someone would finish the job for him.
He saw the hesitation in her eyes. A smirk curved his bloodied lips.
In a flash, he grabbed her wrist and knocked the knife from her hand. It clattered across the floor.
"If you want to kill someone," Damien said, wiping the blood from his throat, "you do it. No hesitation. Consequences be damned. You still have a lot to learn, little pet."
Mira's fist smashed into his mouth, splitting his lip wide open. Damien's head turned, but he only chuckled.
Before she could pull away, he grabbed her by the waist and yanked her onto the bed, her back pressed to his chest, his arms locking around her like chains. He rested his chin on her shoulder, the warmth of his breath crawling down her neck.
"Careful," he whispered, voice sharp as glass. "Push too hard, and I might get angry."
Mira squirmed, trying to elbow him. He didn't budge. Instead, he reached over with one hand, picked up a glass of orange juice from the bedside tray, and held it in front of her.
"Drink."
She stiffened. "What the hell is in this? The injection wasn't enough? You drugging me now, you pig?"
He said nothing. Just held the glass steady.
Mira's body screamed with warning. But she was too tired to fight. Too broken to think. She took the glass, drained it in three gulps, and shoved the empty cup back at him.
Damien released her. She stood, silent, then reached for the nearby water jar and poured its entire contents on him, soaking his silk clothes and bed in a cold waterfall.
"Rot in hell," she muttered, and left without looking back.
Damien sat there, soaked, blinking slowly. His eyes narrowed.
He lowered his gaze, stood up, and unbuttoned his shirt with calm disgust. The fabric clung to his skin. He walked into the bathroom, washing off every trace of her touch like poison.
Later, he emerged in a fresh pair of dark pajamas, wiped his face with a towel, and turned off the lights without a word.
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