Reborn To Tame The Insomniac Monster

The cold bit into her cheek first. Then the pain hit. A sharp, burning sting radiated from her wrists, yanking her out of the darkness. Clora gasped, her lungs seizing as she shoved herself up from the icy marble floor. Her arms trembled, barely supporting her weight. She stared at the raw, red skin around her wrists, the chafed flesh pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The heavy oak door. The gilded mirrors. The suffocating smell of gardenias that always made her stomach turn. This room. No. No, no, no. Her breath came out in short, ragged puffs. This was the Langley estate. This was the bedroom on the east wing, the one with the balcony that overlooked the rose garden. The room she had sworn she would never see again. A deep voice drifted through the thick wood of the door, low and ruthless. "Double the guards on the perimeter. No one gets in or out without my authorization. Not a goddamn fly." Essex. Clora's blood turned to ice water. That voice. It was the same voice that had signed her death warrant in another life. Her body started to shake. It wasn't the cold seeping through her thin clothes; it was pure, unadulterated terror. Her muscles locked up, her teeth chattering so hard she thought they would crack. This wasn't acting. This was the instinct of prey caught in a trap. A memory slammed into her skull like a sledgehammer. Pain. Unbearable, white-hot pain. Blood pooling on white tiles. Her own fingers clawing at the marble, leaving bloody streaks as she dragged herself forward. The feeling of her ribs cracking under a heavy boot. And then, standing over her, that face. Essex Langley, looking down at her with eyes that were completely unhinged, a terrifying mix of madness and a chilling emptiness that seemed to swallow her whole. "Clora!" his voice had echoed in her dying ears, raw and broken. She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest heaving. She wasn't dead. She was sitting on this freezing floor, her wrists throbbing, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her plaid skirt. She stumbled toward the vanity, gripping the edge of the marble top until her knuckles turned white. The mirror reflected a stranger. Black smudged eyeliner. A silver hoop through her lip. Choppy, dyed hair that looked like a toddler had taken scissors to it. A studded collar around her neck. Eighteen. She was eighteen again. The rebellious punk phase she had adopted just to piss off her family. Just to make him hate her. A wave of crushing despair washed over her, so strong her knees buckled. If she followed the same path, if she fought him like she had before, she would end up right back on that floor, drowning in her own blood. The metallic click of the door handle turning was the loudest sound in the world. Clora froze. Her heart literally stopped for a second, then kicked into overdrive, pounding so hard she could taste copper in her mouth. The door swung open. Essex Langley stepped inside. He filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored, not a single wrinkle, wrapping around a body that radiated pure, unyielding power. He shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a cell door closing. His eyes were like the surface of a frozen lake in the dead of winter. Flat. Cold. Dead. He walked toward her. Each step was measured, deliberate, the sound of his leather shoes echoing in the silent room. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each one landed right on her chest, stealing her breath. He didn't stop until he was towering over her. The scent of his cologne-sandalwood and something darker-wrapped around her throat, choking her. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around her chin. His grip was firm, tilting her head back so she had no choice but to look up at him. His thumb pressed into the soft spot just below her cheekbone, hard enough to leave a bruise. "Have you figured out how to beg yet?" he asked. His voice was devoid of any warmth. It was a statement of fact, a demand for submission. Clora stared up at him. His face was so close she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The face that had been the last thing she saw before she died. The hate surged up, hot and acidic, burning the back of her throat. The words Go to hell were right there, sitting on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to scream at him, to claw those cold eyes out. But then, the memory flashed again. The blood. The pain. The absolute finality of death. The fire in her gut extinguished instantly, replaced by a survival instinct so primal it took over her body. She couldn't die. Not again. Not like this. She forced her eyes to water, letting the tears pool until they spilled over, tracking through the black eyeliner. She made her body shake, exaggerating the tremors that were already there. Essex's eyes narrowed a fraction. He had expected screaming. He had expected her to throw herself at him, biting and scratching like a feral cat. He hadn't expected this broken, silent trembling. "I..." Her voice came out as a broken whisper. She swallowed hard, the motion pressing her throat against his unmoving fingers. "I was wrong." Essex went completely still. The pressure of his thumb on her chin eased just a fraction. It worked. Oh god, it worked. The realization screamed in her head. Submission was the key. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath. "I won't run again, Essex. Please... don't lock me in here." She forced another sob, her shoulders hunching in on themselves. "I'm scared." Essex stared down at her, his jaw tight. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He was dissecting her, trying to find the lie, the trick. Finally, his hand dropped from her face. The sudden absence of his touch left her skin feeling cold. "Then behave yourself," he said. The lethal edge was gone from his voice, replaced by a flat command. He turned on his heel and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him. The sound of the lock engaging echoed in the room. As soon as he was gone, Clora's legs gave out. She collapsed onto the carpet, her hands catching her before her face hit the floor. She stayed there on her hands and knees, gasping for air like a drowning woman who had just broken the surface. The trembling didn't stop. It was real, a violent shuddering that wracked her whole body. She pressed a hand to her own chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of her heart beneath her palm. Alive. She was alive. The cold marble under her knees was real. The air in her lungs was real. The terror was real, but so was this second chance. The stark reality of it was a shock to her system, colder than the floor. In the dim light of the room, a low, breathless laugh escaped her lips. It was a crazy sound, born of pure adrenaline and the wild, desperate joy of being alive. She had survived the first night. She pushed herself up, sitting back on her heels. She looked at the locked door, her eyes dry and hard. She had spent her last life screaming and fighting, and it had gotten her killed. This time, she would play the game. She would smile, she would beg, she would do whatever it took to survive. And then, she would make every single one of them pay. Starting tomorrow. Her mind raced, clicking through the timeline of her past. Tomorrow morning. The first crack in the wall. The first knife in her back. Mila Thorne. Her sweet, concerned best friend. The snake who would slither into this room pretending to save her, only to sell her out to the wolves. Clora stood up, wiping the black tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. A slow, cold smile curved her lips. "Come on over, Mila," she whispered to the empty room. "I can't wait to see you."