Chapter 29 Crown and the Chains
CROWN AND THE CHAINS
SEBASTIAN
Pain woke me. Sharp. Immediate. Everywhere.
Not the clean pain of a fresh wound. This was older. Deeper. The kind that had been building while I was unconscious. While time passed and damage settled into bone and muscle and the places where hope used to live.
My arms screamed first. Wrists bound above my head. Chains biting through skin that had given up protesting hours ago. Weight pulling at shoulders until they felt dislocated. Until every breath dragged against muscles that had surrendered to gravity and iron.
Or minutes. Time felt broken. Irrelevant.
I forced my eyes open. One worked. The other was swollen shut, crusted with blood that had dried while I was out. While whatever had happened happened and left me here.
Darkness pressed in from all sides. Not complete. Flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in sickly green. Made shadows dance and twist like living things with teeth.
The Strongroom.
That's what the sign had said on the wall. Before Marcel had knocked me unconscious. Before everything went dark and I woke up in chains like an animal waiting for slaughter.
Cold industrial space. High ceiling disappearing into shadow. Rusted chains hanging like dead vines from anchor points older than the monarchy. Water dripping from pipes that probably hadn't been touched since the war. Stone walls thick enough to swallow screams.
And me. Hanging like meat in a freezer. Shirtless. Barefoot. Blood painting patterns down my chest and arms that looked almost artistic in the bad light.
I tried to move. Failed. The chains held firm. Anchor bolts driven into stone older than the monarchy itself, into foundations that had survived revolutions and bombings and centuries of London trying to tear itself apart.
Appropriate. Poetic, even.
The prince bound in his mother's emergency vault. Tortured in a place meant to save him.
Marcel would appreciate the irony.
“Ah. You're awake.”
His voice slithered through darkness. Cultured. Calm. Like we were having tea instead of this. Like this was just another state function and I was late arriving.
I turned my head. Sent lightning through my neck. Saw him standing by a table I hadn't noticed. Metal. Surgical. Covered with tools that caught light like promises of worse things coming.
“You're tougher than your mother,” he continued, moving closer. Blade glinting in his hand. Small. Surgical. Meant for precision, not mercy. “She screamed sooner.”
The words hit like fists. But I swallowed the rage. Forced my voice to work through a throat that felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.
“You talk too much.”
Blood bubbled between my lips. I spat. Watched it hit the floor. Dark. Too dark. The kind of dark that meant internal bleeding, organ damage, things that would kill me slow if someone didn't find me soon.
How long had I been bleeding?
Marcel circled me. Lecturer in a museum. Professor examining a specimen he'd created himself. The knife traced patterns in the air. Never touching. Not yet. Building anticipation like this was foreplay.
“All I ever wanted was the crown,” he said. Voice soft. Almost wistful. Like he was confessing something beautiful instead of monstrous. “And your father, your sainted father, was too weak to see what needed to be done.”
“You murdered her.” The words scraped. Raw. Each one costing me. “You murdered a Queen.”
He stopped in front of me. Eye level. Close enough I could smell his cologne. Expensive. The kind that costs more than most people make in a month. The kind that probably smelled the same eighteen years ago when he'd ordered my mother killed.
“No.” His smile was gentle. Patient. Like he was explaining mathematics to a child. “I killed sentiment. I killed hesitation. I did what had to be done so the kingdom could survive.”
Then he drove the knife into my side.
Shallow. Precise. Cruel.
The scream ripped out before I could stop it. High. Broken. Echoing off stone walls that had heard screams before. That would hear them again. That were built to swallow sound and give nothing back.
“And look how strong it made you,” Marcel whispered, pulling the blade free. Blood followed. Hot. Wet. Too much. “Look what you became because I took her from you.”
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pain filled everything. White. Blinding. Absolute. The kind of pain that made you forget your name, your purpose, everything except the single burning need to make it stop.
“Eighteen years,” he continued. Still calm. Still conversational. Like he was discussing the weather instead of carving me apart. “Eighteen years you've been hunting. Building yourself into a weapon. All because of me.”
He wiped the blade on my skin. Cleaned my own blood off with my own flesh. The intimacy of it made my stomach heave.
“I made you, Your Highness. I'm the architect of everything you are.”
“Fuck you.” The words came through clenched teeth. Through pain that wanted to drown me. “You're nothing. Just a parasite. Feeding on grief.”
His expression shifted. Admiration twisted into something darker. Something that looked like disappointment mixed with rage.
“Perhaps.” He set the knife down. Picked up something else. Brass knuckles. Old. Military. Stained with rust that probably wasn't rust. “But I'm the parasite that won. That's what matters.”
The first punch caught my jaw. Snapped my head sideways. Rattled teeth. Filled my mouth with copper and the taste of my own failure.
The second hit my ribs. Cracked something. Maybe several somethings. Air exploded from my lungs. Wouldn't come back. Drowning on dry land.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Methodical. Controlled. Each blow calculated for maximum damage without unconsciousness. He'd done this before. Knew exactly how much a body could take before it shut down. Knew how to keep you awake and screaming.
He wanted me awake. Wanted me to feel every second. Every crack. Every break.
“You think you're fit to rule?” He punctuated each word with impact. Fist to ribs. Fist to kidneys. Fist to anywhere that would hurt but not kill. “You and your pet soldier? You'll burn this empire to ashes.”
I couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything except hang there and bleed and try to remember how to breathe through ribs that were definitely broken now. Multiple fractures grinding against each other with every shallow gasp.
“Look at you.” He grabbed my hair. Yanked my head up. Forced me to meet his eyes. “Broken. Bleeding. Helpless. This is what your love did. This is what caring costs.”
I forced my working eye to focus. Forced words through broken lips that were already swelling shut.
“At least I'll burn it honest.”
The smile that spread across his face was beautiful. Terrible. The kind of smile that belonged on angels before they fell.
“There it is,” he breathed. “There's the fire your mother had. The thing that made her dangerous.”
He released me. Stepped back. Studied me like art. Like I was his masterpiece and he was deciding if I was finished or if I needed more work.
“You could have been magnificent,” he said softly. Like he meant it. Like he genuinely mourned what I could have become. “You could have been me.”
“That's the point.” I managed. Tasted blood. Swallowed it. Felt it slide wrong down my throat. “I'd rather die than become you.”
“Oh, Sebastian.” He wiped blood from his knuckles. Almost tender. “You already are. You just haven't accepted it yet.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He moved back to the table. “You hunt in darkness. Kill without hesitation. Hide behind a mask while you deal violence to those you deem worthy. How is that different from what I do?”
“I don't murder mothers.”
“Semantics.” He lifted something from the table. Metal. Long. A brand. The Devereux crest at the tip, all sharp edges and cruel angles. “Everyone murders something. You just prefer your victims breathing.”
He set the brand in a torch mounted on the wall. Flame licked metal. Turned it orange. Then red. Then white hot. Heat radiated across the room. Made sweat break out on skin that was already slick with blood.
“Let me give you a crown worthy of your legacy,” he said.
Horror flooded through pain. Cold. Immediate. The kind of fear that lived in your spine and made you understand exactly how small you were.
“No.” I pulled at the chains. Metal bit deeper. Blood ran warmer. Fresh wounds opening on top of old. “Don't. Don't you fucking dare—”
“Your mother wore the real crown,” he continued. Like I hadn't spoken. Like my fear was just background music to his symphony. “You'll wear mine. A reminder of who really rules this kingdom.”
The brand glowed. Ready. Hungry. White hot metal that would sear through skin and muscle and mark me permanently. Make me his in a way that would never heal.
He lifted it from the flame. Approached. Slow. Savoring my fear like wine.
“This will hurt,” he said. “More than anything you've ever felt. More than losing her. More than loving him.” He smiled. “And you'll wear the scar forever. Every time you look in a mirror. Every time Viktor touches you. You'll remember this moment. Remember who really owns you.”
“I'll kill you.” The promise came out broken. Desperate. Everything I'd tried not to be. “I swear to god I'll—”
Footsteps.
Not distant. Close. In the room. Behind me.
Heels clicking on concrete. Measured. Confident. The sound of someone who belonged here.
Marcel's smile widened. “Ah. Perfect timing.”
I turned my head as far as the chains would allow. Saw movement in the shadows. A figure stepping into the light.
Familiar silhouette. Familiar walk. Familiar everything that made my brain refuse to process what my eye was seeing.
“Hello, Sebastian.”
élodie's voice.
élodie's face.
élodie standing beside Marcel like she'd been there all along. Like this was where she belonged.