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