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."

Sunlight hit Clora square in the face, pulling her out of a restless doze. She sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the grit from her eyes. She hadn't slept, but her mind felt sharper than it had in years. The fog of the past life was gone, burned away by the cold reality of survival.

A sharp knock came at the door before it cracked open. One of the maids stepped in, carrying a silver tray. The woman kept her eyes down, her face a mask of professional distance. She set the tray on the small table by the window and left without a word.

Essex's eyes and ears. Of course.

Clora walked over to the tray. Fresh fruit, toast, black coffee. She sat down and took a slow bite of the toast, chewing mechanically while her brain ran through the upcoming scenario.

Seven years ago-no, in this timeline, just days ago-Mila Thorne had walked through that door with red-rimmed eyes and a trembling voice. She had held Clora's hand and told her how awful Essex was, how she needed to get out. And like an idiot, Clora had eaten it up. She had let Mila fuel her anger, let her arrange that disastrous meeting with Preston.

Not this time.

The doorbell chimed downstairs. Faint, but audible.

A minute later, the maid returned. "Miss Parrish? A Miss Thorne is here to see you."

Clora's hand paused halfway to her coffee cup. Right on schedule.

"Send her in," Clora said, her voice flat.

She quickly rearranged her face. She dropped her shoulders, letting them hunch inward. She widened her eyes, making them look wet and haunted, and wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she was trying to hold herself together.

The door opened.

Mila Thorne swept in, wearing a pale pink sundress that probably cost more than a month's rent. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled, and her face was painted with a look of absolute devastation.

"Oh, Clora!" Mila rushed across the room, her arms outstretched. She pulled Clora into a tight hug, burying her face in Clora's shoulder. "I was so worried! When I heard what happened... are you okay? Did that monster hurt you?"

Clora stood stiffly in the embrace. As Mila leaned in, a scent hit her nose. Sandalwood and dark musk. Essex's cologne.

Bile rose in Clora's throat. She hadn't noticed it before. She had been too blind, too desperate for affection to realize that her best friend smelled like her captor. Mila had been wearing it like a badge of honor, a sign of how close she wanted to get to the king.

Clora pulled back, breaking the hug. She lowered her head, letting her messy hair fall forward to hide her expression. "I'm fine, Mila."

Mila guided her over to the small sofa, sitting down close enough that their knees touched. "Look at you, you're shaking," Mila cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "It's okay, I'm here now. He can't touch you while I'm here."

Clora nodded along, letting out a small sniffle. She watched Mila from under her lashes. The woman was practically vibrating with excitement, barely able to contain her glee under the mask of concern.

Mila patted Clora's hand, her expression hardening into something serious. "Clora, you can't just give up. You can't let him break you. Preston... Preston has been out of his mind. He's been calling me every night."

Here it comes.

Clora looked up, making sure her eyes looked lost and desperate. "Preston? But... what can he do?"

A malicious glint flashed in Mila's eyes, so quick Clora would have missed it if she hadn't been looking for it. Mila leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I have a way to get him in to see you. Tonight."

Clora felt a chill run down her spine. It was exactly the same. Mila had bribed one of the gardeners, a guy who worked the night shift on the east wall. She was going to sneak Preston onto the grounds.

And at the exact same time, Mila would "accidentally" let it slip to one of Essex's guards that she was worried about Clora's mental state. She would paint a picture of a suicidal runaway, guaranteeing that Essex would come looking for her the second Preston stepped foot in the garden.

It was a perfect setup for a tragedy.

Clora twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt, making her hands look nervous. "But... if Essex finds out..."

Mila squeezed her hand hard, cutting her off. "I'll handle everything. I promise, it will be completely secret. No one will know. You just have to trust me."

Clora stared into Mila's bright, eager eyes. She wanted to laugh. Trust her? The woman who had orchestrated her downfall.

She forced her lips into a wobbly, grateful smile. "Mila... thank you. You're the best friend I've ever had."

Mila beamed, the picture of a supportive companion. In her mind, the trap was set. The stupid little rebel was going to walk right into the fire, and Mila would be there to fan the flames.

They talked for a few more minutes, Mila offering more empty platitudes before standing up to leave. "Get some rest. Tonight will be your chance."

Clora watched the door close behind her. The second the latch clicked, the fragile, scared expression melted off her face like ice under a blowtorch.

She stood up and walked over to the window. Down in the circular driveway, Mila was getting into her red convertible. She was probably already texting Preston, telling him the plan was a go.

Clora turned away from the window. She walked over to the breakfast tray and picked up the small silver fruit knife. She picked up an apple from the bowl and started peeling it, her movements slow and deliberate. The ribbon of red skin fell onto the white plate in one unbroken spiral.

In her last life, she had been the apple, carved up and thrown away. In this life, she was going to hold the knife.

She looked at her reflection in the polished silver blade. Her eyes were cold, calculating.

Tonight's show was going to be spectacular. But first, she needed to make sure the star of the show-Essex Langley-was watching.

The night air was freezing. It cut right through the thin fabric of Clora's silk nightgown, raising goosebumps on her arms. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as she stood on the damp grass of the garden.

It wasn't an act. She was genuinely cold. But the shivering served a dual purpose. It made her look vulnerable, fragile. Like a lost little girl waiting for a savior.

She glanced up at the second floor of the manor. The study window was a slab of black against the lit hallway. He was up there. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his gaze like a physical weight on the back of her neck. Essex never missed a detail, especially when it came to his possessions.

Good. Let him watch.

She took a step further into the shadows of the rose bushes. This was the exact spot. Seven years ago, she had stood here, her heart pounding with hope, waiting for Preston to rescue her. She had thought he was her knight in shining armor.

Now, the memory just made her sick.

A rustling sound came from the dense hedge to her left. A figure emerged, brushing leaves off his expensive jacket.

Preston Vaughn. He looked exactly as she remembered. Perfectly styled dark hair, a jawline that belonged on a magazine cover, and eyes that always seemed to be calculating the value of whatever they landed on.

"Clora!" He hurried over, his face a mask of desperate concern. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, his grip tight and sweaty. "Thank god you're okay. I got your message. We have to move fast. Come with me right now, I can get you out of here."

Clora looked at his hand on her wrist. His touch made her skin crawl. She didn't pull away, though. Not yet. She needed to play this just right.

She looked up at the dark window again, just for a second. The air around them felt heavy, charged with a violent energy that was pressing down on them from above. Essex's fury was a living thing, building in the dark.

Preston misread her hesitation. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her in a suffocating hug. He buried his face in her neck, his voice dropping to a smooth, seductive murmur.

"Don't be scared, Clora. I'm here now. I won't let that tyrant touch you ever again. Just come with me. We'll go back to the city, we'll get married tomorrow. I'll protect you."

Clora stared over his shoulder at the dark hedges. Married. Right. Preston didn't want her. He wanted the Parrish family shares that came with her. He wanted the ego boost of stealing Essex Langley's property. He was a scavenger, picking at the scraps of the powerful.

She felt a wave of disgust so strong it almost choked her. This was the man she had ruined her life for. This pathetic, greedy coward.

She could feel Essex's patience snapping. The tension in the air was like a pulled rubber band, ready to snap back and take someone's head off.

It was time.

Preston leaned in, trying to kiss her. "Just trust me, Clora. We belong together-"

Clora ripped her arm out of his grip. She shoved him back hard, the force of her rejection surprising them both.

Preston stumbled, nearly tripping over a root. He caught his balance and stared at her, his perfect face twisting in confusion. "Clora? What are you doing?"

Clora took a step back, putting a solid five feet of cold night air between them. She looked at him, really looked at him, and let all the contempt she felt show on her face.

Preston's brow furrowed. "What's wrong with you? I'm trying to save you!"

Clora didn't answer him. Instead, she tilted her chin up and looked directly at the dark study window.

"Have you seen enough?" she called out. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the quiet garden like a knife.

Preston froze. The color drained from his face. He slowly turned his head to follow her gaze, staring up at the black window.

For a second, nothing happened. Just the chirping of crickets and the pounding of Preston's visible panic.

Then, a tiny orange glow flared in the darkness. The cherry of a cigar. It illuminated a sliver of a harsh jawline and a pair of eyes that glowed with predatory intent.

Essex Langley stepped forward, visible in the faint moonlight. He stood at the window like a dark god looking down on his domain, his expression unreadable, but the threat in his posture unmistakable.

Preston made a choking sound. He hadn't actually believed Essex would be there. He thought Mila's plan was foolproof. He took a step back, his legs visibly shaking.

Clora watched Preston's terror with a sense of grim satisfaction. The mouse had just realized the cat was in the room.

She crossed her arms over her chest, a cold smile playing on her lips. The stage was set. The spotlight was on. Now it was time to burn the house down.