The One Who Trained The Beast
The estate gates groaned open.
A trio of black luxury cars pulled into the driveway, polished exteriors glinting under the early evening sun. Guards straightened immediately, a silent wave of tension spreading across the compound. Every staff member who saw the procession knew exactly who it was- every soul, except one.
The car at the center slowed to a stop. A guard stepped forward without hesitation, opened the rear door, and bowed slightly.
Out stepped Rowan Thorne.
His cane tapped lightly against the ground, though his posture didn't need its support. His presence alone commanded silence. Decades of building empires, raising hell, and reigning over one of the most ruthless family legacies in the country had carved authority into the lines of his face. His gray eyes scanned the estate with calculation.
And then, they narrowed.
Across the courtyard, Talia knelt on the dusty stone ground, her back striped with fresh welts, the thin fabric of her dress clinging to her sweat-soaked skin.
Three maids stood nearby, holding the now-bloodied whips, frozen mid-command like dolls dropped in the middle of a violent game.
Nearby, Valeria reclined lazily on a garden chair with a cold drink in her hand, legs crossed, lips parted in a smirk that barely faded as she noticed Rowan's return.
The elder Thorne didn't speak for a moment. He simply observed the scene in utter silence. Then, in a low, disgusted voice that sent a chill through every spine present, he said, "clean up this mess."
The maids dropped their whips instantly.
He turned to the guards. "You," he pointed without needing to say names, "take her home."
Valeria blinked. "Excuse me?"
Rowan didn't even look at her. His tone remained neutral, quiet, lethal.
"You do not reside here. The estate is not your playground."
"But- Grandpa Rowan-"
A single glance from him shut her up. His eyes were colder than Damon's had ever managed to be.
"Now."
One of the guards stepped forward and motioned for Valeria to follow. She turned to Damon in desperation, but he remained seated with an unreadable expression, arms folded, jaw tight. He didn't defend her. He didn't even look at her.
She hesitated, then reluctantly followed the guard into the waiting vehicle behind Rowan's.
Rowan, without further comment, walked toward the house.
The butler appeared at the door, bowing stiffly. "Welcome home, Sir Rowan. Shall I have your room prepared?"
Rowan raised a hand. "It should already be prepared." Then he disappeared inside.
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Talia didn't wait for anyone to offer her help.
After the courtyard emptied, she pulled herself to her feet slowly, her movements stiff and heavy with pain.
Every lash on her back throbbed. Her legs ached from kneeling too long on stone. But she said nothing. Made no sound.
She limped back into the mansion without a word, taking the long hallway toward the servants' wing. No one looked at her. No one helped.
She reached her small room, shut the door behind her, and collapsed onto the cold floor. For a moment, she just lay there- eyes wide open, trying not to cry, not because it didn't hurt, but because crying would make her feel weaker.
Eventually, she stood, dragged herself to the tiny washroom, and pulled off her torn dress. Blood had seeped into the back of it. She winced as the fabric peeled away from her wounds.
She filled a bowl with warm water and began cleaning herself. The first press of the cloth made her hiss through her teeth, but she didn't stop. She cleaned the blood. She washed the dirt. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and slowly applied the small tube of ointment she kept hidden in her drawer.
Her hands trembled, but not from fear.
From restraint.
After bandaging her wounds clumsily, she lay back, stared at the ceiling, and let sleep blur her pain for a few moments.
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Later that evening, a dull thirst stirred her awake. Her throat was dry, her body heavy. She pulled herself out of bed and made her way toward the kitchen. The house was quieter than usual. No sounds of laughter. No echo of Valeria's footsteps.
She poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter as she drank, her fingers still bandaged and sore.
Then-
A soft voice startled her.
"Mrs.Talia?"
She turned, startled.
A young maid stood at the doorway. One of the newer ones.
"Yes?" Talia asked cautiously.
The maid bowed slightly. "Sir Rowan has requested your presence."
Talia's eyes sharpened. "What for?"
"I don't know. He said you're to come to his study. Alone."
A pause.
"Immediately."