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Todos los capítulos de His Forbidden Muse: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

36 Capítulos

The Muse

'To the dangerous men who smirk when we say, "Don't."'*******Krystina RomanovskiThere are two rules to surviving college.Rule one: Keep your head down.Rule two: Pretend he doesn't exist.Simple enough, right? Wrong.The universe has a twisted sense of humour, and by the universe, I mean Massimo Bianchi. The heir to the Bianchi Empire, a walking catalogue ad with piercing blue eyes and a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. When I say he's a walking-talking ruler of hell. He's wind, and I'm a dandelion—fragile, inconspicuous, and one gust away from being blown into oblivion. And too delicate to survive him. So, here I am, walking across the campus with my head down, clutching my books to my chest like they're a shield against the war zone that is life—or at least the life I lead here. My cardigan, an oversized sage-green number, hangs off my shoulders in a way that screams, Please don't notice me. Jeans, sneakers, and hoping my bangs hide most of my face.Invisibility is the goal,

The Muse

I stare at the mirror, my reflection mocking me as I adjust the spare cheerleading top and the skirt Anna shoves into my hands. They're a little too tight and way too revealing for my liking, but at this point, beggars can't be choosers.The damp cardigan hangs limply over the bathroom stall door. I will never wear that again. No matter how much I adored that.Anna, meanwhile, is busy raving about Massimo like she hasn't just dragged me into a battlefield. Like I wasn't just publicly ridiculed by the very man she crushes over."I swear, Krystina, the way he fights? It's... so fine. Like, he's just so..." Her voice trails off, and she sighs dreamily."Annoying? A menace to society? A walking red flag?" I grumble, wringing my hair under the hand dryer. Almost tripping and hitting my nose on the sink.Anna rolls her light eyes. "Hot. The word is hot. Honestly, you're so dramatic."I look at her incredulously, towel-drying my bangs. "You do realize he humiliated me in front of the entire

The Cipher

Massimo BianchiDesire is a dangerous thing.That's why I never let them feel anything more than lust.I learned early on that feelings are a fucking liability.Like a slow, rotting disease that turns men into fools and women into disasters.I don't do emotions—I don't do love.What I do is, late-night whispers that mean nothing, tangled sheets that smell like expensive perfume, and the kind of kisses that leave bruises but never last. No questions asked. No second times, and definitely no strings attached.They always want more.Always think they're different.As if I haven't seen their type a thousand times before—wide eyes, trembling lips, hope curled around their fingertips like a goddamn prayer. As if spreading your legs a night before Church gathering would give them a place in heaven or whatever place these goddamn people have made up. Begging on knees. Praying.But prayers don't work on men like me.I take. I ruin. I walk away.Because desire is a dangerous thing.And I never

The Muse

I hate their eyes.I hate how they linger, how they undress, how they assume. How they dig under my skin like crawling insects, itching, burning and peeling every layer of me I've tried to build.It's suffocating sometimes.I've spent my entire life dodging attention, slipping through the cracks, becoming forgettable on purpose. But today?Today, I can feel them remembering me.The aftermath of Massimo's little show follows me like a shadow everywhere. In class. In cafeteria. In the washrooms. Girls glares me down.The boys? They don't even bother whispering.I can feel their stares dragging down my body in that lewd way that's making me want to crawl on Mama's lap and hide.And I want to vomit.Maybe if I claw at my skin hard enough, I'll peel away the layers of myself they think they know. The one they've crafted in their heads—the one he put on display.Massimo Bianchi.My tormentor. My scar. My personal curse wrapped in a leather jacket and an ego bigger than this entire campus.I

The Muse

Have you ever wondered why the Earth is round instead of square? Why is the sun yellow instead of red? Why is water blue and not green?No?Yeah, me neither.Because what the fuck?I have better things to think about—like why my brother is currently gripping Massimo Bianchi by the collar in the middle of a goddamn ballroom.I don't move.I don't breathe.My brain barely catches up to the moment as I stare, rooted in place. The golden glow of the chandelier casts long, jagged shadows across Judas's sharp features, his pale eyes colder than ever. Massimo, on the other hand, looks—bored. And that's the first because my brother doesn't appreciate being ignored.The corner of his mouth is quirked, his posture relaxed, as if he doesn't have the six-foot-five inches menace of a man threatening to crush his throat. Classic. Even with a hand around his collar, Massimo looks like violence is an old friend rather than an enemy.I don't know what he's doing here. Why he's here, or why fate play

The Muse

I can hear Papa snapping.He's so mad.And Mama—she's trying to calm him down, but it's not working. I can hear the strain in her voice, the way she's choosing her words carefully like she's walking on shattered glass.My room is close to the stairs, so no matter how quiet they try to be, I hear everything.I pull my knees closer to my chest, curling up tighter, pressing my face into the soft fur of my teddy bear. It's stupid, I know—holding onto something so childish at a time like this. But the weight of it in my arms is the only thing keeping me from shattering.I feel terrible.It's not my fault. I know that. But knowing doesn't make it feel any less like it is. I know that their anger has nothing to do with me. And yet—The guilt sits heavy on my chest.Like somehow, just by existing, I've caused this. If I never crossed paths with Massimo. If I never provoked him. If I never... wrote that letter.I squeeze my eyes shut.I hate this feeling.This crushing belief that I am the pro

The Muse

I don't know what I'm feeling.It's heavy. Twitchy. Twisting inside me like something trying to claw its way out.You let people walk all over you.Like that's all you're worth.I dig my nails into my palm, hoping the sting would ground me. Yet, all I feel is the gravity of it all.Anna told her.Why would she do that? She's my friend. Right?Or maybe I'm just desperate. Maybe I call people my friends because I'm too afraid of what it means to be alone. Maybe I convince myself that anyone who smiles at me, who listens, who doesn't look at me like I'm a burden—is someone I should hold on to.Maybe I'm just pathetic. That's what I've always been.I peek at Anya from the corner of my eye as she drives.Perfectly manicured nails grip the wheel, bold red lips pursed in quiet thought. She's wearing a tube top and bootcut jeans that fit her like they were made for her body, highlighting every perfect line. She doesn't need friends. She doesn't need anyone. People orbit her, drawn in like mot

The Muse

I should've known better.Shame is a living thing. It slithers under your skin, curls tight around your ribs and squeezes the air from your lungs. It tastes bitter and feels like acrid acid burning the back of your throat.I swallow the lump in my throat as my fingers twitch against the cold linoleum floor.The laughter swells around me. I can hear everyone making fun of me. Some are outright crackling, others whispering behind their hands. Eyes gleam and peel my layers harshly. I can even see the phone flashes. They're recording me.I swallow again, and this time, I'm sure I'll end up crying. I press my palms down, willing myself to move.I can do this. Just get up, Krystina for god's sake.But my body won't listen.My muscles are locked, frozen in space between silence and chaos. I can't quite name it. Humiliation? Fear? The deep, clawing certainty that no matter what I do, won't change anything.I barely blink when I see them.A pair of black, polished leather boots. Something that

The Cipher

There are two kinds of people in this world—those who kneel and those who make others kneel. I am neither of them.I don't bow, nor do I defy for the sake of rebellion.I do not kneel, because I have no master. I do not stand defiantly because I do not need to prove the Bianchi power. I exist beyond those choices.I am an obedient child. That's what I make my parents believe at least. Or I simply don't care. They think I am one.But they won't anymore. Not after last night.Not after the scene my father has to deal with. Media. Paparazzi. And even some of his benefactors. That was fun at least. He'll ruin my match, I'll ruin his reputation. That makes the two of us. Two sides of the same coin.It would take him another week to deal with Alexei Volkov, after I make a scene at his party. The son of Lorenzo Bianchi. Future heir to Bianchi throne. As if I give a fuck about any of those things.I would've done something more scandalous to make sure he remained in his study for the rest of

The Muse

The wind howls in my ears, but I don't stop.Not even when my lungs burn, not even when my legs scream for relief.I run like I can outrun it. The humiliation, the laughs and everything existing in between. The way his eyes held me like a moth pinned to a glass case, writhing, exposed and powerless.I run like I can shed my skin, like I can leave this version of me behind, the weak, pathetic girl who let him tear her apart.But no matter how fast I go, I can still hear them. The phantom echoes of their disgusting fake laughs still crawling under my skin, sinking into my bones like rot.My breath shudders as I reach the back of the canteen and my steps falter until I am panting underneath the tree beside the greenhouse. I collapse beneath it, knees scraping against the cold damp grass and my fingers shake as I tear the hood off my head, yanking my hair like I can pull the shame out with it.I let out harsh, broken laughs, but it's not really a laugh, is it? It's a sob in disguise, an u

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