Page 109 of Merciless Queen

“The asshole who challenges you. He gave it as good as you did. I think, deep down in that sheltered heart of yours, you appreciate that about him.”

“You’re insane.” It’s all I manage. All my thoughts manage to form because deep down amidst my denial, she’s right. Few people have challenged me how Zeno did, and in a weird twist,it reminds me of the days of proving to myself, the old Bratva heads, and the soldiers that I can do the job. Zeno’s invasion was an ultimate test, only I don’t know if I’ve won or lost. “My heart isn’t sheltered either.”

She snorts before slapping the railing. “Whatever you say. I’m going down. I’d love if you’d join me, but if you want to pout up here, have fun.”

“I’m not pouting,” I call after her, but she’s already by the staircase, waving her hand as she chuckles loud enough I can hear her over the music. “I’m not pouting.” This is a whisper beneath my breath—a reminder for myself, not her.

I don’t pout. Especially not over men.

Asshole men who deceived me.

And my heart isn’t sheltered. Where’d she come up with that? I have just enough room in there for my Elite, and no one else, but no one else needs to be. Outside of them three, everyone else is a disappointment. Papa taught me that through his own actions toward me but also his written words, recently read in his journal. Letting people inside only leads to inevitable pain.

My phone vibrates with an incoming email, like the universe is reminding me of what’s truly important and breaks my wandering, borderline self-deprecating thoughts.

is this for real? how do i know you’re not making it up?howdo you even know about this?

nero

did you not see my attachment?? it’s taken right from my father’s journal.

vanessa

it could be doctored.

nero

my fuck, you’re as paranoid as your boss. fine, i did doctor it.or, consider this: maybe there’s nothing nefarious happening. as i said in my first email, i truly don’t care what you do with the information but i’m letting you knowfor her. ignore me, and see what happens when her fiancé finds her.

goodbye. this will be my last reply. i’ve said what i need to.

vanessa

Annoyed, I slide the phone into my back pocket, also thankful for the weight of that responsibility lifting off my shoulder.

It’s taken me a month to get the courage to let Zeno know about what I found out about Serafina in Papa’s journal. The day after finding the journal, I intended to call Zeno directly and tell him myself.

When it came time to dial his number…I didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to risk what’d happen if I allowed him back into my life. In the days following my return, my time with Zeno stuck to me like an unwanted bug bite. Pesky, uncomfortable, while being an endless itch demanding me to think about him.

The next day, I tried again, but failed. This went on for about a week before I gave up altogether, and then time blinked as I fell back into my tasks and my focus became forgetting Zeno, not reaching out to him.

The club’s song changes smoothly into the next one and I scan the floor for Anastasia. I spot her in the centre of the dance floor, a guy wrapped around her. As though she feels me watching, she peeks toward the balcony, waving me down, but I shake my head, once again wondering why the hell I’m even here.

Three Fridays have passed since I’ve been home and she’s bugged me to go out for every single one of them. What once was an enjoyable weekly activity is now a chore. I told myself not wanting to go was because it’d be forever tainted by Zeno’s actions, but in truth…it’s just tainted byhim. After three weeks, I finally conceded to Anastasia’s begging, but I wish I didn’t.

Even standing here, in the very place I first saw him, feels wrong. My gaze flits to the edge of the room where I noticed him. With my next blink, he appears. His rakish smirk centred on me, those bright as hell eyes glinting through the club’s dim light, pushing my body upright, seconds away from running down the stairs to him. To embrace him? Hit him? Possibilities are endless and unknown at this point.

I blink again and he’s gone, the memory dissipating into the room packed with sweat, sex, and sin.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I lower my head until my forehead nearly touches the railing. I need to go home. Sleep.

I think of him more than I’d like. It’s a fact I hate admitting to myself, but a fact nonetheless. At first, rage accompanied every thought, but as the days slipped away, so did his deception. Instead, I was left with everything else.

During my morning runs, I imagine him beside me and remember the trip we took around his property.

When I shower, I imagine him washing me and remember when he held me in his own, through my moments of “processing.”

When I lie in bed, I imagine him beside me, remembering the way he felt wrapped around me when he shifted me from my upright guarded position against his bedframe to his mattress on the floor.

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