Page 2 of The Queen
“Don’t. Just... don’t.”
2
ELIZA
Tarquin’s bodylies crumpled on the ground, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He groans—a raw, guttural sound—and his eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes clouded with pain.
“Tarquin,” I whisper. My fingers tremble as I trace the contours of his battered face, smeared with blood and dirt. His skin is hot to the touch, a reminder of the violence that just unfolded.
“Eliza...” His lips part to say my name, but it’s cut short by a hiss of pain as he tries to shift, to sit up. The wounds on his body protest, and he winces, his jaw clenching.
“Stay still,” I order, my tone laced with an authority that doesn’t quite hide the quake of fear beneath it. “You’re hurt.”
Tears blur my vision. The sight of him like this—vulnerable, broken—ignites a wildfire of emotions. Relief that he’s alive battles with the terror of how close I came to losing him.
“I’m fine,” he grunts and sits up, being all macho and shit.
Giggling at his display of raw masculinity, I grab him, crushing him to me, his muffled grunts of pain as I squeeze too tightly, not a deterrent.
Oliver kneels next to us, but I barely glance up from Tarquin’s battered face. His hand lands gently on Tarquin’s shoulder.
“Shit, mate,” Oliver exhales, relief pouring from him like a dam burst. His smile is shaky, but it’s there, trying to be strong for all of us. “Thought you were a goner.”
“Fuck off,” Tarquin’s eyes flicker with something that might be humour or maybe just pain. “Not happening.”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me; even amongst the wreckage of our world, Oliver’s presence is a light relief we need.
I lean towards Tarquin, closing the short distance between us, and press my lips to his in a desperate kiss. It’s messy and imperfect, but it’s life, it’s mine, it’s ours.
“Eliza,” Tarquin murmurs against my mouth, the sound broken but so fucking sweet.
“Shut up,” I whisper back, my hands framing his face, holding him to me tightly.
He kisses me back fiercely, and I can taste the blood and grit, the remnants of our battle. His hands find my waist, weak but insistent, and something tightens in my chest. This is what love feels like, I think: pain and fear of losing them tangled up with a desire so powerful it could bring me to my knees.
“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” I murmur between kisses.
He grunts. “I’ll fucking try, best I can do.”
“Good enough for now.”
His baby blues fix on mine in a promise, one that doesn’t need words.
Our moment shatters as heavy boots crunch over debris and two familiar shadows loom over us. Raphael’s eyes are hard, and his jaw is set in a line that means business. James standsbeside him, holding a gun loosely in his grip, both their gazes’ demanding answers in the wreckage.
“You okay, asshole?” he asks Tarquin.
Tarquin splutters back a laugh. “Peachy, thanks for asking, prick.”
“Any ideas? Was it Felix?” Raph asks.
I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady but my voice solid as steel. “It was Lila,” I spit out, venom coating my tongue. The name feels like a betrayal, sour and vile.
“Lila? Who the fuck is that?” Oliver asks, also rising and then helping Tarquin to his feet.
“My fucking aunt. My mum’s sister.” The fury lights up again like a bonfire on the fifth of November.
“Your aunt?” James’ brow furrows. “That’s… unexpected.”
