Page 17 of Queen
The silence is absolute. Even the fire seems to still.
Emiliano’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes darkens—heats. He steps forward, slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on prey. He doesn’t need to move this close. But of course he does.
The box remains open in one hand. With the other, he gathers my hair and drapes it over my shoulder, fingers grazing the nape of my neck. It takes everything in me not to shiver.
The collar is cold as it slides against my skin. His knuckles are warm. The contrast makes me burn inside.
He fastens it in silence. No tenderness. No romance. Just control. Possession.
The clasp clicks shut with a sound so delicate, it might as well be a gunshot.
His fingers linger at the hollow of my throat. Not caressing. Confirming. Claiming.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, lips brushing close enough to graze my ear. “Now everyone knows who you belong to.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Inside, I’m fire. A calm surface over a fucking inferno.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and face his men. The diamonds glint like a knife against my skin, and I let them look. Let them think he’s won.
Because the truth is simple: they’ll choke on this arrogance soon enough.
Marked for Everyone to See
The collar has barely settled on my skin when Emiliano moves again. Not violent. Not gentle. Just certain.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn.
He lowers his head like it’s his fucking right.
And then he marks me.
His mouth presses to the skin just above the collarbone. Not a kiss. Nothing romantic in the way he lingers there. His breath is hot and deliberate, his lips firm, and his hand curls lightly around my throat, thumb resting on the hammering pulse beneath the chain.
It’s not affection. It’s a brand. A public claim.
My body screams to shove him off. To drive my knee into his ribs. To spit in his face. But I don’t move.
Because behind him, they’re still watching.
Three men. Trusted lieutenants. Soldiers of the old guard, trained to kill without hesitation. Trained to follow the scent of weakness.
And right now, I am wearing weakness around my neck.
My fingers twitch at my sides, fists clenching so tightly my nails pierce skin. Pain shoots through my palms, grounding me.
I won’t flinch. I won’t.
Even as my breath tangles in my chest. Even as the heat of his mouth sears into my bones.
I force my spine straight, my face carved from marble.
They’re waiting to see if I fold. Waiting to see if the queen bows under her new crown.
But I don’t.
I rise into it.
