Page 74 of Queen
I don’t think. I move.
The Maserati tears free like a beast unchained, tires screaming through rivers that swallow the streets. Neon smears across the windshield, rain slicing down like knives. Every flash of light paints her in blood inside my head—her body broken across wet asphalt, her voice lost to the storm. Rage claws my ribs raw.
By the time I find them, the street’s a graveyard. One of mine lies face down in the gutter, blood bleeding into the flood, his pistol still clutched like he died mid-prayer. The convoy is twisted metal, flames hissing where rain fights fire. Steam rises like ghosts.
Then—her scream.
Zina.
The car door slams behind me, the storm punching into my skin, soaking me in seconds. I run, boots breaking water, until I see them. Two masked men dragging her from the wreckage, rifles dangling loose, laughter jagged in the dark. Her hair clings to her face, lip split, dress torn.
“Touch her again,” I snarl, voice low, vibrating with murder, “and I’ll skin you alive.”
They turn. Too slow.
The first doesn’t even fire. I wrench his rifle free, slam the butt into his nose until bone bursts, then ram his skull against twisted steel again, again, until it caves and his body folds.
The second lifts his weapon. I shove the barrel skyward and hammer my fist into his throat. He gags, stumbles. My boot drops hard on his windpipe. He writhes in the mud, then stills.
The world quiets but for the storm.
And then—her.
She’s on her knees, mud caked, body shaking, eyes glazed and unmoored. My hands tremble as I grab her shoulders, her face, her blood mixing with rain on my palms.
“Zina.” Her name rips out of me—a curse, a prayer, a plea. “Look at me. Fucking look at me.”
Her eyes blink, hazy, then focus. Recognition sparks. Her lips part, soundless, but alive.
I drag her against me, crushing her to my chest. She’s limp, dazed, but warm. Still warm.
I bury my face in her soaked hair, the scent of smoke and iron carved into me. My hands shake. I’ve never shaken. Not once.
I almost lost her.
I built an empire on the promise that love was weakness, that no woman would ever own me. But holding her now, her blood in my hands, her breath shallow against me, I know the truth.
I was wrong.
And if the world thinks it can take her from me, I’ll salt the fucking earth until nothing grows but ash.
Unleashed
The rain follows us home. It drips from her hair, from my hands, from the scorched hem of her dress as I carry her through the villa’s marble halls. The storm may be locked outside, but I feel it pounding in my veins—relentless, merciless.
Medics rush forward. Their voices blur into static, background noise I can’t hear. I lower Zina onto the leather couch in the great room, the dark surface swallowing her whole, making her look like a war-torn queen on a throne she never asked for.
They work quickly—scissors slicing fabric from her shoulder, antiseptic stinging where glass cut her temple, bandages wrapping too-clean against skin that should never have been marked. Their gloves are steady. My fists aren’t. My knuckles ache from the men I crushed, and still they clench, hungry for another throat to break. Rage thrums like lightning under my skin, begging for release.
She hisses when the alcohol bites, then—God help me—she smirks. “Don’t tell me this is what finally breaks you. Me, with a scratch.”
The words gut me. I don’t smile. Don’t breathe. I just stare, until one of the medics clears his throat and murmurs, “She’ll live.”
She’ll live.
The phrase should soothe me. Instead, it detonates.
I step forward, storm breaking loose. “You think this is a fucking game?” My voice ricochets off marble, sharp enough to slice skin. The medics flinch. One drops his kit, bottles rattling across stone. “You think I can survive if you die?”
