Page 10 of Queen
The Arrival: Reunited Under Duress
I hear her before I see her.
Heels. Sharp, deliberate clicks echoing across the marble foyer. Not hesitant. Not meek. Not yet afraid. She never arrives like prey—Zina comes in like fire, and only later does the smoke choke her. That’s the part I love most. Watching her burn before she realizes she’s the one in the cage.
From the top of the staircase, I wait. Shadows coil around me while the double doors frame her like a painting. My ruin. My obsession. My queen.
Black. Always black. A coat cut close at the waist, heels like weapons stabbing at the stone floor. Her hair’s pinned but loose strands curl wild at her cheek, betraying the chaos she tries to tame. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t falter. But her hand grips the bag tighter than she wants me to see. Armor disguised as elegance.
Our eyes lock.
And the air catches fire.
I take the stairs one by one, dragging out the moment. Each step deliberate, designed to test her nerves. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. But her chin tips higher, brittle pride holding her upright.
She’ll lose.
By the time I reach the last step, we’re a breath apart.
“You look older,” she says, flat as stone.
A low chuckle rumbles from my chest. “You look tired.”
Her mouth tightens, rage flashing behind the polish. Good. That’s the woman I want—the one brimming with heat, not cold ashes.
I lift my hand, slow, calculated, until my fingers brush a loose strand from her temple. She flinches—barely—but I see it. I savor it.
“You hate me,” I murmur, knuckles grazing her cheek. “But you came.”
Her jaw clenches. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice. You finally made the right one.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ve been there, dolcezza,” I smile, voice dark as sin. “At least now I won’t be alone.”
She turns away, but she doesn’t step back. That’s all I need.
I motion toward the hall. “Your room’s ready.”
“I’m not staying in your bed.”
“You will.” My tone leaves no room for debate. “Eventually.”
She doesn’t argue. She storms past me instead, heels slicing the silence into ribbons. I watch her go, the hem of her coat trailing like smoke.
Welcome home, Zina. The war begins tonight.
The First Claim
The room is drenched in gold from candlelight. No overhead lights, no shadows deep enough to hide in. Just fire flickering in iron bowls and sconces, flames that dance across stone like ancient rituals.
I lit them myself. I wanted her to see me in this glow. Wanted her to have nowhere else to look.
She enters without knocking. Chin up. Spine stiff. Walking into the cage, daring the beast to bite.
I’m already by the hearth, wine poured. “Drink?” I offer.
