Page 15 of Queen
My gaze flicks to the men at the edges of the room. Their names don’t matter. Their stares do—cold, dismissive, condescending. They’re not looking at me like a queen. They’re looking at me like a pawn granted temporary value by his command.
“This isn’t a wedding,” I hiss, voice just low enough that only he catches it.
“No,” Emiliano agrees, tilting his head like a man humoring a child. “This is war. And war demands witnesses.”
On the table sits a velvet box, unopened, waiting. He doesn’t reach for it yet. One of the men steps forward, begins speaking in Italian. His voice is slick, rehearsed—an oath, but not of love. Words about honor through loyalty, loyalty through blood, betrayal punished in fire. They’re vows forged on battlefields, not altars.
I translate them silently. They’re not promises. They’re threats.
Emiliano takes a single black rose from the velvet box and holds it out. Its stem is long, thorns intact, sharp enough to pierce skin. A symbol of surrender. Of obedience.
I stare at it. Three seconds. Four. My hand twitches at my side before I force it forward. I take the rose, not gently, not reverently—coldly. Like I’d accept a gun before pulling the trigger.
One of the men chuckles. Another smirks.
“Isn’t she beautiful when she obeys?” Emiliano says, loud enough to cut through the room. His voice is calm, but it lands like a whip.
Heat explodes in my chest. My teeth bite down so hard I taste blood. But my face stays still. My shoulders remain square.
I don’t break.
I hold the rose, its thorns biting into my palm until I feel the sting, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Pretend I’m not bleeding pride in front of his men.
They’re watching. All of them. Memorizing this moment.
And Emiliano? He’s not claiming me as a wife. He’s claiming me as a prize. A victory paraded like a trophy.
And I let him.
Because weakness isn’t allowed here. Not now. Not ever.
But the next time one of these men dares to smirk at me? He’ll do it with broken fucking teeth.
Private Words: Threats Behind the Curtain
The moment the door shuts behind us, the performance collapses.
No soldiers. No smirks. Just silence thick enough to choke on, broken only by the low hiss of the fireplace burning in the corner.
Emiliano moves like nothing happened. He walks to the decanter, unhurried, steady, pours himself a drink as if he didn’t just slice me open in front of his men. He doesn’t offer me one. Of course he doesn’t.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” I say. My voice is low. Controlled. I won’t give him the tremor he wants.
He turns, glass in hand, gaze dark and cutting. “It’s only dangerous if you plan on losing.”
I step forward. Slow. Purposeful. He doesn’t move back. He never does. The bastard thrives on proximity.
“I’m not some fucking token you parade for power plays. Don’t confuse survival with surrender.”
His eyes narrow, slow as the turning of a blade. “Don’t confuse this arrangement with mercy.”
He takes a sip, calm as the devil, and the firelight paints his profile gold. He looks untouchable, saintly even. But I know better. Underneath, he’s the same ruin that kissed me in a safe house hallway with Giovanni’s blood still on my hands.
I close the distance in three strides. My pulse hammers, but my voice is steady. “Do you think I won’t destroy you if you betray me?”
His breath brushes my mouth. “Do you think you haven’t already?”
The words lodge like steel between my ribs. Not pain. Something worse—doubt.
