Page 32 of Queen
He follows me over the edge, his cock pulsing inside me, his cum filling me, marking me as his own. The warmth of his seed spills into me, a physical claim that leaves me breathless, my body still trembling from the force of my orgasm.
I collapse onto the sofa, breathless, my body still buzzing, my mind reeling from the intensity of what just happened. Emilianocollapses on top of me, his breath warm against my neck, his weight heavy but not unwelcome. I close my eyes, my body still humming with pleasure, my mind torn between hatred and desire.
His lips brush my ear, his voice a low murmur. “You belong to me, Zina. Body and soul.”
I shiver at his words, my skin flushing, my body responding despite my protests. I want to deny it, to fight it, but the truth is undeniable. My body wants him, craves him, and the realization terrifies me. I lie there, trapped between hatred and desire, between fear and want.
Destruction as Defiance
The hallway stretches out like a cathedral built to worship silence. Every polished inch of marble floor gleams with the reflection of chandeliers, every oil painting in its gilded frame stares down like a judgment, and every shadow clings too tightly to the corners—perfect, untouchable, and not mine.
And then there’s the vase.
It sits dead center on its pedestal like a jeweled crown, crystal cut so fine that the light fractures into a hundred rainbows across the walls. A centerpiece for the empire he claims to own. I’ve passed it a dozen times since stepping into this gildedprison, forced myself not to look, forced myself not to think about how badly I wanted to hear it shatter.
But tonight… tonight the air feels tight. It presses against my ribs, squeezing until my chest aches. I can’t breathe without hearing the echo of every cage I’ve ever lived in. Giovanni’s cage, built of rules and threats whispered in my ear. Emiliano’s cage, reforged with fire and steel and a crown I never asked for.
I stop. My bare feet sink into the plush runner, toes curling against fabric so soft it mocks the rage inside me. My pulse thrums so hard I hear it in my ears, matching the itch in my palms.
I stare at the vase and think of all the years I’ve been told to behave. To smile when I wanted to scream. To bend instead of break. To be grateful for golden chains because they glittered.
Fuck that.
My fingers curl around the smooth neck of the crystal. It’s cool, heavy, alive with the weight of a fortune. Expensive enough to feed a family for a year, probably two. I lift it, muscles flexing, my heartbeat roaring like a drum. For a second, my grip trembles. For a second, I almost set it back down. Almost.
Then I let go.
The sound is glorious. A violent, shattering symphony—glass exploding across marble, glittering pieces skittering beneath the runner, sharp and gleaming like the aftermath of a war. The crash echoes down the corridor, a scream of defiance I couldn’t voice with words.
I don’t move. I stand in the storm of broken crystal, chest rising and falling too fast, drinking in the scent of dust and faint iron from my own blood. A sliver of glass has bitten into the sole of my foot, sharp enough to sting, but I don’t flinch. Pain is better than silence. Pain means I still control something.
Footsteps. Quick ones.
The staff appear first—two maids with wide, terrified eyes, hands pressed to their mouths like they’ve walked in on a murder scene. Then the house steward, his face blanching as he freezes in the doorway, the calculation already flickering in his gaze—whether to clean this up before Emiliano sees, or to run and warn him.
Too late.
He comes slower than the rest, as if he’s had all the time in the world. Emiliano moves like the storm belongs to him, black suit, collar open, hands buried in his pockets like he doesn’t need them to keep order. His gaze slides over the wreckage, then up to me, sharp as the shards under my feet.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t demand.
“Explain.”
One word, sharp enough to draw blood.
I don’t.
Instead, I take a step forward. The glass crunches under my foot, slicing again into the already raw cut. A bright spike of pain shoots up my leg, but I keep my face carved in marble. I walk barefoot through the wreckage I created, the sound of shards grinding beneath my weight almost as satisfying as the crash itself.
I don’t look back. I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my face.
The silence behind me is heavier now, the kind that says this isn’t over—not by a long shot. And that’s exactly the point.
The Punishment is the Point
Time slips strangely in this house. An hour, maybe more—I can’t tell. The clock on the wall ticks too softly, the night outside too dark. I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, barefoot still, the sting in my cut foot a dull reminder of what I’ve done.
I haven’t turned on a light. The only glow comes from the city beyond the balcony doors, fractured into pieces by the glass panes. The air smells faintly of smoke and lilies, the scent Emiliano laces through every room as though it brands the walls themselves.
