Page 59 of Queen
“I trusted you!”
It’s not a plea. It’s an accusation.
His eyes snap to mine—black fire, unyielding. “You should have trusted me sooner.” His voice is a blade, slicing me open. “I told you this life demands sacrifice.”
My hand moves before my mind catches up. The slap cracks through the corridor, the sting rushing up my palm, echoing in the silence between us. For a heartbeat, I feel triumphant. Alive.
Then the strength drains out of me like water through a sieve. My knees buckle, the stone floor rushing up to meet me.
But he’s there before I fall. His arms lock around me, steel and heat, crushing me against his chest. His grip is bruising, unyielding, as though letting me slip would be more than failure—it would be death.
I thrash weakly, fists pushing at him, but it’s useless. His chest is solid beneath my palms, his scent a mix of smoke, leather, and fury. I can’t breathe around it.
“Let me go,” I rasp, though my body betrays me, sagging into him, too exhausted to fight.
His mouth dips to my ear, his breath hot, his voice darker than sin. “Guido’s not just your son now,” he whispers, each word deliberate, binding. “He’s mine, too.”
My heart shatters, the jagged pieces cutting deeper with every beat. Because I know he means it. Because I hate that part of me wants it to be true.
Tears burn my eyes, spilling hot down my cheeks. “Then bring him home,” I choke out, my voice breaking. My nails diginto his jacket, anchoring myself to him as if he’s the only thing keeping me upright.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comfort. His hold tightens, crushing me against him, and I feel the rumble of his chest when he speaks.
“I will paint the streets with their blood,” he vows, his tone terrifying in its calm. “I will break their bones, burn their names, and feed their families their ashes if I have to. He will come home.”
His promises are knives, brutal and merciless, whispered into my hair like a prayer to a god I don’t believe in. But I clutch him harder, because right now, violence is all I have left to believe in.
And for one fleeting, horrifying moment, I let myself lean into it. Into him.Into the monster who might be the only one capable of saving my son.
The air between us is toxic—thick with grief and rage, impossible to breathe. His hands are still locked on me, iron bands holding me together when every piece of me is falling apart. I should pull away. I should claw free and scream until the walls drip with my fury.
But I don’t.
Because when his eyes burn down into me—black fire, merciless, consuming—I realize it isn’t only Guido’s life unraveling in this moment. It’s mine. It’s ours.
My body trembles, not just from fear, but from something darker, hungrier. His vow still echoes in my ears, promisesdrenched in blood, and I know what this man is capable of. What he’s about to unleash on the world for my son.
And still, I want to hurt him. I want to scar him the way his obsession has scarred me.
I slam my fists against his chest, the impact sharp, pointless. “I hate you,” I hiss, though my lips betray me, trembling too close to his.
He snarls, low and feral, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His hands tighten on my face, rough, bruising. “Then hate me,” he growls, breath hot against my mouth. “But don’t you fucking dare doubt me.”
His mouth crashes down on mine, a collision of fury and need. My nails rake down his neck, catching the edge of his collar, dragging until I feel the sting of skin beneath. I want blood. I want proof he bleeds. Proof he isn’t untouchable.
He bites back. His kiss is brutal, unrelenting, punishing me for every ounce of resistance. His tongue tangles with mine like a fight neither of us intends to win, and the taste of whiskey and rage fills my mouth.
My back slams against the wall, the stone cold enough to steal my breath, his heat searing through the front of me. I gasp into his mouth, the sound breaking, betraying me. My legs buckle, but he’s there, pressing his weight into mine, refusing to let me fall.
The corridor disappears. The house disappears. There is only this—our grief, our fury, our desperate need to feel alive.
I claw at his shirt, ripping fabric, dragging him closer, because I need to feel his skin. I need proof he’s flesh and not the devil he pretends to be. His hands tear at the silk of my dress, fabric shredding between his fists like it was made for ruin.
Buttons scatter against the stone. Silk rips. My breath comes ragged, my chest bare under the bruising heat of his grip.
We are chaos, devouring each other in the shadows, fury and grief turned savage.
This is not soft love. This is war—fought with lips, teeth, and tongues.
