Page 80 of Queen
Back then, I didn’t believe her. Back then, I thought surviving was the same as living.
But now—walking these halls that once caged me, dressed not in widowhood but in war—I finally understand.
Conquest isn’t about land. Or titles. Or even crowns. It’s about presence. About making the world bend to the weight of who the fuck you are.
I catch my reflection in the tall glass of a window: dark silk hugging curves that used to belong to someone else, a throat bared like a challenge, eyes lit with something even I barely recognize. My pulse hammers hard, but not from fear. From anticipation. From the hunger of a woman who has finally found her teeth.
Because tonight, Emiliano will see it too.
He will see that I’m not his pawn. Not his victim. Not his reluctant queen.
I am the fire that crowns us both.
And if he doesn’t bow, then he’ll burn.
Throne Room Seduction
The hall waits for me like a wound that never closed.
Once, this was where Giovanni’s family bled into chalices, swore fealty on blades, broke bread with traitors before slitting their throats. Now it is mine. Not a temple, not a tomb, but athrone room reborn in flame. I’ve dressed it not with flowers or banners, but with fire. Candles line the altar steps, wax dripping like slow tears onto ancient stone. Incense burns in bronze bowls, smoke curling heavy and sweet until the whole room feels like a church that forgot God and remembered sin.
I stand at the far end, a silhouette cut from firelight, my crown invisible but undeniable. Giovanni’s ring gleams on my finger—no longer his, no longer Emiliano’s, but mine, carved and remade to bear the crest of ruin I chose. The weight of it is not jewelry but judgment, a reminder that I belong to no man, no name but the one I carve into history.
When the doors creak open, Emiliano’s footsteps echo like a storm entering. The sound reverberates against the high ceilings, rolling thunder in a room that was built to worship kings. He stops just inside, wary, eyes sharp, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust this room. He doesn’t trust me. Good.
His gaze sweeps over the walls, the fire, the thick red smoke, before it finds me. He takes me in slowly—the black silk fitted to my body like armor, the glint of steel hidden at my thigh, the calm set of my mouth. His silence is as heavy as the chains he’s worn his whole life. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, suspicious, laced with challenge.
“What is this?”
I let the silence stretch. I let the flames throw shadows across his face, carving him into something monstrous, something holy. I make him wait, force him to breathe the air thickened with my incense, until tension coils tighter between us. Then I answer, voice smooth as smoke.
“Your empire. My rules.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise. He’s never underestimated me like the others. But this—this is different. This is me taking. Not asking.
I walk toward him, each step deliberate, the heels of my boots clicking against stone like a countdown. His shoulders square, his body taut, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t yield. Still, his chest rises—slow, deep, betraying the way his body responds before his mind can.
When I reach him, I circle like a predator, letting the edge of my dress brush against his legs. The silk hisses against his trousers, a sound almost too soft for the violence trembling beneath it. From behind, I pull a length of crimson silk—hidden until now. Not lingerie. Not play. A weapon, soft and sharp.
I whisper near his ear, low enough for only him to hear, my breath hot against his skin. “Tonight, you learn what it means to surrender to a Queen.”
Before he can respond, I take his wrists—rough, scarred, calloused from a lifetime of violence—and bind them behind his back. The silk pulls tight, red against pale skin, fire against storm. His breath leaves him in a single harsh exhale, closer to a growl than surrender.
I step in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet mine. They burn like the edge of a blade, dark with rage, darker still with something neither of us names. He’s still Emiliano—wolf, king, monster. But bound here in my fire, he’s something else too.
Mine.
Power Exchange
He’s used to command. To the snap of orders followed without hesitation, to blood spilled at the lift of his hand. Emiliano Maritz doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t beg. He takes. Always.
Not tonight.
Tonight, his wrists are bound behind him, the crimson silk biting into skin that has broken men with a fist. His body is coiled steel, chest rising hard, jaw locked. But his eyes—those storm-dark eyes—burn at me not with defiance, but with hunger.
“You hate this,” he rasps, voice hoarse, ragged at the edges.
“No.” I step closer, until my breath brushes the column of his throat. “I crave this.”
