Page 82 of Queen
The words settle between us, sharper than vows spoken before gods. This isn’t seduction anymore. This is war strategy, whispered in bed, carved into skin and sealed in blood.
He exhales, eyes burning with something that looks like reverence and ruin. “Together,” he repeats. Not a promise. A command to fate.
And for the first time since Giovanni’s shadow tried to strangle me, I feel the fire in my veins crown me whole.
Mother First, Queen Second
The corridors are still heavy with smoke from the candles, air clinging to my skin like incense and sweat. Emiliano sleeps where I left him, sprawled across tangled sheets, but my body refuses rest. There’s a weight pulling me—stronger than lust, heavier than war.
My son.
Barefoot, I move through the silent estate, the marble cold beneath my feet, torchlight flickering against portraits of men who believed blood alone made them kings. Their painted eyes track me as I pass, daring me to prove them wrong, daring me to rise where they ruled.
Guido’s door creaks when I push it open, soft as a secret. The nursery is dim, curtains drawn tight, only a thread of moonlight spilling across his bed. He lies twisted in his sheets, chest rising too fast, as if his dreams are chasing him through shadows he can’t outrun.
My throat tightens. Even in sleep, he looks hunted.
I sit beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight. For a long moment I just watch him, drinking in the fragile details—lashes brushing pale cheeks, lips parted as if mid-prayer, one small hand curled into a fist like he’s ready to fight even here. My baby. My crown. My undoing.
Carefully, I reach for him. My fingers unfold his fist one knuckle at a time until his hand lies open in mine. His skin is damp from fevered dreams, warm and fragile. I press it to my lips.
“You’re safe,” I whisper, my voice trembling with fury I can’t smother. “Safe because I’ll burn the fucking world before I let them touch you again.”
His lips move, murmuring something too faint to catch. I smooth damp hair from his forehead, kiss the place where fear seems carved deepest.
I could break here. I could let the tears come. But queens don’t cry. My mother’s voice slices back through the years—Queens don’t cry. They conquer.
I gave up everything for a man once. My body. My loyalty. My silence. That gamble left me scarred and chained. Never again.
This time, I lead.
I tuck the sheet tight around Guido’s shoulders, sealing him in like fragile glass I’d kill to protect. My fingers linger too long, as if touch alone could promise survival. His breath evens, a softer rhythm, and for a moment I almost believe he feels my vow in his bones.
I rise at last, breath unsteady, spine straightening inch by inch. In the nursery window, my reflection waits—a woman carved from ruin, crowned in fire. Not just a mother, not just a survivor. A queen.
I glance once more at Guido before I turn toward the corridor where Emiliano waits, where war brews, where Giovanni’s ghosts sharpen their knives.
The child will always be first. But tonight I accept what follows.
Mother first. Queen second.
And God help anyone who thinks they can make me choose.
The Challenge
The estate should be breathing heavy with life—guards on rotation, footsteps echoing, radios crackling. Instead, it’s smothered in silence. A silence so thick it makes my skin itch.
I leave Guido’s room with his warmth still clinging to my skin, my vow still burning in my chest like a brand. For one fragile breath, I almost believe he’s safe. That I am safe.
Then I smell it.
Blood.
It slithers into my nose before I see it—copper, sharp, metallic. The scent curls through the corridor like a snake, raising the hairs on my arms. My grip tightens on the dagger at my thigh.
The glow of the sconces sputters weak, shadows twitching across stone. I move slow, silent, every nerve pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
Then I see him.
