Page 29 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

I nod with a shrug.

“He’s trying,” she says with a smile.

I laugh; sharp, bitter. “He’s trying to rewrite history. That’s all this is. Just another way for him to own me. Or—”

“—hurt you again?“ she finishes softly.

The breath leaves me.

For a moment, there’s only the hum of the club around us. But in our booth, the air feels heavier. Like truth is sitting with us.

“It was hard being arranged to Santo,” Vasilisa says, almost absently, like she’s remembering something distant. “You feel like you’re the only one in it. Like you’re loving in a vacuum.”

I glance up, surprised.

“But I wasn’t,” she adds, voice warm. “He just didn’t know how to show that he felt it too. Not at first.”

I study her, trying to see the girl underneath the quiet grace.

“You think I should give him a chance?”

“I think if he’s asking for one, and you still feel something... maybe let him prove himself.”

She pauses. “And if he can’t… if you have an out… you should take it.”

I hesitate. “Did you have an out?”

Vasilisa goes still. For a second, something flickers in her expression, something that aches.

Her gaze lowers, then lifts again, clear as ever.

“No,” she says. “But I never really wanted one. Not from him.”

She moves to adjust her bracelet, delicate silver, just like everything about her—then just slightly beneath, I notice it.

A bruise.

My eyes trail her body.

Matter fact there’s multiple bruises.

On her shoulders, arms, neck.

All faint, but as the strobe lights pass by her I can see them clearly.

“What happened to your shoulder?”

Vasilisa blinks like she doesn’t understand, then follows my gaze.

“Oh!” she laughs. Like a soft gasp wrapped in glitter. “It’s nothing. I just—” She cuts herself off, cheeks blooming pink.

Now that’s interesting.

My brows lift, slow. “Just what?”

She leans in, voice hushed like we’re sharing state secrets.

“It’s a… um… sex injury.”

I nearly choke on my Manhattan.

She winces, embarrassed. “Sorry! Was that too much?”

“No,” I say too fast. Then again, slower, amused. “No. Just didn’t expect that to come out of your mouth.”

She laughs, like full-body, head-back giggles. It’s annoyingly charming.

“It’s not the first.. I know I’m covered in them,” she says, biting her lip like it’s some cute confession. “I tried to cover them up but Scythe’s… intense.”

“Scythe?”

She giggles, a blush painting her cheeks. “Its a long story”

I want to, but I don’t push.

“So they’re all hickeys?” I ask with a chuckle.

“Some are… and some are bites.”

I blink. My brain stutters.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” I ask before I can stop myself, voice sharper than I intend.

She shakes her head immediately.

“No! God, no. Never. He’s always very careful with me, worshipful. But sometimes—” She pauses, tilts her head like she’s debating how graphic to be, “—sometimes he gets carried away. And I like it.”

I stare at her.

This ethereal, too-beautiful-for-reality girl talking about being manhandled by her husband like it’s a love language.

And I hate how it rattles me.

Not because I’m scandalized. But because a very traitorous part of me remembers what that kind of surrender feels like. To be so wanted that bruises don’t feel like harm—they feel like proof .

My hand grazes my neck.

I look away, swirling the last of my drink.

“So what happened?” I ask before I can stop myself. “The one on your shoulder is fresh.”

She grins, cheeks still flushed.

“I may have said something bratty. He may have used his mouth as punishment.”

Dios

She says it with a giggle like it’s gossip, not erotica. Like she didn’t just rewrite the wiring in my spine.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she squeaks. “You asked!”

“I’m not judging. My brother owns a BDSM club and I use to date a Dom, I was just curious.”

“A Dom? Wow that’s adventurous,” she smiles her eyes flashing excitedly.

I freeze.

The air shifts.

A voice that could strip paint—let alone peel back a moment like this speaks up.

“What’s adventurous?” Santo asks walking up.

Of course he heard that.

Vasilisa doesn’t even flinch, just turns and lights up like he hung the damn moon. “Oh! Adriana dated a Dom.”

I nearly choke.

Santo blinks.

Hard.

His jaw ticks once like his brain just bluescreened and needs to reboot.

Vasilisa, still beaming, adds helpfully, “You know, like in BDSM.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Just slowly drags his gaze to me like I summoned a demon and now he’s stuck trying to exorcise it.

My skin lights up like it’s been set on fire .

And Vasilisa, bless her glitter-dusted soul, keeps going. “We were talking about the marks you left. I said some were bites and she asked about them, and I said sometimes things get a little intense, and she said she used to date a Dom!”

She beams.

Santo, meanwhile, looks like he might seize.

“Dea,” he mutters, voice low and strangled.

“What?” she says innocently, looking between us with those big blue eyes.

I mouth, oh my God , into my drink.

Santo looks like he’d rather be shot than standing here.

“What?” she repeats, genuinely confused. “You asked what was adventurous. I answered. Do you not want me to be honest?”

He swallows so hard I hear it.

I stare down at my drink, willing the booth to swallow me whole. “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean… It was a long time ago.”

He clears his throat. “That’s… between you and your husband.”

I lift my glass like maybe if I drink enough, I’ll just black out and never have to live through this.

“Not my fault you asked,” she says to Santo pointed, looking between the two of us like she hasn’t just created the most awkward triangle in the club. “She was just curious because of the bruises. I told her about the one on my shoulder this morning from when you bit me.”

“Ay Dios,” I whisper, wanting to melt through the couch.

Santo looks like he’s seeing visions. War flashbacks. His soul leaving his body.

“Time to go,” he says abruptly.

Vasilisa nods, completely unbothered, and stands with her perfect sparkle dress and her utter lack of shame.

“Alright Mr. Embarrassed,” she mumbles sliding her hand into his. “Bye, Adriana!”

I wave limply, unable to speak .

They start walking away, and I think maybe, just maybe, we’re in the clear.

But then Vasilisa glances over her shoulder and says brightly, “We’ll talk more about it soon, okay?”

I blink.

“About what?” I ask, panic rising.

She grins. “Your Dom. I have questions.”

And then she’s gone, glittering away like chaos in pumps, Santo trailing beside her looking like he’s just survived a car crash.

I sink into the booth and drag a hand down my face.

Holy fuck.

I am never having girl talk in public again.

But damn it.

I smile to myself.

I like her.

***

It’s been fourteen days.

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I see his face.

I smell him all around this damn house.

He’s haunting me. I grab my phone.

Still no texts, still no calls.

He’s not home.

I shouldn’t care where he is. This is what I wanted. I wanted him gone, I wanted him to leave me alone and he has.

Then why do I feel like this? I can feel the sting before the tears well up.

Damn it.

I hate him .

He broke me.

He forced me to marry him.

Made me wait three months before he dragged my ass here.

Then he tried to blackmail me in to fucking him.

He’s been watching me for the past five years, chasing men away from me.

Ruining the trajectory of my life and not once did he call or text.

I didn’t change my number until last year.

Last fucking year thinking that maybe just maybe he would call.

Even with Russell. Sweet, kind, Russell. I still held out on a maybe for Angelo Amato.

But then I gave up. I finally let go, I changed my number.

And boom! He forces a marriage.

No warning.

No word.

When I was finally free, finally letting go of wishful thinking. Of what ifs. Of my private shame. My secret.

That I still loved Angelo Amato.

And this whole damn time he still loved me or whatever twisted feelings he felt to stalk me.

And now?

Now that I’m here and angry and in need of fucking explanations… he’s done?

He ignores me.

Out late every night, probably sleeping with other women because he sure as hell isn’t ever getting it from me.

Fuck it.

I’m texting him.

I’m done.

I can’t do this anymore.

I pick up my phone again and there it is, a message.

A photo .

The loft.

‘Just in case you change your mind, I cleaned it up, fresh paint, new furniture. Just in case, Adriana.’

My heart stutters in my chest. I look at the photo again. That’s the loft, but it kind of matches our living room here. Black with deep red accents and white walls. In the kitchen on the windowsill,

My breath hitches.

The mug with “World’s best Chef” on it.

I look at his last messages. Before his silence the one message I read over and over.

‘I don’t need an open door invitation. Just crack a window. Let me in, even if it’s just for a breath.’

I toss the blanket off me and slip out of bed.

I’ve made my choice.