Page 32 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I can’t believe I’m crying in front of him.

No less than ten minutes after stepping into the loft.

And yet, here I am.

Coming apart in the one place I promised myself I wouldn’t.

I head toward the couches, toward safety, but pivot halfway through. My body twists like it’s on instinct, and I spin around—

He’s right there.

Of course he is.

He followed me.

“Adriana—”

“No.”

I hold up my hand, sharp and trembling.

“No. You don’t get to talk right now. I do. I need to.”

I suck in a breath, steadying, swallowing the war in my chest.

“I don’t even know why I wore this color.”

I glance down at the red fabric like it betrayed me. “I hate this color.”

A crease forms between his brows, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

“I used to love red. All of it—maroon, crimson, cherry, wine. It was my favorite. But then you went and ruined it.”

My voice cracks. I don’t care .

“You went and destroyed everything I loved. Everything about me reminds me of you now.”

He flinches.

“I shared everything with you.” My voice lowers, raw and shaking.

“Everything; except my last name. And not because I didn’t trust you, but because I was scared. So if you’re about to do that thing where you say ‘well you weren’t honest either’ —just save it.”

His jaw tics.

And fuck me, I hate that it makes him look ten times more sexy.

He looks desperate .

And God help me, desperation looks good on a man like him.

“You’re trying, Angelo. I get it. You’re trying to fix it. Trying to recreate something.”

I take a breath, voice trembling. “But you can’t recreate what doesn’t exist anymore,” I lie.

His brows furrow.

Eyes darken.

There he is.

The real Angelo.

The one who throws verbal knives sharper than his jaw.

The one who doesn’t beg. Doesn’t break.

The one who leaves destruction in his wake and calls it strategy.

His chest rises. Falls.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches me; like I’m made of glass and rage all at once.

“You’ve drenched your world in red.” I gesture around us, wild now. “The penthouse. The loft. Every fucking curtain and throw pillow.”

My voice rises.

“What is that? Some fucked-up homage to what we had? A shrine to the girl you called a liar and left to rot?”

His breathing is sharp, uneven.

Come on, Angelo .

Fight me.

I need you to fight me.

Be Cruel.

Be Dismissive.

Be Arrogant.

Give my heart the out.

He stares at me.

Pupils blown.

Tension rolling off of him in silent, pulsing waves.

And yet, he says nothing.

“Speak!” I snap.

His eyes flick to mine.

Hard.

He didn’t like that.

He inhales deep.

Shuts his eyes for just a beat.

And when they open again, the storm is there.

Not wild. Not unleashed.

Contained. Controlled.

“The only reason red touches my world…” His voice is low.

Grave.

Devastating.

“…is because you’re in it.”

My heart stutters.

“You think the red is an homage to the girl you were ? To what we had?”

He takes a step closer, voice measured.

“No. It’s a dedication. To the life I want . And the woman I love.”

He turns his back to me.

Fury rises in my throat, until I see his hands move to the hem of his shirt.

In one smooth motion, he pulls it off .

A gasp escapes me before I can stop it.

The wings.

The massive, black tattered wings that span the breadth of his back—the same ones I used to trace with my fingertips, soft and reverent, five years ago—now have veins of red ink feathering through the black.

The crimson bleeds through the frayed edges of each plume like fire licking the ruin.

Exactly where my hands used to rest.

He turns around and I forget how to breathe.

His body is covered.

Ink wraps his arms like thorns, barbed and deliberate, twisting around vivid roses and soft carnations that bloom across his skin.

Our flowers.

Realistic. Tangled.

The blossoms are interrupted only by two small symbols; one carved like a lion’s mark, the other a bull’s crest.

Leo. Taurus.

Us.

On his right bicep, the scales of justice sit perfectly balanced, unmarred.

Clean and ordered.

Like me, maybe. Or how he sees me.

My eyes drop to his chest, there, right over his heart, is a ruby. Cracked down the center, glowing with inkwork so rich it looks like it burns beneath his skin.

Like it’s still bleeding.

Still alive.

And just below it are two letters.

One A in black. One A in red.

Mirrored. Encircled by thorny vines.

Ours.

On the other side, etched into his ribs like tally marks carved in survival —

Roman numerals:

V. VIII.

VIII. V.

My birthday and his.

But it’s the lowest marking that unravels me.

Where the muscles of his pelvis taper into shadow. Right above the low waistband of his jeans, red petals scatter down like fallen love, darkened and singed at the edges. And behind the rising shade inked across his V-line, tucked low is one word…

Scarlet.

My name.

A secret. A burn. A brand.

“My body is also an homage to you,” he says, steady.

“Your possessions that line my office shelves? They’re not the only shrine.”

He extends his arms like a broken altar.

“Every single one of these leads back to you.”

The tears fall fast now.

Hot. Silent.

My throat closes.

“My whole life is a dedication to you, Adriana.”

I stare at him.

Really stare.

My voice cracks.

“No…”

It comes out broken. A ghost.

But I can’t look away.

His body…

It’s a monument.

A living, breathing chronicle of us.

Every line of ink, every shade of crimson. A history I didn’t know he kept writing .

“I wanted to remember you,” he says.

Quiet. Certain.

“Every part of you. Even if I couldn’t have you.”

I take in a shaky breath.

It’s hot.

Too hot in here.

And I can’t breathe.

I can’t do this.

And he’s standing there covered in me.

Waiting.

I shake my head.

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoes his head tilting.

“Why do that and not come for me? Why make me wait?”

His shoulders fall, his brows rise.

“Adriana, I don’t know how many times I can apologize until you believe it. But I will etch it in to your soul if I have to.”

He approaches me and I let him.

His fingers brush back my hair until his hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me close he closes the distance his forehead presses to mine.

“I’ll regret not coming for you sooner for the rest of my life,” he whispers

I close my eyes and take a breath.

“Be patient with me. Make it right, Angelo,” I breathe out.

His breath hitches.

“I will. I swear it on my life. It’s the only thing I want to do.”

***

We disagree on who gets the couch. As much as he insists, I force him to the bedroom .

I tell him I need the distance.

I lie awake.

The couch is too new, too stiff. The cushions fight me, pushing back against every shift, every restless turn, until my back throbs and my neck aches. I can’t find a position that doesn’t hurt.

And it’s cold.

But that’s not why I can’t sleep.

My mind won’t stop. Won’t quiet.

The tattoos. The wings. The ruby. My name inked on his skin

My name.

Our history, bleeding across his skin in shades of red I swore I hated, etched in vows he never spoke but carried anyway.

The way he whispered: I’ll regret not coming for you sooner for the rest of my life.

And I told him to make it right.

God, what have I done?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push him from my mind, but he’s everywhere.

I can still feel the phantom weight of his hand against the back of my neck.

The silence in the loft is thick. Suffocating. It presses down on me until my lungs feel too tight, until my heart beats so loud it drowns out everything else.

I throw the blanket off.

I can’t do this.

I sit up, the moonlight slicing across the living room in a silver blade. I drag in a breath that tastes like cold and regret and something dangerously close to hope.

I rise, bare feet whispering across the floor, each step quiet but pulled forward by a gravity I can’t fight.

The door to the bedroom is cracked open .

I hover there, my hand on the frame, the chill biting at my skin, reminding me I could still turn back.

But I don’t.

I push the door open.

He’s there.

Lying on his back, shirtless, the blanket low on his hips, the black and red ink stark against the pale light. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, but his eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling, like he’s been lying there counting every crack in the plaster.

I should turn around.

I should go back to the couch.

But I don’t.

I step inside.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look at me.

I round the bed and slip under the covers, turning away from him immediately, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders, holding my breath like it will keep me from being noticed.

His scent hits me instantly, warm, winding around me, pressing into every part of me I’ve tried to keep him out of.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

The words fall from my lips, quiet and raw, cracking at the edges.

Silence.

It stretches, long enough that it feels like it might swallow me whole, like it might force me to crawl out of my own skin.

Then the mattress shifts.

His breath warms the back of my neck, slow and unsteady.

A hand curls around my waist, hesitant for half a second before pulling me back, firm and certain, until I’m pressed against him. His skin is hot, his chest solid against my spine, his heartbeat steady, too steady, like it’s trying to replace mine.

His breath ghosts by my ear, warm and trembling .

“You’re not alone.”

His voice is low, rough, gentle in a way that makes my eyes sting.

The same words.

The same promise.

Five years later.

And—

I let him.

I let the warmth seep into the cold spaces, let the tether pull tight around my ribs, let the weight of him settle into the hollow places I’ve carried for too long.

Just for tonight, I whisper in my mind as his nose brushes the curve of my neck, as his breath hitches against my skin.

Only tonight.

I don’t sleep.

I can’t.

Not when he’s this close.

Not when every inhale tastes like him, when every exhale is a prayer I’ll pretend I never spoke.

I lie there, wrapped in the heat of him, the scent of him, the steady, aching thrum of his heart against my back, and let myself relax.

Just for tonight.

Only tonight.

Finally, I sleep.