Page 35 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T here’s blood.

On my wife’s shirt.

Sprinkled across her cheek.

Streaked on her hands like war paint.

My hands move over her, scanning. Inspecting for damage.

Her head tilts slightly, eyes on me but not really seeing me.

Wide, glassy, lips parted.

She looks content.

Confused.

Beautiful.

“What the hell happened?” I ask Nico, my eyes still on her.

“I think she’s in shock. She was beating the shit out of Rachel. I don’t know why.”

I cup her face again, firmer this time. Trying to draw her out.

Her eyes lock onto mine, but they’re swimming in something else.

Not fear.

Not guilt.

Adrenaline.

She’s not in shock .

She’s not even here—she’s flying . High on it. The violence. The blood. The power. Riding that same wave I’ve known since I was a boy who liked the sound of bones breaking.

She’s like me.

A smirk pulls at my mouth.

I brush her hair back, soft, reverent. My forehead finds hers, and I breathe her in.

God, her scent. The heat of her skin.

She’s perfect.

Mine.

“Adriana,” I whisper, brushing more strands behind her ear. “You’re okay.”

I brush my nose gently against hers, then pull back enough to meet her eyes.

Wait for them to catch.

And they do.

Her pupils focus.

There she is.

She inhales shakily, then exhales, her chest lifting. Swallowing hard.

“What happened?” she asks.

Her eyes flick away, scanning the room. The clink of chains, the smell of blood, Levon’s twitching body. But none of it matters. Not now.

All that matters is her.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself, though I’m not sure if it’s for her sake or mine.

I reach for her hand. It’s sticky with blood. Some of it hers, most of it not.

“What happened with Rachel?”

She blinks at me, still gathering pieces of herself.

“The redhead?” she asks, brow furrowed.

I nod.

Her expression hardens. No hesitation. No apology .

“She called me a cow,” she says flatly. “Said you bought one.”

My jaw clenches.

“I didn’t think,” she continues, “I just—reacted.”

I believe it.

I saw it in her eyes the second she walked in here, she was still in that place. That rush.

“Is she breathing?” I ask.

Adriana nods. “Probably.”

I smirk. My girl.

Then I turn to Nico.

“Get Rachel out of the club,” I say. “Hand her over to Maksim. She works for him now.”

Nico raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “You want her sent to Smash?”

“I don’t care where. She doesn’t step foot in Opulent again.”

I glance back at Levon, barely conscious, slumped and sweating in the chair.

“And him?” Nico asks.

I grab the towel off the table and wipe my hands clean.

“Leave him. Text Vaska. Let him finish it.”

Nico nods and disappears up the stairs, already pulling out his phone.

I reach for my shirt on the back of the chair and tug it over my head, muscles still buzzing, blood cooling. Then I look at her.

She hasn’t moved.

I walk over, take her hand, gentler now, and curl my fingers around hers.

“Come on,” I murmur. “We’re going home.”

She lets me lead her out, dazed and blood-speckled, not saying a word.

But I can feel her pulse in her hand.

She’s still riding the edge.

And I don’t know whether I want to pull her back or dive in with her.

** *

I don’t speak as we walk into the loft.

She’s quiet, holding herself together in the way only someone raised in this life can. Not crumbling. Not weeping. Just silent.

But I feel the tension coiled inside her like a spring, waiting for somewhere to go.

I take her to the bathroom.

One of my shirts in hand.

“Sit,” I murmur.

She obeys, folding herself down onto the closed toilet lid, her hands resting in her lap like she forgot they were covered in blood.

I wet a cloth under warm water and kneel in front of her.

Dio, her face.

Even now—flushed, speckled with someone else’s blood—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her lashes still heavy, her lips parted just slightly. There’s a serenity in her expression that doesn’t make sense. Like she’s still adrift in the storm but somehow untouched by it.

I hesitate as I touch her face. Not from fear. Not even adrenaline.

Just awe.

I wipe her cheek slowly, reverently. Her skin is soft beneath the blood. Warm. Real. Mine.

My wife.

The word thunders in my chest.

I clean her face, then her hands. The skin across her knuckles is split; nothing deep, but angry red with blooming bruises beneath.

I grab the peroxide and dab it on gently, watching her only flinch once. Dio, even her pain is beautiful.

She’s silent the whole time, until I reach for the hem of her shirt.

And that’s when she moves .

Her fingers snap around my wrists, surprisingly firm, eyes sharp now—awake.

“I can do it,” she says.

I freeze. Not because I’m offended, but because the way she says it tells me she needs this piece of control.

So I nod.

I rise to my feet and step back. “Alright.”

I leave the bathroom without another word, pulling the door closed behind me.

She’s strong. Fierce. Capable of war.

But I’d burn the world down to make sure she never has to lift her hands again.

I sit on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through my hair.

“What do you want for lunch?” I ask through the door. “I could order pizza. We could sit on the couch, put on Law and Order. Pretend today never happened.”

A pause.

Then, she laughs.

Soft.

Light.

It hits me like a sucker punch to the ribs.

That laugh. At something I said. It stirs something primal in my chest. Something tender. Something dangerous.

“Yes,” she calls back. “But two pies. One has to have black olives.”

I blink, eyebrows lifting. “Since when do you like black olives on your pizza? I thought it was strictly pepperoni and cheese. No compromise.”

The door opens.

She steps out, clean now. In my t-shirt. Her hair twisted into a loose bun. Skin glowing, lips flushed, eyes still a little wild, but clear.

And I’m gone.

Utterly gone .

“There was a job in Greece,” she says casually, walking barefoot toward me. “I smuggled…” She pauses, then smiles. “Alexandrite.”

Of course she did.

“Anyway, I tried black olives on pizza while I was there. Hooked ever since.”

Alexandrite. Rare. Changes color in different light. One of the most precious stones in the world.

Of course it’s the one she’d smuggle. It’s just like her.

I stare at her like I’ve never seen anything more perfect.

Because I haven’t.

“Two pies,” I echo. “Coming up.”

And as I reach for my phone, I realize something terrifying.

I am definitely still in love with her.

I love her so much it feels like a loaded gun pressed to my ribs.

And I’m not sure I want to survive it.

***

“It’s the mother-in-law—it has to be,” she says, biting into her slice of pizza, her voice half-full of conviction, half-giddy mischief.

She’s sprawled out on the couch like it’s hers, and maybe it is. One leg curled beneath her, the other sitting on my lap. Her hair is loose now, in soft waves that tumble over her shoulder, catching the dim afternoon light.

Gorgeous.

I barely realize I’ve started rubbing her foot until her breath hitches. Just the pad of my thumb across her arch, slow and idle while we watch the episode. She doesn’t pull away.

If anything… she relaxes.

So I keep going. Testing pressure. Circling slow. Her skin’s warm under my palm, and when her toes flex, a soft sigh escapes her lips .

That sound goes straight to my cock.

She doesn’t realize it, or maybe she does. Maybe this is just Adriana: effortless and devastating without even trying.

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to keep it casual. Harmless. But every time she lets out another of those low little hums of satisfaction, I feel my restraint thinning.

“It’s not the mother-in-law,” I say, smirking at her as I shift on the couch.

She narrows her eyes. “It’s always the mother-in-law.”

“You just want to be right.”

“I am right.”

“You’re not.”

She scoffs and lightly kicks me with her heel. “You’ve seen this one already—this isn’t fair. You probably have it memorized.”

I lean toward her, elbows on my knees, my hand still lazily cupping her ankle. I tilt my head just enough to catch her expression in the light of the TV.

“And you don’t memorize things as a lawyer?”

Her lips twitch.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I don’t get off on watching Law and Order marathons alone at two in the morning.”

“I don’t get off—” I laugh, shaking my head. “Okay, wait. No, that’s fair.”

She grins. I feel it. That old spark between us, the one that used to ignite with a look, a comment, a shared silence.

And I remember the way her laughter used to echo off the walls like a song I’d never stop playing.

The way she stole the last bite of dessert and pretended I gave it to her.

How she used to fall asleep against me like she belonged there.

My hand shifts .

From her ankle to her calf. Slowly.

She still doesn’t move.

Her eyes meet mine. Unflinching. Familiar.

And I swear we both lean in at the same time. A breath between us. The kind of closeness that can’t be faked. That lives in the bones. That never really died.

Her hand grazes mine. My fingers twitch, ready. Waiting.

And then—

She blinks. Collects herself.

“I need some air,” she murmurs, pulling back gently.

My heart stutters, but I nod. “Balcony’s open.”

She stands, barefoot and graceful, and walks toward the glass doors like she isn’t walking away from the moment we almost had. Her hair sways behind her. And I let her go.

For now.

I gather the empty plates and pizza box, carry them to the kitchen in silence. The water runs. The hum of the dishwasher starts. The mundane things that fill the space where I wish she still was.

But I glance out the window and see her; hands on the balcony rail, chin tilted to the wind.

And I need to be with her.

I slide the glass door open.

She doesn’t move.

The city stretches out before her. Her hair caught in the wind. Not hiding. Not running. Just waiting—for what, I don’t think she even knows.

But I do.

I step out.

Close the door behind me.

And then I move to her.

My chest brushes her back. She tenses, only slightly. I raise my hands, one to each side of the railing—caging her in .

Her breath shifts.

She doesn’t turn.

So I lower my head, lean close, let my voice stroke the shell of her ear.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You’re safe with me this time I promise.”

A long pause.

Then she turns.

Slow. Like the moment deserves its own gravity.

Her back presses to the railing now. Her body is facing mine, her chin tilted just slightly so we’re eye to eye. Close enough to taste her breath. Close enough that if I leaned in just a little more, we’d be past the point of no return.

She glances at my mouth.

That flick of her eyes is lethal.

“You mean it?” she whispers, her vulnerability cracking me wide open.

I nod. No hesitation.

“I swear it on my life,” I tell her, voice low and firm. “All I want is you and after what happened today — to make sure you’re okay.”

She swallows. “I am.”

Her hand rises, tentative.

Then her fingers brush along my jaw.

My breath shudders.

That touch, gentle, reverent; undoes me more than the sharpest knife. No one’s touched me like this in years. No one has dared. But she does. Like it’s natural. Like it’s hers to do.

I close my eyes.

Then I feel it.

Her lips.

Soft.

Warm.

Testing.

And that’s all I need .

I cup her jaw with both hands and press in, no hesitation this time, no restraint. I take the kiss she offers and deepen it— claim it, own it, like I should have every damn time she let me close.

Her breath catches.

Her hands find my chest.

And even though we’ve kissed before—rushed, broken, bleeding through anger and need—this one is different.

This one says stay.

This one says try again.

This one says I remember.

And I kiss the love of my life like I never stopped.