Page 38 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

T he smell of coffee wakes me first.

The bed is empty.

But I feel him.

For the first time in years, I feel him.

I made the decision to start over.

To make this work.

It’s time to get out of my own way.

And I want to try.

But I have questions, the same ones I’ve asked and he’s answered, but because of these walls I’ve built—they’ve made me spiral.

Everything inside me whispers caution.

But my heart screams, that this time I might be safe.

I need to be Scarlet .

Scarlet is who he left. Scarlet is who he hurt.

That’s how I survived. How I rationalized the wreckage he left behind.

Angelo Amato didn’t leave Adriana Castillo.

He left Scarlet.

Broken. Defeated. Tossed away. Used.

I push the blanket back, slow.

My bare feet touch the floor, cool and grounding .

I sit there for a moment, staring ahead without seeing, letting the ache settle in my bones.

I close my eyes.

And breathe.

Really breathe.

When I open my eyes, I feel it.

A shift beneath my skin.

Finally, I stand.

The motion feels heavier than it should. Like pulling free from something sticky and invisible.

I cross the room quietly, every step deliberate, and make my way to the bathroom.

Inside, the mirror greets me.

And the woman staring back?

Not Scarlet.

Not Adriana either.

Someone caught somewhere in between.

I reach for my toothbrush, grounding myself in the small, mechanical motions.

The simple rituals of care.

I brush my teeth. Comb my hair.

Stare at my bare face.

I hesitate over the makeup bag.

No hiding today.

Just me.

I breathe again, a little steadier now.

I take another breath.

Anchoring myself.

When I’m done, I dig through the drawer where my things now live.

I’ve been living in his shirts, cloaking myself in his scent, his presence.

But not today.

Today, I choose for my heart .

I pull on a thin black long-sleeved shirt, enough coverage to feel safe, but not hiding. A pair of jeans, just in case he wants to go out again.

Balance, Adriana.

It’s all about balance.

Back in the bathroom, I gather my hair into a sleek ponytail. Severe enough to feel composed. Soft enough to show my face.

No walls.

I step out of the bedroom barefoot, the floor cool and smooth beneath me.

The scent of coffee pulls me forward like a lifeline.

In the living room, the coffee table is set.

Bagels. Oat milk. Two mugs.

A small, thoughtful offering.

But the room is empty.

The balcony door is open, letting in a soft breeze that stirs the air.

Through the glass, I see him.

Standing with his back to me, bare and strong and heartbreakingly familiar.

For a moment, I just watch him.

The weight of all the years between us pressing against my chest.

Before he can acknowledge me, I move.

I close the distance between us, heart hammering, breath shallow.

I slip my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against the bare expanse of his back.

The first thing I feel is heat radiating off his skin.

The second is texture—the smooth stretch of muscle shifting beneath my cheek, taut with tension.

His scent fills my lungs.

It clings to my skin, seeps into my bones.

He stiffens.

I feel it instantly, the way his whole body goes rigid under my touch.

Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to hold on or if he’ll scare me off .

For a breathless moment, he doesn’t move.

And I just listen.

The steady, pounding beat of his heart thrums against my ear, louder than the wind outside, louder than the world.

I tighten my arms around him slightly, a silent plea.

I’m here.

I’m staying.

I’m choosing you.

He exhales slowly, the tension bleeding out of him.

His hands settle over mine, covering them.

Large, warm, steady.

He threads our fingers together over his heart.

Anchoring me there.

“Adriana,” he says, voice rough, thick with something he doesn’t know how to name yet.

I close my eyes, soaking in the feel of him.

The weight.

The strength.

The vulnerability.

“It’s Scarlet,” I whisper, my words sinking into his skin.

“I’m not hiding anymore.”

There’s a pause, then he turns in my arms, wrapping me in his warmth.

The solid wall of his chest presses against mine, and I feel everything—

The steady thud of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breath, the way his body curves instinctively to shelter mine.

“Scarlet,” he repeats, the word catching slightly on his tongue, like he’s tasting it for the first time.

Like it’s something rare.

His thumb brushes over the back of my neck, slow, steady, but sure.

The calloused pad of it drags warmth across my skin, a tiny shiver following in its wake .

“Good morning,” I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath between us.

“Good morning,” he replies, the sound deep and rough, vibrating through his chest and into mine like a second heartbeat.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, his mouth brushing the crown of my head.

I nod, nestling closer to him, letting the weight of his arms anchor me.

“Yes.”

His scent.

Dios, this scent.

It’s something that always smelled like danger and home at once.

It wraps around me, grounding and dizzying.

We stay like that for a moment, just holding each other while the day stirs awake.

The wind tugs gently at the balcony curtains. The city hums below. But up here, in his arms, the world is quiet.

He pulls away first, slow and reluctant, but his hands don’t leave me.

They slide down to my waist, fingers splayed wide.

His eyes find mine, searching for something only I can give.

“Did you see the spread?” he asks, voice dipping lower, roughened with emotion he doesn’t try to hide.

“I did,” I answer, smiling softly up at him. “For me?”

He shrugs, but the smirk that curves his mouth doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he says.

There’s a quiet, raw honesty in it—like he’s still learning how to care for me, one trembling step at a time.

My heart swells, too big for my chest.

I rise onto my toes and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the faint scratch of stubble, the lingering warmth of his skin under my lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper against him .

His arms tighten around me immediately, pulling me flush to him again, like my gratitude cuts deeper than he knows what to do with.

He leans his forehead against mine, closing his eyes, breathing me in.

I feel the slow, measured pull of his breath against my ribs.

The way his fingertips curl into the fabric of my shirt like he’s anchoring himself to me too.

I study him through my lashes; the man I spent years trying to forget.

The man who never really left me.

The face I once hated myself for loving.

The face I see even when I close my eyes.

“I think...” he says quietly, voice roughened and low, “I think we should go inside.”

I nod, small but steady.

A promise made more to myself than to him.

I take his hand.

Feel the roughness of his palm, the solid weight of it folding around mine.

It steadies me. Grounds me.

But it doesn’t cage me.

Not anymore.

This time, it’s me leading him.

Me choosing the next step.

Inside, there are questions Scarlet needs to ask him.

Wounds she needs to uncover, even if they bleed.

Because once Scarlet knows the truth,

Adriana can heal.

And for the first time in a long time,

I want to heal.

Not just survive.