Page 4 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

I see her before she even reaches the bar.

That red dress. Tight. Sinful. Painted on like it was made just to make men lose their minds. She walks like she doesn’t know the power she’s holding, but every head turns. Mine included.

She’s perfect.

The kind of girl you take home for the night. The kind you forget by morning.

I didn’t expect the innocence in her eyes when she turned on the balcony. Didn’t expect the way her lips parted like I’d startled her. There’s a softness there, something untouched, and it makes my blood hum.

Scarlet.

A name like a dare. A promise.

She’s not from this world. Not really. I can feel it in the way she breathes—cautious, curious . Circling the edge of a trap, unaware she’s already inside it.

So I bring her to the loft.

It’s not mine. It belongs to my father’s people, a place they use during stakeouts and go undercover. Soft. Strategic. But I lie, of course. Tell her it’s where I used to stay while going to college. Another easy lie. One she swallows without question .

She looks around with awe in her eyes like she’s stepped into something sacred. I guide her to the plush black sofa in front of the fireplace, where I’ve already uncorked a bottle of rosé. Not for her; just habit. I fill two glasses and hand her one, brushing my fingers against hers deliberately.

She flushes.

That glow, fuck, it’s addictive.

I sit beside her, close enough to feel her tension simmering beneath the surface. She shifts, fingers gripping the stem of her glass too tightly, eyes flicking toward mine then away again.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

Her body’s already telling me everything.

She’s melting. Right on cue.

Nervous? Sure. But I can work with nervous.

I take her glass, set it on the table next to mine. Her breath quickens. I watch her chest rise and fall just a little faster.

She’s not running.

She’s waiting.

I move closer, keeping my eyes locked on hers, those big, wide brown eyes. Her hands twitch in her lap. I smirk.

She wants this. Even if she doesn’t know how to say it.

I lean in, fingers brushing through her curls, tucking a strand behind her ear. She freezes; just for a second. Holds her breath.

And then I kiss her.

Soft, at first. Testing. Tasting.

Her lips part, just enough. That’s all the invitation I need. My hand slides into her hair as I deepen the kiss, my tongue stroking against hers, and—

Fuck.

She tastes sweet. Warm. Better than I expected.

Too good.

I pull back before I do something stupid. Before I forget what this is .

Her eyes are dazed, lips parted, cheeks glowing. There’s a flush crawling down her neck, and I want to follow it with my mouth.

But there’s something else.

A glimmer. Desire, sure. But also… mystery.

She’s not just beautiful. She’s something else. Something unspoken. And that’s the part that’s dangerous.

“Scarlet,” I whisper, her name rolling off my tongue like a secret I want to keep.

She breathes in sharply, like it surprises her. Like no one’s ever said her name like that before, with heat. With hunger.

With intent.

I can’t help but chuckle, soft, quiet, caught off guard. The way she looks at me, like she’s unsure whether to be afraid or enchanted… it’s pure . Innocence and curiosity war in her eyes, threaded with just enough fear to make it real. She’s not playing a game. She doesn’t even know she’s in one.

It’s fascinating.

She’s like a book I haven’t read yet. Every glance, every twitch of her mouth, tells a story waiting to be unraveled. Her gaze drops to her lap, shy, and then lifts again with the smallest smile; timid but brave.

She’s young. But not weak.

There’s something in her that wants more. More than the dress, the wine, the party. More than me.

And something in me starts to stir. I don’t like it.

Because part of me wants to drag her beneath me and watch that shy smile twist into something more seductive.

But another part, one I don’t listen to often, says slow down. Tread carefully.

Then she does something I don’t expect.

Her fingers reach out— tentative, trembling —and brush against my cheek.

It’s nothing. A ghost of a touch .

But it hits like a lightning strike, right through my spine.

No one touches me like that. Not with gentleness. Not with care.

It was a mistake, letting her in because now I’m addicted; to the softness in her touch, the taste of her lips and now that she’s here touching me like I’m something important… I can’t imagine her walking out the door.

So, I do something I never do. I ask her about herself.

“What do you do, Scarlet?”

Her fingers fall away, and I immediately hate the loss of them. She tilts her head slightly, eyebrows pinching together like she doesn’t quite understand the question.

“What do I do?” she echoes, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She bites her lip— fuck, that mouth —and says softly, “I’m a student.”

My stomach drops.

Shit.

No. No.

I lean back, suddenly needing distance, clarity, air. “How old are you?” I ask, already bracing for the fallout.

She hesitates. “Eighteen.”

My jaw clenches. Eight years apart. She’s legal. Barely. And I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disgusted with myself.

“Please tell me you’re not still in high school,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I can see Santo’s smug face now.

Her cheeks flush again, and I can tell she feels the shift. “No,” she says quickly. “I graduated early. I’m actually in college now. Pre-law.”

That catches me off guard. “College?”

She nods, still a little hesitant. “Yeah. I finished high school early. I didn’t want to wait around, so I took extra credits and skipped ahead.”

I stare at her for a second too long, trying to decide if this is some elaborate cover or if she’s really telling the truth. But the look in her eyes— determined, slightly nervous, proud —tells me she means it.

“I guess that makes you a prodigy,” I say, smirking.

She blushes again, then shrugs. “I just work hard. ”

I nod slowly, processing. “So you’re studying law?”

“Mmhm,” she hums. “That’s the plan. Well, my plan.”

I exhale slowly. She’s a genius. I should end this. I should.

But then I ask, “Why? Why do you say it like that?”

Her shoulders rise, then fall. That smile she wore a moment ago fades.

“It’s complicated,” she says, then amends, “It’s my family. They have other plans for me.”

I nod once, jaw tight. That, I understand. Better than she knows. Family plans. Family pressure. Family power.

It crushes you, even when you learn to smile through it.

Our conversation flows like the rosé in our glasses, easy, smooth, deceptively light.

Each sip loosens our tongues, each pause filled with laughter or quiet understanding.

Scarlet tells me about her family, not in detail, but enough to draw the shape of the cage she lives in.

There’s weight behind her words, a kind of guilt she tries to hide but can’t quite bury.

The way she talks about staying for them, sacrificing her own future—it’s too familiar.

I picture her in some high-profile political family, the kind that throws parties with too much money and not enough love.

She fits the image—refined, poised, always careful.

But the real her leaks through in moments.

In the way she fidgets. In the way her voice softens when she talks about what she really wants.

She wants to be a lawyer to help people. Her eyes shine when she says it, her whole face lighting up. She gestures with her hands, painting courtroom scenes in the air between us. I tease her, telling her I only know about the law from binge-watching Law and Order.

She laughs, calls me a dork, and we spend half an hour arguing over which show has the best detectives.

Time slips past unnoticed.

Somehow, without meaning to, we’ve curled into each other—shoulders brushing, her feet tucked under her as she leans into me as she speaks. She runs her fingers along the rim of her glass, lost in thought, and I find myself watching every small movement like it matters. Like she matters.

The soft glow from the nearby lamp paints her skin in amber and rose, and her laughter…

That gorgeous laugh, it gets under my skin in a way I didn’t sign up for. Her brown eyes sparkle when she looks at me, her smile slow and real, and it hits me harder than it should.

This was supposed to be simple.

Fun. Easy.

A distraction.

But the longer we talk, the more I see myself in her; in the longing in her voice, in the frustration she doesn’t speak out loud. We’re both trapped by legacy. Both performing roles we didn’t choose.

And somehow, she gets it. She gets me.

She reaches for her drink and her fingers graze mine, a fleeting touch, but it sparks like a live wire.

More electric than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

She doesn’t even notice what she’s done, just keeps talking, her voice lilting, her eyes wide with wonder as she tells me about her favorite books, her fear of failing, her dream of arguing in court one day.

And I’m just… listening.

Entranced.

I watch the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way she twirls her hair around her finger when she’s nervous. And I can’t explain it, but I don’t want this night to end.

What started as a hunt for a warm body has turned into something far more dangerous.

A mirror. A kindred spirit. Someone who sees past the surface, who might, without even knowing it, be carving open parts of me I thought I’d buried long ago.

And that scares the hell out of me.

But I can’t look away.

** *

I wake up on the cold, unforgiving hardwood floor, head pounding like I’ve taken a bat to the skull. The room spins slightly as I push myself up, disoriented, groggy.

And then it hits me.

She’s gone.

The sofa is empty. No trace of her curls, her laugh, those soft brown eyes. Just the lingering whisper of her perfume in the air; sweet, soft, maddening . The kind that clings to your clothes and your goddamn thoughts.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

I search the loft like an idiot, like maybe she’s hiding behind a wall or in the bathroom, but I already know better. Scarlet slipped out, clean and quiet.

I reach for my phone on the cluttered coffee table, nearly knocking over the empty wine glasses. No number. No last name. No clue who she really is.

Only the memory of her lips and the impossible softness of her voice.

I hover over Nico’s name, thumb just above the screen. He could find her in minutes. I could start a citywide search—hell, I’ve done it for less.

But then the phone vibrates.

Incoming text.

I stare, frowning, until I see the name on the screen.

Scarlet.

My eyes widen. That sneaky little minx. She must’ve swiped my phone sometime last night, added her number without me noticing. My irritation twists into something else hot, electric, impressed.

A simple message:

‘I had fun last night ’

A smirk tugs at my mouth.

I don’t hesitate. I type:

‘Come back here around 6.’

The message sends, and I watch the screen like it’s going to breathe.

The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Come back again. My heart beats harder than I want it to.

And then, finally, her answer:

‘Maybe.’

That one word.

Teasing. Unbothered. In control.

Damn.

She’s good.