Page 40 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

H e’s too close.

His face.

His mouth.

Those lips I used to dream about… and still do.

The rough edge of his jaw brushes against the inside of my fingers, the skin there warm and faintly stubbled, soft in places, coarse in others.

The kind of texture that makes you want to drag your mouth along it just to feel alive.

I missed this face.

Missed how angular and unfair it is.

Missed the way his lashes fan across those sharp, light eyes, like clouds in a light storm, always brewing under the surface.

Missed the mouth that lies like sin and kisses like confession.

The heat of his skin is almost unbearable from this close.

That spicy tobacco scent clings to him like it always did—rich, dark, dizzying.

He hasn’t said a word since I touched him.

Just stares at me.

With those eyes.

It makes my chest ache.

I’ve hated him .

Loved him.

Grieved him like the dead.

But right now— right now, I want him.

Not just the memory.

Him.

“I want you,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

The words float out like a secret, like sin.

His eyes flicker like a spark finding oxygen.

My arms wrap around his neck pulling him in, I kiss him.

No warning.

Soft at first. A tremble.

But then he groans into my mouth, and I feel the tremble break into something hungrier, deeper.

I don’t wait.

I straddle his lap.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow.

Because I don’t want slow right now.

I want him.

All of him.

His hands slide to my hips, broad, firm, searing through the denim like his touch is heat and I’m already burning.

I feel it in my spine.

The way his fingers flex against me, holding me like he’s not sure if he ever wants to let go.

His mouth devours mine.

Hot. Hungry.

His tongue sweeps across my lower lip before he deepens the kiss—not like a question, but like a claim.

And I let him.

I want more. I want him now. I grind down, reckless, desperate, needing the friction, the weight, the heat. His hands clutch at my hips, dragging me harder against him, a growl vibrating low in his chest .

It’s messy, the kiss. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling, breaths stolen between gasps. His fingers dig into my thighs, spreading me wider over him, his hips lifting to meet every roll of mine.

“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth, his voice shredded, dark, vibrating through me. “I won’t last if you keep doing that.”

A shaky laugh slips out, breathless, wild, and I swallow it with another kiss.

But then he stills, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes drag down my body, slow, dark, hungry, jaw tight like he’s at war with himself.

“Stop,” he rasps.

“What—” I pant, hips rolling instinctively against him.

“Stop, Scarlet.” His fingers hook into the waistband of my jeans, tugging. His eyes lock with mine, feral, hungry, his voice a dark promise. “Take these off.”

My breath hitches. “Here?”

His mouth curves, slow, wicked. “No. Bedroom.”

And then he moves, shifting me in his lap, his hands sliding under my thighs, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing. My arms lock around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist, the world tilting as he stands, his mouth crashing into mine again, all heat and hunger.

He carries me down the hall, the world a blur around us, my heart pounding syncing with his steps.

The bedroom door slams shut behind us.

He drops me onto the edge of the bed, standing over me, breathing hard, looking at me like he’s about to ruin me.

And I want him to.

I push my jeans down, hands shaking, dragging them over my hips and kicking them off. His eyes track every movement, darkening, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

“Lie back,” he says.

I do .

My hair fans across the sheets, my legs parting as he steps between them, his hands sliding up my thighs, thumbs brushing over the lace, teasing, testing.

Then he drops to his knees.

His eyes find mine, blazing, holding me there.

“Keep your eyes on me, Scarlet.”

I swallow, my breath ragged, hands fisting in the sheets as his thumbs hook into the lace. His eyes flash dark, and then—he tears them, the sound sharp, final, the thin fabric giving way like it was nothing under his hands.

And then he lowers his head.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate, dragging a moan from me so deep I don’t recognize my own voice. His stubble scrapes the inside of my thighs, the rough burn only making the heat sharper.

“Angelo,” I gasp, my hips arching, desperate.

He groans against me, the vibration shooting through my spine, his hands locking around my thighs, pinning me down as his tongue circles, flicks, tastes.

It’s filthy, the way he eats me.

Desperate.

My hand flies to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, tugging, and he groans, the sound vibrating against me, making me cry out.

His tongue is ruthless, dragging me higher, tearing sounds from me I didn’t know I could make. My thighs quiver around his shoulders, and I see it, the moment his control cracks, his hands tightening, nails digging into my skin like he needs to anchor himself to me.

“Fuck, Scarlet,” he groans against me, voice muffled, almost pained, and the vibration rips a sob from my chest. “You taste like every goddamn dream I’ve ever had.”

A sob catches in my throat. “Don’t. Don’t say that—”

His head lifts, mouth wet, eyes blown black, feral. “Why? Because you want to pretend you don’t still fucking want this?” His thumb presses against my clit, sharp, and I jolt, a cry slipping out.

“Say it,” he demands, low, rough, guttural. “Say you want me. I need to hear it.”

My hips roll against his hand, helpless. “I want you.”

His mouth crashes back to my pussy, his filthy, claiming, tongue relentless as he demands, “Louder.”

“I want you, Angelo!” It tears from me, raw, needy, humiliating and freeing all at once.

His hands flex, pulling me closer, tongue flicking, sucking, dragging me to the edge so fast I can’t breathe. I’m shaking, sobbing, shattering, my body arching as he devours me like he’s starving, like he’s dying for this.

“That’s it, Tesoro,” he rasps, breath hot against my soaked skin, “give it to me. Let me have you.”

I fall apart with a scream, my vision going white as the pleasure rips me open, wave after wave tearing through me until I’m limp, trembling, ruined.

He doesn’t let me go, licking me through it, dragging me deeper until the pleasure burns, until tears slip from the corners of my eyes, until the only thing I know is him, his mouth, his voice whispering, “Mine. Mine. Mine,” like a prayer he can’t stop saying.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, jaw tense, eyes dark and alive, chest heaving.

He crawls up my body, pinning me with the weight of him, his face inches from mine, breath hot as his forehead presses to mine.

“You’re never getting rid of me,” he whispers, soft and dangerous, a promise. “Not now. Not ever .”

And when he kisses me, it’s slow, deep, claiming . His tongue sliding against mine, tasting me, tasting us, a final brand I will never wash away.

And for a moment, there is no past .

No anger.

No walls.

Only us.

He pulls back, eyes locked on mine.

My breath hitches, confused, my body still trembling, still open, still wanting.

“Angelo—” I start, reaching for him as I sit up.

But he’s already moving, crossing the room, grabbing a pair of clean panties from the dresser and dropping them beside me on the bed.

My brows knit. “What are you doing?” My voice is raw, wrecked.

He smirks, but it’s softer around the edges. “Getting you dressed.”

“What about you?” I blurt, my eyes dropping to the thick line of his cock straining against his sweats.

His jaw ticks, his eyes flickering with heat, but he just shakes his head.

“Later, Tesoro.” His thumb swipes across my bottom lip, pressing gently, watching the way I shiver. “I want to show you something first.”

I swallow, my heart pounding, heat still coiling low in my belly.

“What?” I whisper.

His eyes darken, the smirk falling away.

“Where I come from. Where I’ve been. So you know exactly what you’re choosing.”

He leans down, pressing one last kiss to my lips—slow, deep, promising before pulling back, leaving me breathless.

“Get dressed, Scarlet,” he says quietly. “We’re going for a drive.”

***

The car ride is quiet, comfortable.

The kind of silence that only comes after something real has been shared .

I sit with one leg curled beneath me, watching the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the veins on his forearms catching the sunlight as it streaks through the window.

He doesn’t say where we’re going.

Just drives.

Until we turn down a side street. A little more run-down. Older.

We pull in front of a narrow brick townhouse. Faded red. Three stories. Cracked window frames. The vines crawling up the side are overgrown, wild, like the building is trying to disappear.

He shuts off the engine.

I watch him.

He’s staring at the house like he’s seeing something no one else can.

“This was my mother’s childhood home,” he says softly. “I used to play here when I was a kid.”

I look back at the building.

“You… grew up here?”

He shakes his head. “No. We grew up at the estate. But she always said this one felt like home to her. My father bought it outright for her early in their marriage. She’d come here when she needed quiet.”

His voice dips into something almost reverent. “This is the house I picture when I think of her happy.”

My chest tightens for him.

After he first mentioned his mother’s passing, I did my research. What happened to Lucia Amato is horrific. The kind of story whispered between powerful men when they warn each other about the cost of this life. The reason my father was always so guarded. The reason Luciano taught me how to fight.

He opens the car door for me and offers his hand. I take it, letting him lead me up the steps. A keypad on the door—numbers punched in, a soft beep, and the lock clicks open.

The townhouse creaks like it remembers him .

Dust drifts in the slats of morning light, swirling above the wooden floors like whispers. Like ghosts.

I follow him into the front room, where white sheets still hang over the furniture like old bones draped in linen. The place is beautiful in that way timeworn things often are, edges softened by years, corners haunted by silence.

“She used to read in that chair by the window,” he says, voice quieter now.

I look toward it, sunlight hitting the armrest, golden and forgiving.

“She came here a lot?” I ask.

He nods. “She came here when she wanted to feel… normal.”

I glance around again. It doesn’t feel normal. It feels hollow, but holy. Like a chapel built on broken prayers.

“It looks like it’s been empty for years,” I say. “What do you use it for now?”

He hesitates.

His body stills—just enough for me to notice.

Then he turns toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”

He leads me down a narrow corridor where the wallpaper is more peeled, the air colder.

A door creaks open under his hand.

Wooden steps leading down.

Damp-smell wafting up.

My heart doesn’t race.

I’ve grown up around men like him. Around violence. Around shadows.

But this… this feels personal.

He flicks a switch, and a single hanging bulb crackles to life, casting a warm glow over the most brutal collection I’ve ever seen.

Blades. Hooks. Ropes. Steel tables stained in old memory. Tools you don’t find in a hardware store .

It smells like blood, leather, oil—and the kind of history you don’t write down.

And something older.

Something like sin.

He steps into the center of the room.

“This is where I work,” he says, like he’s giving me a tour of an office.

I say nothing.

Just take it in.

The table. The cuffs. The drain in the floor. The stained concrete.

He watches me carefully, maybe expecting me to flinch.

But I don’t.

I’ve seen things. I’ve lived things.

My brother never dirtied his own hands, not that I ever saw. But Angelo? Angelo wears the blood. Carries it in his silence.

Now I understand. Why they call him Sinner.

Not because he sins, but because he never pretends he doesn’t.

“You’re not scared,” he says finally.

“I’ve seen worse,” I answer honestly.

He nods.

Then gestures toward the far wall, where two metal chairs sit bolted to the ground.

“This is where we did it.”

I look at him. “Did what?”

He runs a hand over his jaw, voice distant now. Cold.

“Where Scythe and I took care of the men who took our mother.”

My blood stills.

“Scythe,” I say. “That’s Santo, right?”

A faint flicker of a smile touches his lips.

“Something like that,” he says. “For Santo… it’s a bit more in-depth. Long story.”

I nod. Vasilisa was evasive about Scythe too.

The silence stretches, heavy with things neither of us says .

I glance once more at the room, the bloodstains that refuse to lift, the tools that aren’t for show.

This isn’t just his mother’s house.

It’s a battlefield. A confessional.

And he let me see it.

“Why show me this?”

“No lies,” he says, clear, his eyes locked on mine.

I look around the room. “So this is where I should expect to find you if you’re working ? ” I say with a smirk. “In basements, either this one or Opulent?”

He chuckles.

He’s about to speak when my phone rings in my back pocket.

I pull it out and glance at the screen.

Luciano.

I press decline without thinking, sliding it back into my pocket.

When I look up, Angelo’s watching me.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

There’s no anger, just that quiet observation that feels heavier than a shout.

“It was just my brother,” I say, too quickly.

I don’t know why I say it.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t even move.

And yet here I am, explaining myself like it matters.

Like it’s any of his business.

I glance away.

Then—

His phone rings.