Page 42 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

T he ride back to the loft is silent.

Not cold. Not angry.

Just… contained.

Like something pressing under glass, waiting for the crack.

The engine ticks softly as it cools. Angelo doesn’t say a word, just gets out, comes around, opens my door like he’s done it a thousand times. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, guiding me inside.

No conversation. No eye contact.

The quiet feels heavy, like the hush before a storm.

The door closes behind us with a soft, definitive click.

I turn, ready to say something, anything to shatter the silence.

But he’s already pulling his shirt off.

Not dramatically. Not with heat.

Just calm, sure fingers tugging it over his head, the fabric sliding over the hard lines of his shoulders. He holds it out to me, the cotton still warm, smelling faintly of him—spice, smoke, something darker I can’t name.

“Put this on,” he says.

I blink, thrown. “What?”

“Take off your clothes.” His voice is quiet, even. Unbothered, like he’s asking me to pass the salt. He turns, walking up the stairs like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. “Put that on. ”

I stare at his back, at the tattoos inked into his skin, shifting over muscle as he moves. My fingers tighten around the fabric, soft and lived-in, like the echo of him.

I want to tell him no. That he can’t just order me around like we’re in some fever dream.

That I won’t just fall in line because he tells me to.

But I don’t.

Instead, I toe off my shoes and peel my shirt off slowly, the cotton whispering over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I stand there for a beat, bare, the air cool against my stomach, waiting to see if he’ll turn around and look.

He doesn’t, just turns toward the kitchen at the top of the stairs.

I pull his shirt over my head. It swallows me, the hem brushing against my thighs, the neckline wide enough to slip off one shoulder. It smells like him, feels like him, and I hate how it makes me feel, soft, shaky, his.

Then I follow.

I find him barefoot, standing at the stove. The only sounds in the room are his busy work.

A pot filling with water.

The sharp click of the stove igniting.

Cabinets opening, closing.

He’s cooking. Calm. Collected.

Like telling me to strip was nothing.

“Is there a reason behind this?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean it to be, cutting through the quiet.

He glances at me over his shoulder, the faintest smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, dark eyes dragging down the length of me in his shirt.

“The jeans too,” he says. “Take them off.”

I gape at him. “Are you serious?”

That smirk widens, slow, devastating, just enough to make my heart skip, to make heat coil low in my belly.

This man .

The worst part is, I can’t decide if I hate him for it or if I’ve never wanted him more.

He’s messing with me.

Has to be.

He knows the version of me that existed five years ago, the girl who kissed him in the dark and trusted he wouldn’t break her.

I’ll take the leap. I’ll trust him.

My fingers move, slow but decisive, as I unbutton my jeans. The zipper hums, loud in the hush of the loft. I slide them down, the denim brushing over my legs, pooling at my ankles before I step out.

He doesn’t comment.

Just drops pasta into the boiling water, the hiss and clatter sharp, like he didn’t just undress me with a sentence.

His eyes flick to me again; slow, deliberate.

They drag over the hem of his shirt hanging low on my thighs, and my cheeks burn.

“Take your hair down.”

The words are so soft they’re almost a question.

Almost.

I hesitate.

But I reach up, tugging out the tie. My hair spills over my shoulders, loose and wavy, sliding along the collar of his shirt. For a moment, the only sound is the rolling boil of water and the faint exhale that slips past his lips.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, eyes lit up, voice like velvet over gravel.

He doesn’t look away.

It’s like he’s drinking it in, drinking me in and the silence stretches, thick enough to choke on.

I can’t take it anymore.

“Angelo…”

“Hop on the counter.”

I blink. “Excuse me?” A disbelieving laugh huffs past my lips .

He steps closer, and the air feels different—charged, electric.

His voice is low, calm, unyielding. “Do you need me to help you up?”

Before I can decide, his hands are on my hips, hot, firm, grounding. His thumbs graze just under the hem where my underwear peeks out, and the touch sends a shiver slicing down my spine.

I freeze, caught between breath and surrender.

Then he lifts me.

Like it’s still five years ago.

Like the world never cracked open between then and now.

My breath catches as I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my legs around his waist, instinctive, helpless, wanting.

He places me on the cool counter, but he doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t speak.

Just stands there, body close, hands resting lightly on my knees like he’s holding himself back.

“You hungry?” he asks, voice low, rough.

My brows furrow.

“I don’t know.”

Idiot.

I want to scream at myself.

What the hell are you saying? That’s not alluring. That’s not sexy.

He’s standing between your legs, his shirt swallowing your body, his hands practically burning into your skin, and you don’t know if you’re hungry?

I glance up to see if he’s amused or confused, but he’s already stepped away.

My stomach sinks.

He opens the fridge, rummages for a second, and pulls out a clear container.

I squint.

Chocolate-covered strawberries .

He steps back between my legs, easy, like there isn’t electricity crackling between us, like he doesn’t know he’s setting me on fire just by existing.

He sets the container beside me, peeling it open, the scent of chocolate rich in the air.

I can’t breathe.

Not when he picks one up and holds it to my lips, the chocolate glossy, the red of the berry vivid against his fingers.

“Open,” he murmurs, brushing it gently across my lower lip. His eyes flick to mine, dark and soft all at once. “And don’t think I’m not going to kiss you after every single one.”

Ay Dios Mio.

My breath hitches.

I part my lips, and he feeds me the strawberry, his thumb brushing my lower lip as he pulls away.

The chocolate is sweet, melting on my tongue, the berry bright, tart, grounding.

Before I can swallow, his hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up, and he leans in, kissing me slow, tasting the chocolate from my mouth like he’s savoring it, savoring me .

A soft whimper escapes me, caught between the taste of sugar and the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the gentle but unyielding hold of his hand on my face.

When he pulls back, just a breath away, his thumb swipes across my bottom lip, smudging a trace of chocolate, and he smiles, soft and devastating.

The kiss ends too quickly, but he doesn’t move far.

Just brings the remainder of the strawberry to my lips.

Before it touches my mouth, I press my fingers gently to his wrist.

He stills.

“What is this?” I ask, breath catching.

His eyes meet mine.

Those light gray eyes—always hiding something, always swirling with the threat of thunder behind the calm.

He tilts his head slightly, like the answer’s obvious.

“A gift,” he says softly. “One you’re apparently giving me.”

I swallow, unsure what to say to that.

He sets the strawberry down. His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek.

I lean into it.

Because his touch feels like everything I’ve been missing.

He tilts my chin, just enough to bring our mouths together again.

And this kiss…

This one breaks me.

It’s not rough. Not fast.

It’s slow.

Consuming.

His lips move over mine like he’s relearning the shape of me, like he’s pouring every unspoken word into the seam of my lips.

And I feel it— all of it.

The restraint. The ache. The desperation he won’t say aloud.

He kisses me like I’m sanctified and doomed all at once. Like this is the last moment before everything falls apart and he’s trying to memorize the taste of me.

My fingers curl around the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

I don’t know how to hold him, so I hold onto this.

To the kiss.

To the heat and softness and pain threaded between us.

By the time he pulls away, I can barely breathe.

His forehead rests against mine for a second, like he needs it. Like we both do.

I close my eyes, feeling the ghost of his mouth on mine.

Then he steps back.

“I’m going to cook,” he says quietly, like that kiss didn’t just hollow me out .

“And while I do… I’m going to tell you everything I did. Before you .”

My breath shudders out of me.

“If you have questions, you can interrupt,” he adds. “But I need a promise.”

I nod once, my chest still trembling. “What promise?”

His eyes lift to mine, stormy, filled with something that makes my throat close.

“That you won’t walk away until I’ve finished. That you’ll let me get through it all… before you decide you don’t want me.”

Don’t want him?

The way he says it; it’s not a plea.

It’s a quiet surrender.

Like he’s already expecting the loss.

I press my hand to my heart, grounding myself.

“I promise,” I whisper.

He nods once, like that’s all he needed.

Then he turns away.

The stove clicks on.

Then, quietly. Casually. Like it’s nothing at all—

“My mother’s death was my fault.”

I stop breathing.

His fault.

I wait for his explanation as he continues to cook, like keeping his hands busy will stop him from thinking about the words he’s saying.

“Maksim’s cousin Vasilisa was missing. She was eight. Her father hid the fact that he’d received a ransom demand and paid it alone. If he’d told Korsakov, they would’ve attacked. For a long while, they thought it was the Turkish. They’d had differences for years. It made sense it would be them.”

Vasilisa. My heart sinks for her, so young, taken. I can’t imagine.

Angelo keeps his back to me, stirring the sauce, continuing his menial task like he needs the motion to keep speaking .