Page 47 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

I kiss the whimper from her lips as I pull out, slow, deliberate, watching her shudder beneath me.

I release her hands.

This woman.

She fucking destroys me.

How the hell did I even breathe for five years without her?

I roll off her glowing, breathless body and pull her close. She drapes her leg and arm over me like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and for a second, it feels like no time has passed at all. Like we never left this loft. Like we never broke.

Her warm breath fans across my neck, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my chest, pausing on the ink over my heart.

“We have to go back to the penthouse,” she says quietly. “Set up dinner with your brother. Lay it all out—the war, the plan. We end this. For good.”

I exhale.

The penthouse.

Where my wife has her own fucking room .

The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Then you’re sleeping in the master.”

Her fingers still on my chest.

Fuck .

She shifts, and for a split second, I don’t want to look at her—don’t want to see the rejection I know is coming.

But I do.

Her eyes soft, glowing under the light filtering through the curtain.

“I will…when you get rid of that bed.”

I frown, “why?”

She goes to shift herself up, but my arm tightens around her, stilling her.

“Just answer, Scarlet.”

She huffs, those soulful eyes roll in that gorgeous head of hers

“The notches Angelo, those fucking notches, I’m not sleeping in a bed of your conquests.”

I chuckle and she slaps my chest, the sting sobering my laughter. I catch her hand and press my lips to her knuckles.

“Those notches are not what you think they are.”

“So you’ve said. Explain.”

“Those notches…” I start, voice low, thumb grazing her knuckles. “They aren’t names.”

She raises a brow, skeptical.

“They are… moments,” I admit. “Every time I got myself off thinking of you, I marked one.”

She blinks.

Slowly.

And then makes a face. “That’s… wow.”

I smirk. “Human?”

“Weirdly flattering. But also disgusting.” She squints. “You notched the bed for every time?”

I nod once.

She exhales through her nose, scrunching it adorably. Her eyes staring at the window like she’s re-evaluating all her life choices.

“There’s no way,” she says flatly. “You expect me to believe you were celibate for five years? ”

I don’t flinch. “No. Because I wasn’t.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you brought them where? Here?!”

“No.” My voice is firm, immediate. “No one’s been here. I replaced everything, remember? The mattress, the furniture, even the damn plates. This place has only ever been ours.”

She studies me, jaw tight, but she nods.

I exhale heavily.

“If you have to know, to ease those damn thoughts—my one-night stands were in cars, hotels, bathrooms, clubs. Never brought anyone home. Never saw them again. Nothing important. No names, no love, no history.”

She looks away, her mouth twisting as she swallows hard.

“I get it,” she mutters. “You don’t have to rub it in that I moved on, that I tried, and you didn’t.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I know,” she cuts me off, voice quiet but laced with fire. “I know you’re jealous of the men I was with. I can see it. But I’m jealous too, Angelo.”

Her eyes shift to my chest as her fingers resume tracing the lines of my tattoos. “I’m fucking furious at every woman you touched after me.”

I go still.

She doesn’t stop.

“The thought of it, God that ate at me. For years. Even when I was lying close to someone else. Because no matter how much I tried to erase you from my body…”

She swallows, her jaw tight, like she’s debating whether to say it.

“…you were etched into my bones.”

I stare at her, gutted.

I hold her tighter, closer. As if keeping her pressed to me could erase all the ways I hurt her.

“No one could replace the memory of you over me,” she finishes, barely above a whisper .

And fuck me, I think my heart just gave out.

***

The master bedroom doesn’t feel the same with her in it.

It feels like ours.

Like it was always meant to be.

She folds a sweater and tucks it into the drawer beside mine, no hesitation, no awkwardness, just quiet possession. As if this space was always waiting for her to come back into my life.

Because it was.

It only took an hour to move her things in.

An hour, and everything changed.

Her toiletries sit lined beside mine on the bathroom counter.

Her rose gold razor, her skincare bottles, her lipstick.

My toothbrush leans against hers like they’ve been sharing space for years.

On the bedroom dresser, her perfume rests beside my cologne.

The scent of her clings to the air, seeps into the cotton of my shirts, and coils inside me like something permanent.

She’s here.

Really here.

Finally mine.

I watch as she smooths the edges of a folded top, closes the drawer with a quiet click, and moves to the next task with her usual grace. There’s something hypnotic about the way she moves—efficient, grounded, confident. Like she knows exactly who she is and doesn’t need to perform it.

It makes my chest ache.

It makes me want to kneel.

She turns, catching me watching her.

“What?” she asks, one brow lifted, lips twitching.

“Nothing.” It comes out too fast .

She smirks.

And fuck, that smirk. It sends a jolt through my chest and straight to my cock.

It’s cocky, knowing, soft, and all I want is to undress her and christen this bed. Make it ours in every way.

But she breaks the spell first.

“I’m gonna grab my things from the shrine in your office,” she says casually teasing, already heading toward the door.

I chuckle, propping myself against the dresser. “You can. I don’t need the shrine anymore.”

She pauses, tilting her head with a suspicious smile.

“Because I have you,” I add simply.

She rolls her eyes, biting back a grin as she walks out.

The second she’s gone, I reach for my phone. Scroll to Maksim’s name.

He picks up on the third ring, voice sharp. “What.”

“I’m telling him,” I say. “Santo. About everything. The Armenians, the fire. All of it.”

There’s a long pause.

“Oh, fuck you Amato,” Maksim mutters under his breath. “You’re an idiot. He’s going to kill you.”

“I’m done lying,” I say. “I have to come clean.”

“I don’t have time to deal with Scythe,” he snaps. “I’ve got my own problems.”

In the background, I hear a woman’s voice, low, muffled, annoyed. Maksim says something back gruffly, too quiet for me to catch.

“I need to leave town anyway,” he mutters, and then—click.

The line goes dead.

Fucking typical.

A moment later, Adriana walks back in with a box tucked in her hands, her high school ring on top, an old notebook, jewelry, photos, pieces of a life she’s reclaiming, piece by piece.

My altar holding my shrine.

She sets it down on the nightstand, takes a breath, and meets my eyes.

“I’m going to call Vasilisa,” she says. “Invite her for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Why would—”

She raises a hand to stop me. “Santo isn’t speaking to you. Vasilisa’s our way in.”

I chuckle, despite the tension pressing at my chest. “You know my brother already.”

“I do,” she says, lifting a brow. “The way his eyes track her? He won’t let her come alone— especially not when he’s pissed at you.”

I cross the space between us in two strides.

I need to touch her.

To feel her.

To know she’s real.

My hands find her waist, tug her close. The shirt she wears slips low on her shoulder, exposing soft skin I ache to sink into. I press a kiss there. Then another. My mouth drags along the column of her throat until I’m breathing her in—home, lust, love.

“Your alliance with the Russians,” she murmurs, her voice starting to waver. “Maksim needs to know the war plan.”

“Can’t,” I say, lips brushing her jaw. “He’s leaving town.”

Her breath hitches when my teeth graze that spot beneath her ear.

“That’s annoying,” she whispers. “Who’s his second in command?”

“Vaska,” I reply, my fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the curve of her hip. “His right hand.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “The knife guy.”

I grin against her skin. “The very one.”

She shivers beneath my touch, and I feel her hands on my chest like she might pull me closer.

But instead, she murmurs, “Let me call her now.”

I groan against her neck. “Scarlet…”

She giggles .

It’s soft, light, and fucking lethal.

And damn. My brain short circuits.

That sound.

That goddamn sound.

It’s light and effortless and full of something that makes my ribs ache.

I grip her tighter and kiss her hard, stealing it from her mouth before it slips away.

“Do it again,” I mutter against her lips.

She shakes her head and laughs, really laughs this time —and it wrecks me.

“You’re insane,” she says, grinning up at me, her voice husky and full of life. “You’re actually insane.”

It’s her smile, I think.

That smile.

It’s golden. It’s peace.

But then her fingers rise to my face, slow, gentle; and she cups my jaw like I haven’t ruined everything else I touch.

And suddenly her smile means nothing next to her touch.

Because this…

This.

This is the thing that ruins me.

Her hand on my face.

Touching me like I’m worth something.

Like I’m not just a sinner or a soldier or a broken man covered in blood and scars; but hers.

Her touch is the kind of peace no war can touch.

I lean into it, helpless to stop myself, and her thumb strokes the stubble on my jaw.

Then she leans up and kisses me. Soft. Lingering. Warm.

When she pulls back, her smile turns sly. “You can have me…”

My breath catches.

“…after you feed me. ”

I blink.

Then laugh.

A real one.

“Deal.”

***

She’s perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily, toes pointed just a little. Black leggings hug her thighs, and that shirt, the soft, stretched one slipping off one shoulder—teases the line of her collarbone like it’s a secret meant only for me.

Her hair’s a little messy.

Her lips are kiss-bitten.

And her skin… flushed from where my mouth wandered earlier, still wearing the echo of my devotion.

If I wasn’t already wrecked for her, this would’ve done it.