Page 6 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

“Damn.” He frowns, like he’s genuinely disappointed, and reaches to take them back.

I pull away. “I love them.”

His brows lift slightly.

“I want to keep them. Please.”

I can feel the heat crawl up my cheeks, and I look away just long enough to miss his reaction, but he nods. Quiet. Almost thoughtful.

He grabs a bottle of red from the fridge, uncorks it smoothly, and pours two glasses. He sets one in front of me, then hesitates, pausing mid-movement.

“I just realized you’re not legally allowed to drink,” he says with a quiet laugh. “And we downed half the rosé stash last night.”

“I’m not allowed to do a lot of things,” I reply, taking the glass and swirling it gently. “Yet here I am.”

His smirk deepens, but there’s something else behind it this time, like he’s trying not to let me see just how much that answer gets to him.

He raises his glass.

“Here you are.”

We clink, and I sip, and it tastes like warmth and possibility.

The night unfolds in slow, golden waves.

Laughter spills easily between sips of wine and stories that mean nothing but feel like everything.

We talk about art, food, our favorite movies, the worst lies we’ve ever told.

It’s the kind of conversation that makes time blur, like we’ve known each other in other lives. Like we’ve always known each other.

By the time we end up curled on the couch, the bottle of wine nearly gone, I’ve forgotten the weight of my last name.

Angelo stands suddenly, his presence like gravity shifting in the room. He walks to a corner where a beautiful vintage record player sits beside a stack of vinyl's. He flips through them slowly, deliberately, before pulling one out and setting it on the turntable. The needle drops with a soft hiss.

Then music.

Low, rhythmic. Dreamy.

He turns back toward me and holds out a hand.

“May I have this dance, Scarlet?”

His voice is velvet, tinged with amusement and something warmer. Something that reaches me.

Despite myself, I smile.

“Sure,” I whisper, placing my hand in his.

He pulls me gently to my feet, his palm warm against mine.

We begin to move, slowly, bodies swaying in time with the music.

The air between us hums, something charged and magnetic and tender all at once.

His hand settles on the small of my back, fingers splayed, searing through the fabric.

My cheek brushes his chest, warm and solid.

Like every inch of him was made to hold m e

We don’t talk. We don’t need to.

Our eyes stay locked, the only sound the soft vinyl crackle and the melody that wraps around us like silk. His thumb strokes my side, and I melt into the motion, into him.

He leans in, his forehead brushing mine, and my breath hitches.

Then his hand lifts to cradle my face, gentle, warm.

And finally… finally… his lips find mine.

The kiss is slow. Deep. Like we’re both afraid to shatter it.

His mouth moves against mine with aching precision, and I cling to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing tethering me to earth. My body buzzes. My skin hums.

I forget everything.

The schemes. The lies. The way I shouldn’t be here.

Right now, I’m just me. Just a girl dancing barefoot in the glow of a few glasses of wine, pressed against a man who makes the world go quiet.

When he pulls back, just a breath away, his eyes are unreadable. But he doesn’t let go.

“It’s late,” he murmurs against my lips, “We’ve been drinking.”

He kisses the corner of my mouth and my breath hitches.

“I’ll take the couch, you take the bedroom,” he pulls back his eyes catching mine.

I nod despite myself, reluctantly pulling away I get ready for bed.

The room smells like him; spicy tobacco and something warm that makes my chest ache. I slip into my pajamas from my go bag and slip into the bed

I try to sleep.

I really do.

But sometime around 3 A.M. I wake up tangled in the sheets, my head foggy and my heart loud in my chest. The shorts I’m wearing feel wrong— tight, clingy —and before I can talk myself out of it, I push them down and toss them onto the floor .

Now in just a T-shirt barely reaching mid-thigh and my panties I pad barefoot into the living room.

To him.

The lights are off, but I see him, stretched out on the couch, shirtless, in dark gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. One arm is thrown over his eyes, the other draped across his stomach. He looks too good to be real.

I pause for half a second.

Then I slide in next to him.

He shifts, confused, his brows pulling together in sleepy disapproval.

“You’re supposed to stay in the bedroom,” he mumbles, his voice rough and husky with sleep.

I nuzzle in closer, pressing my face against his bare chest, breathing him in like it’s instinct.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” I whisper.

His arm wraps around me without hesitation, pulling me tight against him. His breath is warm against my hair. There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice quiet and sure. “You’re not alone.”

And just like that, wrapped in the heat of him, in the hush of the loft, with the music long gone and no one left awake—I fall back asleep.

***

In the morning, I wake on the couch alone.

Sunlight streams through the loft’s wide windows, soft and golden, casting long lines across the floor. The blanket I barely remember pulling over myself is tangled around my legs, and I sit up slowly, groggy and warm.

Then I hear it—the quiet clatter of pans, the faint sizzle of something on the stove .

Angelo.

I peek into the kitchen.

Of course he’s cooking shirtless. Again.

It’s like this man physically cannot prepare food while fully dressed.

He’s in nothing but low slung jeans again with his back is to me. Those breathtaking wings calling me to take a leap.

And suddenly, I make a decision.

A Scarlet decision.

Not an Adriana one.

Quietly, I pull off the oversized T-shirt I slept in, it hits the hardwood with a soft sigh. The air against my bare skin is cool, cooler than I expected. My breath catches before I can stop it.

Angelo turns at the sound.

He freezes. His brow lifts. His eyes drag over me— slow, reverent, hungry —but he doesn’t move. The only sound in the room is the low hiss of the frying pan behind him.

“Scarlet…” he says, my name a quiet warning on his lips. “Are you always this distracting in the morning?”

“Only when I want to be,” I reply, my voice light but steady as I step toward him.

He shuts off the stove and slides the pan off the burner, his gaze locked on mine the entire time. I close the distance between us, reaching out to trace a line along his collarbone. His breath catches, sharp and audible as my fingers glide down his chest, slow and deliberate.

His hand lifts, covering mine where it rests against his skin.

“Scarlet,” he murmurs again, softer now. A plea. A line in the sand he doesn’t really want to draw.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence, though my pulse is sprinting beneath my skin.

He shakes his head once, his hand still over mine, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re playing a dangerous game. ”

“Dangerous can be fun,” I say with a smirk, letting my fingers shift just slightly beneath his.

His laugh breaks the tension, deep and warm, echoing through the kitchen and making something flutter low in my stomach.

“That it can,” he concedes, eyes sparkling with something that looks a lot like temptation.

He takes my hand gently in his, brings it to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles.

“But not now,” he says, brushing his thumb across the back of my hand. “Go get dressed. It’s time for breakfast.”