Page 7 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

S he’s trying to break me.

That body, fuck, it’s sinful. She’s standing there like temptation incarnate, full breasts, soft hips wrapped in nothing but silk, thighs I’ve been dreaming about burying myself between since the second I saw her.

And she knows what she’s doing. She’s serving herself up like a challenge I’m not strong enough to refuse.

I let go of her hand, digging into my pocket for a mint just to keep my hands off her. I unwrap it and pop it into my mouth letting the cool mint bite back at the fire she started. I smirk, pretend I’m in control.

I turn away, try to , but she grabs my shoulders, spins me back around, and crashes her lips to mine.

And I’m gone.

My hands find her hips like they’ve belonged there all along, gripping tight as I lift her onto the counter with a roughness I don’t even try to temper.

She gasps against my mouth, and my tongue finds hers— fuck , we’re even sharing the mint now.

It’s ridiculous. Addictive. Intimate in a way I wasn’t ready for.

My lips move to her neck, hungry, tracing the delicate line of her throat. She moans; a soft, desperate sound that shatters the last of my restraint and I’m a lost cause. My hands roam over her body, tracing curves, memorizing the shape of her like I need it carved into my skin .

“Angelo,” she breathes, her fingers threading through my hair, nails dragging lightly across my scalp.

It makes me shiver.

Her scent wraps around me, sweeter than wine, more dangerous than any deal I’ve ever made. I look up, her eyes heavy-lidded with need, lips parted and already swollen from our kiss.

“I…” I try to speak, try to say something rational, but my brain is pure static.

She grips my face in her hand, pulls me close and kisses me again, deeper, hotter and for one blinding second, I let her erase every line I’ve drawn in the sand.

Then—

Reality.

My last name. Her age. Her softness. My truth.

I pull back, panting, my forehead pressed to hers. My entire body buzzes, screaming at me for being a fucking coward.

“We… we can’t do this,” I force out, the words cutting like glass on my tongue.

“Why?” she whispers, and it guts me; how confused she looks. How hopeful.

“Because I want you,” I admit, voice rough and raw.

She blinks, lips trembling.

“Then take me,” she whispers.

And God help me, I want to.

But instead—

“No.”

No?

What the fuck am I saying?

“Scarlet… get dressed. Please.”

Her expression shifts, disappointment twisting into something sharper. She slides off the counter, arms folding over her chest like armor, and I feel the cold hit instantly where her warmth used to be .

“But Angelo—”

I shake my head.

“Now isn’t the time, Tesoro,” I say, softer, still trying to catch my breath. “I won’t rush this. Whatever this is…”

She stares at me, silent. There’s something in her eyes I can’t name, but it latches onto something buried in my chest and squeezes.

She turns, walks down the hall without another word.

Doesn’t look back.

I stand there, heart pounding, body still on fire, the taste of her lingering like punishment.

A few minutes pass. I finish cooking in silence.

When she returns, she’s dressed in jeans and a fresh top, her hair tied up like a wall between us. She sits down at the table where I’ve set the food, but her eyes won’t meet mine.

And for the first time since I met her I feel like I’ve already lost something I never had.

I sit across from her, hands steepled, waiting for her to look at me.

She doesn’t.

“Scarlet,” I say softly.

Her eyes flick up, guarded.

“Do you want to just fuck?” I ask directly.

Her eyes widen, cheeks flushing that perfect shade of red—her namesake.

“What?”

“Do you want to just fuck?” I repeat, steady. “Because I’ll fuck you and then you can go, if that’s what you’re after.”

She leans back in her chair, lifting one brow with mock amusement. “It’s not like I’m here for long anyway.”

“How long are you in town?”

“Seven days. My family flew in Friday. We leave this coming Friday.”

Seven days.

Six, if I count today .

That could work.

“Then stay,” I say, voice quieter now. “Be patient . Let’s see where this goes.”

She tilts her head. “How patient?”

I fight a smile. “Can I at least have the day before you start demanding my dick?”

Her mouth twitches. Her cheeks redden, puff out and she bursts into laughter.

It’s unexpected. Bright. Melodic. The kind of laugh that wraps around something buried in my chest and squeezes. It wipes away the weight of the morning, softens the air between us.

She’s laughing like a woman I could get addicted to.

And against my better judgment, I grin.

“Can’t make any promises,” she says, catching her breath. Her eyes are sparkling again, alive with mischief. Not at all the reaction I expected, but it’s perfect.

Then she smirks, tilts her head.

“Didn’t know we were both virgins.”

She giggles, then she picks up her fork and starts eating eggs like she didn’t just ruin my entire ability to think straight.

Virgin?

Before I can question what she meant, she speaks.

“We don’t have to have sex yet if you don’t want to,” she says softly, barely looking up from her plate. “But… I don’t want to sleep alone.”

My brain stalls, short-circuiting on her softness.”

What kind of virgin says that to a man she’s just met?

Unless she’s joking.

She’s probably joking.

“Angelo?” she prods, her fork paused mid-air. Like she’s commenting on the weather.

The casualness of it kills me.

The audacity of this woman .

It has my heart doing somersaults in my chest.

“Yes?” I finally manage, even though my voice is nowhere near steady. I search for a clever retort. Nothing comes.

She smiles; soft, sly, and full of something dangerous. “You distracted?” she asks, voice as sweet as honey and twice as thick.

“No,” I lie.

My eyes betray me, lingering on her lips, remembering the way they tasted, the way she moaned my name.

“Why would you think that?”

Her laughter rings out again, bright and unfiltered. It echoes off the loft walls and fills the air between us.

“Because your eggs are getting cold,” she says, nodding to my untouched plate.

I glance down.

She’s right. I shovel a bite into my mouth, and I immediately regret it. I almost choke because all I can taste is her.

I cough, hard, reaching for my glass, trying to wash the burn away. She watches me with something between amusement and concern.

“You okay?” she asks, eyes gleaming even as her voice softens.

“Yeah,” I rasp, throat dry. “Fine.”

Six days.

Just six days with her.

I tell myself that again as we eat in silence, but every tick of the clock feels louder now, more threatening. There’s something ticking under the surface of this morning, like a fuse has been lit and no one’s willing to acknowledge the flame.

“Angelo?” she says again, but this time her voice has changed. It’s quieter. Hesitant.

“Yeah?”

She sets her fork down. “Are you… upset with me? ”

I look up and it hurts; seeing the question in her eyes. She’s still teasing on the outside, but inside? There’s that same flicker of uncertainty I saw last night on the couch. She’s letting me see something real.

“No,” I say, honest and low. “No, Tesoro. It’s not you.”

She nods, visibly relieved, but there’s still a tension in the air. Heavier now.

And I swear to God, it feels like a countdown’s begun.

Every second ticking closer to an explosion I know I won’t survive.

And the sick, stupid part?

I want it.

“Scarlet,” I say, leaning forward slightly, needing to clear something up before it festers. “I’m not mad at you... but I’m not a virgin.”

She blinks at me, then laughs— laughs, bright and careless.

“Oh, Angelo,” she grins, catching her breath. “I kind of figured. But thank you for clarifying.”

I smirk. “Are you ?”

Her eyes meet mine, steady now, dark with mischief.

She chuckles, wicked.

“Guess you’re gonna have to find out.”

We spend the day in a blur of nothingness that somehow feels like everything.

She steals one of my shirts after her shower; oversized, falling off one shoulder and I let her.

I even pretend not to notice when she loops the sleeves so the cuffs don’t swallow her hands.

She makes coffee in my kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times, asks if I have oat milk like this is her place too.

We walk around the block once, just to get air, and she ends up dragging me into a corner shop to buy three different kinds of tea “for later.”

She talks with her hands. Like every word needs a little drama .

And I let her talk.

I let her be.

It’s dangerous, how easy it is to fall into rhythm with her.

By the time the sun dips low and the loft is bathed in that warm, honeyed glow, she’s flopped across my couch with a menu in her hand.

“I’m ordering pizza,” she declares, already typing. “We’re doing cheese and pepperoni. Non-negotiable.”

I smirk. “What happened to letting me pick?”

“You can pick what we watch. Food is sacred.”

I almost push just to see her get feisty, but honestly? That logic checks out.

***

The pizza box is half-empty between us, her feet tucked into my lap, her head leaning back against the cushions. We’re watching Law and Order, an episode I know it by heart.

I know all of them by heart.

“Okay, that woman definitely killed him,” she mutters, pointing at the screen.

“No way,” I say, mouth full of crust. “It’s the tenant.”

“What? The guy with the guinea pig?”

I nod. “You can always tell by the way he didn’t quite answer the first question.”

She gives me a look. “You act like you worked the case yourself.”

“I’ve learned everything from this show,” I say, completely serious. “Interrogation techniques, legal loopholes, how to tell if someone’s lying, it’s all in Law and Order.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “And I thought I was intense.”

I start rubbing her foot absentmindedly. She doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she sighs soft; content. A little hum of satisfaction .

I glance down at her, the TV flickering across her skin, and something tightens in my chest.

This feels easy.

Her foot in my lap, pizza grease on our fingers, half-arguing about murder plots and fake courtrooms while she lets me touch her like she trusts me. It’s quiet and simple and warm.

It’s everything I didn’t know I wanted.

This whole thing, it’s the most natural thing in the world—it fits.

Like she belongs here.

Like I could do this forever.

And that’s when I short-circuit.

Because I catch myself thinking it. Forever.

Marriage.

Fuck.

She wants to be a lawyer. She’s eighteen. But she’s Pre-Law. She’s bright, ambitious, still figuring herself out and I’m a man who’s been killing for Cosa Nostra since I was old enough to drive.

She doesn’t know who I am.

She doesn’t know anything about the blood on my hands.

How the fuck would that work?

Could it?

Should I even want it to?

I glance at her again.

She’s smiling at the screen now, curled into herself like she’s found the perfect position, and I feel it in my bones…the truth I don’t want to say out loud:

I don’t want her to leave.