Page 74 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Angelo

T he music is soft. Strings and piano echoing off marble columns, glittering chandeliers reflecting candlelight like stars caught in crystal.

She’s glowing in that ivory dress— my wife .

My fucking wife.

I haven’t let her stray too far all night.

Not when half the men in this room would sell their souls to get a taste of her smile.

But she weaves through the crowd like she owns it now, every head turning as we pass, her fingers brushing against mine until we step toward the balcony where we first met.

The door clicks open.

Santo.

He nearly collides with us at the threshold, muttering something under his breath.

Adriana tilts her head. “Where’s Vasilisa?”

Santo’s eyes flick toward the ballroom. “Bathroom. She’s not feeling well.”

That crease in his brow says more than his words. Before I can prod, he mutters, “Excuse me,” and disappears into the crowd like he’s chasing ghosts .

I scowl.

Adriana catches it instantly. “What?” she asks, tugging gently at my hand.

I glance down at her, then back toward the ballroom where my brother stalks off. “If he knocked up Vasilisa before I could get you pregnant…”

Adriana lets out a soft chuckle, eyes glittering with mischief. “Maybe you just did in the closet.”

My head turns sharply.

She shrugs, still smiling. “It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.”

Christo.

She’s not supposed to say things like that out loud. Not when the thought of a little girl with Adriana’s eyes and my last name just slammed into my chest like a bullet.

I clear my throat. “Right. When it’s supposed to.”

Just then, Santo reappears at my side with a scowl of his own. “Luciano is talking to Elena.”

I arch a brow. “So?”

Santo jerks his chin toward the far corner of the room.

Sure enough—Luciano stands close to Elena. Too close. That lazy bastard smile of his curved in that way that always means he’s enjoying himself a little too much.

I clench my jaw.

But no.

No, I know Luciano.

He’ll flirt with death before he touches my sister.

Adriana follows my gaze and rolls her eyes. “Luciano would never be interested. He has… particular taste.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Santo grumbles.

I smirk. “Then go handle it.”

Santo mutters something before he stomps off again.

My hand slips into hers and the ballroom fades behind us as I guide her onto the balcony .

It’s quieter out here. The air cooler. Cleaner. City lights flicker below like scattered embers, but above—it’s stars. Sharp and silver. Watching.

She steps to the railing, fingers grazing the stone, eyes lifted to the night like she’s tasting it.

I watch her in the dark.

The silk of her dress clings to her hips, her shoulders bare and glowing in the moonlight. Her hair’s coming loose, soft curls tumbling like a promise down her back.

I don’t speak.

I just watch.

She sighs once, soft and content, and then she kicks off her heels.

One, then the other.

I smile, the memory of the past colliding with the present.

Her bare feet whisper against the stone as she turns to face me, eyes glowing.

“I’ve always liked this balcony,” I murmur. “Felt like the night I met you rewired my entire goddamn soul.”

She tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening for something more. But I’ve said enough. So I do the only thing that matters.

I step forward, hold out my hand.

“Dance with me.”

She smirks. “Barefoot?”

“Why not?” I shrug.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Her fingers slide into mine, a perfect fit, and she lets me draw her in—hips brushing, breath mingling, her smile curving like a promise as we sway together under the stars.

No music.

No spotlight.

Just the sound of her soft breath. The night air. The city below and sky above .

When I glance at her, she’s already looking up at me, the city lights dancing in her eyes.

“I’m glad you forced this marriage,” she says.

My brow lifts. “Arranged.”

She hums, amused. “And stalked me.”

“Protected.”

“And built your whole body as a shrine to me.”

That one gets me.

I pause.

Then I smirk, my hand sliding along the dip of her waist. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs and it knocks the air from my lungs. That sound is everything.

It means I did something right.

Her hand curls around my jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there like she owns me.

She does.

And her lips— fuck , her lips, part just slightly, her smile bright and flushed and full of something raw and unguarded.

Her lips are my home.

And that blush, so Scarlet

My Scarlet.

I lean down, pressing my mouth to hers. Not gentle. Not savage. Just mine.

When I pull back, I whisper against her lips.

“Want to get out of here?”

She beams up at me. “Yes.”

That ‘yes ’ is all I need.

Finally, for once in my life, I’m worthy.