Page 8 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Scarlet

T he morning starts with coffee. His, black and bitter; mine, cream and sugar with cinnamon and oat milk I had him buy when we went out.

I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping from one of his oversized mugs that reads “World’s Best Cook,” and watch him try to toast bagels; for a man who cooks really well he’s extremely tense.

He mutters under his breath like he’s negotiating with a hostage. I bite my lip to keep the grin at bay.

“You toast bagels like you’re defusing a bomb,” I say, watching him flip the bagel with exaggerated care.

“I don’t trust small appliances,” he replies seriously, not looking at me.

“You don’t trust toasters? ”

“I don’t trust anything that smells like burning.”

I laugh, and he gives me a crooked smile over his shoulder, one that hits me lower in the stomach than it should.

Later, we sit at opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled in the middle, watching Law and Order for the third episode in a row. He knows every line. Every twist. He mouths them sometimes before the characters say them.

“Do you want to just tell me who did it now and save me the heartbreak?” I ask, biting into my second slice of pepperoni .

He points at the woman in the gray blazer. “She’s too emotional. Red herring.”

I groan. “How are you this good?”

“I told you, I learned everything from this show. Jurisprudence. Body language. Human nature.”

“You should’ve gone to law school.”

He shrugs. “Too many rules.”

That night, I try not to overthink it when he hands me a glass of wine before dinner or when his fingers brush mine a little longer than necessary.

It’s the smallest things that get me; the way he always holds the door open, how he listens when I talk, the way he remembered I don’t like mushrooms without me having to say it twice.

He makes it feel easy.

Like I’m not the daughter of Ricardo Castillo.

Like I’m not a tool my family’s used more than once.

Like I’m just... Scarlet.

And God, I want to stay her.

I want to stay in this loft that smells like coffee and his cologne, wrapped in a T-shirt that doesn’t belong to me, drinking wine under lights that cast soft golden shadows across the floor.

I want to talk to him about everything and nothing and keep pretending like I don’t have a secret curled under my ribs, waiting to ruin all of it.

He doesn’t know who I am. Not really. And I don’t know how he’d look at me if he did.

Would he pull away?

Would he look at me like the rest of them do… like I’m bait or burden?

I don’t want to find out.

Not yet.

Not when he’s looking at me like I’m safe.

** *

I have three days left with him and I’m curled up on the balcony couch, legs tucked under me, glass of wine balanced carefully on my knee.

The air is cool and still, thick with his cologne and the distant hum of the city below.

The record player inside spins something soft and slow, and I can hear it bleeding through the open doors, hazy and warm, like a memory.

Angelo leans against the railing, swirling the deep burgundy in his glass, his other hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans. His shirt’s unbuttoned, hanging loose, and the last of the sunlight catches in his collarbone, casting golden streaks over his chest.

He looks over at me and grins; lazy, confident, a little dangerous. “You look comfortable.”

I stretch, letting the hem of my cream sweater slip up just a little over my bare thigh. “I am.”

He walks over and lifts his glass. “What do we toast to?”

I smirk. “To a wonderful week.”

We clink.

He sinks beside me on the couch, his thigh brushing mine as he settles in. He takes a sip then jostles his arm just a little too wide.

The wine sloshes.

I gasp as the dark red splashes across my chest, soaking into the soft fabric of my sweater. It blooms fast; deep, spreading, dramatic.

“Shit,” he mutters, already grabbing for napkins, “I’m- fuck, I didn’t mean—”

I look down at the mess, then back up at him.

And start laughing.

His hands freeze mid-wipe.

“It’s fine,” I say, laughing harder when I see his horrified expression. “ It kind of… works.”

He blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“No. Honestly?” I run a finger through the wet stain, the wine cool against my skin. “The burgundy makes it better. I love the color.”

He watches me for a second; that intense stare returning, softened by amusement, sharpened by something else.

“You like red,” he says like it’s a revelation.

I nod. “All shades. Crimson, maroon, burgundy…”

His grin stretches slowly. “That red dress you wore the night we met?” He exhales through his nose. “Fucking unforgettable.”

My face heats instantly, the wine doing nothing to hide the color blooming in my cheeks.

“You’re doing it again,” he says.

“What?”

He leans in, just enough that I can feel his breath on my neck. “Turning scarlet.”

I nudge him with my elbow, but my smile gives me away.

His fingers drift toward my wineglass and gently take it from my hand. He sets it down on the small table beside us and then stands, holding out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

I blink. “On yet another balcony barefoot?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

I hesitate, but only for a second before slipping my hand into his. He pulls me up, slow and deliberate, until we’re chest to chest. The music swells from the record player inside, low, rich, like smoke, and we sway, bare feet on tile, his arms sliding around my waist.

He smells like wine and warmth and something heavier underneath like mints and secrets.

I rest my hand over his heart. It’s steady. Strong. It feels like a place I could fall asleep against.

We move together in silence, and I think—this is what safe feels like .

His fingers find the hem of my stained sweater and skim it, ghosting over my hip as if memorizing the shape of me. His other hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing slow circles just beneath my hairline.

He presses his forehead to mine. Our noses touch. We’re breathing the same breath.

The record crackles.

And I realize…I could dance like this forever.

His lips hover just above mine, so close I can feel the ghost of his breath brushing my mouth. His eyes are on me, searching, dark and full of quiet questions I don’t know how to answer. I swallow, the taste of wine still sweet and heavy on my tongue.

I wonder if he can taste it too when he kisses me.

Soft at first, lingering.

Like he’s not sure if he’ll get another chance.

The world folds in around us, blurs at the edges until there’s nothing left but Angelo. His mouth. His hands. The quiet hush of music and the unsteady rhythm of two hearts falling out of sync with time and into each other.

His grip tightens around me, arms locking me against his chest until we’re nothing but shared heat and breath. The thin knit of my sweater does nothing to stop the warmth of him radiating through me, curling into the corners I didn’t know were cold.

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes burning into mine. Then his thumb drags across my lower lip.

It’s such a small thing.

But it sends a shiver down my spine.

“Scarlet,” he whispers, voice rough.

Then he kisses me again before I can say a word.

This time it’s deeper.

Hungrier.

Like he’s been waiting and trying not to .

My fingers find his hair. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, mapping me out like he’s been dreaming of this and now he’s starving.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and instinctively, my legs wrap around his hips.

My breath stutters.

His mouth never leaves mine as he walks us across the loft, each step sending sparks through me until we reach the bedroom.

I feel the edge of the bed at my back as he sets me down gently like I’m something sacred and breakable, and he doesn’t know whether to worship me or wreck me.

My heart pounds in my chest.

My hands find his face.

And all I can think is—

Finally.