Page 34 of Queen

When he speaks, his voice is lower, stripped of the mocking edge from before. “Why do you want to hurt?”

The question lands deeper than I expect. I hate that it sounds genuine. I hate more that I don’t have an answer ready on my tongue.

Because pain is easier than being numb? Because it reminds me I’m still alive? Because if I bleed on my own terms, maybe no one else gets to decide when I break?

The thoughts twist through me, dangerous and unspoken. My silence becomes its own confession.

He studies my face for a long moment, eyes mapping every flicker I try to bury. Then he lifts my hand higher.

And kisses my palm.

It isn’t gentle. His mouth is warm, his breath hot against my skin, the pressure firm enough to make my pulse leap in my wrist.

I flinch, instinctive, but I don’t pull away. And he doesn’t let go.

His eyes lock on mine as he lowers my hand. Something sharp and unspoken threads between us, knife-edge dangerous, yet carrying a weight I can’t name. Possession. Promise. Maybe both.

Then he turns, heading for the door without a single parting shot. No lecture. No threat. Just the latch catching behind him, final and heavy in the silence.

I sit there long after he’s gone, staring at my hand like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. The skin burns where his mouth touched, a mark invisible but undeniable.

Something in me has cracked again—but this time it isn’t the kind of break that lets the anger spill free. It’s quieter. Deeper. And I know it’s far more dangerous.

Bargaining with Ghosts

I find him in the library.

Not pacing. Not reading. Just sitting at the far end of a leather sofa, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the fire like he’s waiting for it to answer questions no one else will ever hear.

The room smells of old paper, tobacco, and smoke. The kind of stillness that presses heavy on the ribs, warning you that any step forward could disturb something best left untouched. But I don’t hesitate. If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking. And I’m not ready for the weight of those thoughts.

“Emiliano.” My voice is clipped, even. Each syllable pressed flat until it almost passes for polite.

His eyes lift slowly, like I’ve intruded on a conversation he wasn’t having out loud. He doesn’t speak. Just watches me cross the rug, gaze moving over me as if he’s taking measurements, deciding where I fit into his design.

“I want to visit Giovanni’s grave.”

The words fall into the space between us like coins dropped onto marble—small, but loud enough to be impossible to ignore.

His expression doesn’t shift, but the air tightens, invisible wire stretched between us. “Why?”

“Because if I’m going to play the part you’ve written for me,” I answer, folding my hands in front of me like I’m standing in court, “then I need to close the last chapter first. Giovanni was my husband. That doesn’t disappear because you’ve decided to rewrite the story.”

He leans back into the sofa, his head tilting, the firelight catching a glint of sharpness in his eyes. “Closure.” He says the word like it’s foreign, an idea he doesn’t believe in. “That’s what you think you’re missing?”

“It’s what I need.” My tone doesn’t waver, though my pulse is hammering against my throat hard enough to choke me.

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. The fire cracks. The clock ticks.

Then he laughs, short and humorless, like I’ve told him a joke he’s heard a thousand times and never once found funny. “Fine. But you’ll follow my terms.”

I straighten, bracing myself. “Which are?”

“You will go with me.” His voice is slow, deliberate, the weight of command in every word. “You will not speak to anyone else at the cemetery. And you will wear what I give you.”

I blink. “What you give me?”

“Yes.” His mouth curves slightly, but it isn’t a smile. “Because grief doesn’t absolve you of obedience.”