Page 33 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

zina

The Fire Inside

T he corridors whisper when I walk.

Not the whispers of gossip or fear—those are too soft, too cowardly.

This is different. Heavier. A current running under marble floors, brushing cold fingers against the walls, making men lower their eyes as I pass.

The sound of my heels ricochets against the stone, sharp, unrelenting, like a firing squad marking its rhythm.

I wear black. Not mourning. Never again mourning. This silk clings sharp against my skin, a sheath instead of a gown, my crown of ruin woven into every thread. Each step feels ceremonial, like the unveiling of a monarch who no longer hides in shadows but walks clothed in fire.

The staff bow their heads. Emiliano’s guards, men who once watched me with suspicion, step aside without orders. One even dares to glance up. I hold his stare until he flinches, until the bravado melts from his face and he remembers who I am. What I’ve become.

I’m not afraid of their fear anymore. I feed on it. It steadies me. Every drop of terror in their eyes is proof that the crown I wear isn’t forged of gold—it’s carved from their nightmares.

Inside, a voice I’ve buried for years finally claws free.

I was born in shadows. Raised in blood. Trained by kings who thought I’d kneel forever.

Giovanni tried to make me his trophy. Emiliano tried to make me his weapon.

Both forgot the truth. Queens don’t bow.

Queens don’t break. They burn until the whole fucking world learns to kneel.

I push open the double doors of the main hall.

The chandeliers above are dark, crystals hanging like frozen tears.

No one has lit them since Giovanni’s reign—too heavy with memory, too drenched in ghosts.

Dust coats the iron fixtures, cobwebs dangling like mourning veils. But I don’t need their light.

I bring my own fire.

The flames inside me are not grief anymore.

They’re reclamation. Every scar, every betrayal, every humiliation has been sharpened into fuel.

Tonight, I’ll wield it. Not against Emiliano—no, that would be too easy—but with him.

He thinks he holds the reins. He doesn’t realize I’ve already wrapped them around my fist.

A memory claws up, unbidden, sharp enough to draw blood. My mother’s voice. Whispered on a night when I was too small to understand, too frightened of the man she married. “Queens don’t cry, Zina. They conquer.” Her hands had been trembling when she said it, but her voice—her voice had been steady.

Back then, I didn’t believe her. Back then, I thought surviving was the same as living.

But now—walking these halls that once caged me, dressed not in widowhood but in war—I finally understand.

Conquest isn’t about land. Or titles. Or even crowns. It’s about presence. About making the world bend to the weight of who the fuck you are.

I catch my reflection in the tall glass of a window: dark silk hugging curves that used to belong to someone else, a throat bared like a challenge, eyes lit with something even I barely recognize.

My pulse hammers hard, but not from fear.

From anticipation. From the hunger of a woman who has finally found her teeth.

Because tonight, Emiliano will see it too.

He will see that I’m not his pawn. Not his victim. Not his reluctant queen.

I am the fire that crowns us both.

And if he doesn’t bow, then he’ll burn.

Throne Room Seduction

The hall waits for me like a wound that never closed.

Once, this was where Giovanni’s family bled into chalices, swore fealty on blades, broke bread with traitors before slitting their throats.

Now it is mine. Not a temple, not a tomb, but a throne room reborn in flame.

I’ve dressed it not with flowers or banners, but with fire.

Candles line the altar steps, wax dripping like slow tears onto ancient stone.

Incense burns in bronze bowls, smoke curling heavy and sweet until the whole room feels like a church that forgot God and remembered sin.

I stand at the far end, a silhouette cut from firelight, my crown invisible but undeniable.

Giovanni’s ring gleams on my finger—no longer his, no longer Emiliano’s, but mine, carved and remade to bear the crest of ruin I chose.

The weight of it is not jewelry but judgment, a reminder that I belong to no man, no name but the one I carve into history.

When the doors creak open, Emiliano’s footsteps echo like a storm entering. The sound reverberates against the high ceilings, rolling thunder in a room that was built to worship kings. He stops just inside, wary, eyes sharp, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust this room. He doesn’t trust me. Good.

His gaze sweeps over the walls, the fire, the thick red smoke, before it finds me.

He takes me in slowly—the black silk fitted to my body like armor, the glint of steel hidden at my thigh, the calm set of my mouth.

His silence is as heavy as the chains he’s worn his whole life.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, suspicious, laced with challenge.

“What is this?”

I let the silence stretch. I let the flames throw shadows across his face, carving him into something monstrous, something holy. I make him wait, force him to breathe the air thickened with my incense, until tension coils tighter between us. Then I answer, voice smooth as smoke.

“Your empire. My rules.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Not surprise. He’s never underestimated me like the others. But this—this is different. This is me taking. Not asking.

I walk toward him, each step deliberate, the heels of my boots clicking against stone like a countdown. His shoulders square, his body taut, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t yield. Still, his chest rises—slow, deep, betraying the way his body responds before his mind can.

When I reach him, I circle like a predator, letting the edge of my dress brush against his legs.

The silk hisses against his trousers, a sound almost too soft for the violence trembling beneath it.

From behind, I pull a length of crimson silk—hidden until now.

Not lingerie. Not play. A weapon, soft and sharp.

I whisper near his ear, low enough for only him to hear, my breath hot against his skin. “Tonight, you learn what it means to surrender to a Queen.”

Before he can respond, I take his wrists—rough, scarred, calloused from a lifetime of violence—and bind them behind his back. The silk pulls tight, red against pale skin, fire against storm. His breath leaves him in a single harsh exhale, closer to a growl than surrender.

I step in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet mine. They burn like the edge of a blade, dark with rage, darker still with something neither of us names. He’s still Emiliano—wolf, king, monster. But bound here in my fire, he’s something else too.

Mine.

Power Exchange

He’s used to command. To the snap of orders followed without hesitation, to blood spilled at the lift of his hand. Emiliano Maritz doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t beg. He takes. Always.

Not tonight.

Tonight, his wrists are bound behind him, the crimson silk biting into skin that has broken men with a fist. His body is coiled steel, chest rising hard, jaw locked. But his eyes—those storm-dark eyes—burn at me not with defiance, but with hunger.

“You hate this,” he rasps, voice hoarse, ragged at the edges.

“No.” I step closer, until my breath brushes the column of his throat. “I crave this.”

My palm spreads flat against his chest. His heart hammers wild beneath my hand, a caged animal beating against bone. He shudders—not from weakness, but from the violence of restraint. His pride wars with his body, and his body is losing.

I drag my nails down his chest, slow, deliberate, leaving red trails across muscle. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yield—but his breath stutters, and I feel the tremor ripple through him. His silence is louder than any plea.

“You think power is control,” I murmur, lips grazing the sharp line of his jaw. “But true power is surrender. To me. To this.”

I sink to my knees before him. His curse cracks the air like thunder. “Fuck—Zina.”

I don’t let him finish. My mouth claims him—hungry, merciless, worship and punishment entwined. His body betrays him instantly, hips jerking forward, bound hands straining uselessly against silk. He growls, low and feral, the sound of a man dragged to his knees on a battlefield he thought he owned.

My nails dig deeper into his thighs, marking him, claiming him. He throws his head back, teeth bared, a sound tearing from his chest that is equal parts rage and devotion. Sweat shines across his skin, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back, of not breaking completely.

When I finally pull away, his chest heaves, his body wrecked but unbowed. His eyes find mine, wild, desperate, undone.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he says, voice shredded to ribbons.

I rise slow, deliberate, licking the taste of him from my lips. “No.” My palm presses to his throat, not with pressure, but with possession. “I’m going to crown you in fire.”

I kiss him then—hard, savage, our teeth clashing, mouths devouring. The kiss is war. The kiss is ruin. His pride burns away under my hands until all that remains is him—raw, stripped bare, mine.

When I untie his wrists at last, he doesn’t lunge for control. He doesn’t snarl or seize me. Instead, he cradles my face with trembling hands, eyes blazing with something more dangerous than power.

After, I cup his jaw, still tasting him on my tongue. “This wasn’t about revenge.”

His breath stutters, rough against my cheek. “What was it about?”

I kiss him softer this time, slow, reverent, sealing the vow with lips that no longer lie. “Claiming what’s mine.”

Pillow Talk of War