Page 34 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)

The fire is gone from the candles, only molten wax dripping down their spines like veins left behind after a battle.

The room smells of smoke, sweat, and us.

The crimson silk that bound him lies discarded across the floor, curled like a serpent shed of its skin, a reminder of the power we traded back and forth until neither of us could breathe without the other.

Emiliano lies beside me, chest heaving, damp hair clinging to his temples. I’ve never seen him like this—wrecked, raw, almost human. His arm rests against mine, not possessive, not staking a claim, but as if he’s anchoring himself to the only thing still solid in the ruins of the night.

For a long while, the only sound is our breathing.

The silence doesn’t comfort. It vibrates with the ghosts in the walls, with the vows unspoken.

I stare at the carved ceiling, once a witness to blood oaths, and wonder if the stones know what we just did—if they’ll hold it against us, or if they’ll carry it like scripture for the next traitor who dares step foot here.

Then he breaks it.

“There’s a prophecy,” he says, voice low, rough, as though dragged from a place he’s never let anyone touch.

I turn my head, watch his profile etched in the dying glow. He’s not the man who tied me to the ground of his empire, nor the wolf who clawed me raw an hour ago. This is something else. Something older. Something I didn’t think Emiliano Maritz was capable of showing.

He doesn’t look at me when he continues. “It was passed down through the Maritz bloodline. A queen who rises not by birth, but by ruin. One who either unites the families… or burns them all to ash.”

The words coil in the air, heavy, inevitable, like smoke that refuses to clear.

My pulse thrums in my ears. “And you think that’s me.”

“I don’t think,” he mutters. Finally, his gaze drags to mine, storm and fire tangled in the dark. “I know.”

The room feels smaller, the ceiling pressing down, the air weighted with every ghost that’s ever touched us. My mother’s voice echoes in the back of my skull— Queens don’t cry. They conquer.

I swallow hard. “This was never just about us, was it? It was always bigger.”

His hand brushes mine. Not dominance. Not demand. Just touch. “Zina… I never wanted the throne. I wanted you.” His words falter, edges raw, unguarded. “But now… fuck, now I need both.”

It should terrify me—this admission, this hunger that matches my own. Instead, it steadies me. It crowns me.

I shift closer, press my palm to his chest where his heart pounds relentless, refusing to be tamed. “Then we take it together.”

The words settle between us, sharper than vows spoken before gods. This isn’t seduction anymore. This is war strategy, whispered in bed, carved into skin and sealed in blood.

He exhales, eyes burning with something that looks like reverence and ruin. “Together,” he repeats. Not a promise. A command to fate.

And for the first time since Giovanni’s shadow tried to strangle me, I feel the fire in my veins crown me whole.

Mother First, Queen Second

The corridors are still heavy with smoke from the candles, air clinging to my skin like incense and sweat. Emiliano sleeps where I left him, sprawled across tangled sheets, but my body refuses rest. There’s a weight pulling me—stronger than lust, heavier than war.

My son.

Barefoot, I move through the silent estate, the marble cold beneath my feet, torchlight flickering against portraits of men who believed blood alone made them kings. Their painted eyes track me as I pass, daring me to prove them wrong, daring me to rise where they ruled.

Guido’s door creaks when I push it open, soft as a secret. The nursery is dim, curtains drawn tight, only a thread of moonlight spilling across his bed. He lies twisted in his sheets, chest rising too fast, as if his dreams are chasing him through shadows he can’t outrun.

My throat tightens. Even in sleep, he looks hunted.

I sit beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight. For a long moment I just watch him, drinking in the fragile details—lashes brushing pale cheeks, lips parted as if mid-prayer, one small hand curled into a fist like he’s ready to fight even here. My baby. My crown. My undoing.

Carefully, I reach for him. My fingers unfold his fist one knuckle at a time until his hand lies open in mine. His skin is damp from fevered dreams, warm and fragile. I press it to my lips.

“You’re safe,” I whisper, my voice trembling with fury I can’t smother. “Safe because I’ll burn the fucking world before I let them touch you again.”

His lips move, murmuring something too faint to catch. I smooth damp hair from his forehead, kiss the place where fear seems carved deepest.

I could break here. I could let the tears come. But queens don’t cry. My mother’s voice slices back through the years— Queens don’t cry. They conquer.

I gave up everything for a man once. My body. My loyalty. My silence. That gamble left me scarred and chained. Never again.

This time, I lead.

I tuck the sheet tight around Guido’s shoulders, sealing him in like fragile glass I’d kill to protect. My fingers linger too long, as if touch alone could promise survival. His breath evens, a softer rhythm, and for a moment I almost believe he feels my vow in his bones.

I rise at last, breath unsteady, spine straightening inch by inch. In the nursery window, my reflection waits—a woman carved from ruin, crowned in fire. Not just a mother, not just a survivor. A queen.

I glance once more at Guido before I turn toward the corridor where Emiliano waits, where war brews, where Giovanni’s ghosts sharpen their knives.

The child will always be first. But tonight I accept what follows.

Mother first. Queen second.

And God help anyone who thinks they can make me choose.

The Challenge

The estate should be breathing heavy with life—guards on rotation, footsteps echoing, radios crackling. Instead, it’s smothered in silence. A silence so thick it makes my skin itch.

I leave Guido’s room with his warmth still clinging to my skin, my vow still burning in my chest like a brand. For one fragile breath, I almost believe he’s safe. That I am safe.

Then I smell it.

Blood.

It slithers into my nose before I see it—copper, sharp, metallic. The scent curls through the corridor like a snake, raising the hairs on my arms. My grip tightens on the dagger at my thigh.

The glow of the sconces sputters weak, shadows twitching across stone. I move slow, silent, every nerve pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

Then I see him.

One of Emiliano’s guards—big, built like an ox, a man who once snapped another soldier’s arm for speaking Giovanni’s name without permission—slumped against the wall. His eyes are open, glazed with shock, his throat carved into a savage smile.

My knees hit marble before I even register the drop. I press my hand over the wound, but it’s useless. Blood leaks hot and slick through my fingers, pooling fast. His lips twitch.

“There’s… a breach…” His voice is nothing but gargles, blood bubbling at my palm. “…inside.”

My pulse spikes, ice flooding my veins.

“Who?” I demand, leaning close, my voice a blade’s edge. “Who the fuck let you bleed out on my floor?”

But his gaze rolls back. His head lolls to the side. Breath gone.

The silence after is worse than his dying words.

I rise slow, wiping my bloodied palm against the silk clinging to my thigh. Rage coils hot inside me, cutting through the fear. I told Guido I’d burn the world before I let them touch him again. This is their answer. Their message. Their challenge.

The corridor stretches ahead, lit with half-dead flames. Shadows crawl over the walls, too deep, too alive. Somewhere deeper, a door slams. Bootsteps echo. More than one pair. The estate hums with a new rhythm—war drums pounding in the dark.

My voice comes out low, steady, sharp enough to slice the night. “You motherfuckers picked the wrong house.”

My heels strike hard against marble, dagger gleaming in my fist. “You think you can crawl inside my walls? Into my son’s bed? Into my home?” My lips curl, a growl ripping free. “Then pray your ghosts are hungry—because I’ll feed them with your bones.”

The air charges, thick with an unseen presence, like the estate itself is holding its breath. Behind me, shouts rise—Emiliano’s men waking, the house roaring to life. But this moment belongs to me.

I’m not just a mother. Not just his queen. I’m the blade in the dark.

Whoever thought they could breach my sanctuary just lit the fuse.

I stalk toward the sound of boots, toward the traitor’s shadow waiting in my corridors.

Tonight, the war doesn’t knock.

It walks inside.