Page 40 of Queen (Shattered Pieces #2)
My eyes close and the reel begins. Zina—hair wild, lips bitten raw from spitting curses at me, thighs locked around my hips like chains forged in fire. Not surrendering. Never surrendering. Fighting me even as she opened herself, dragging me deeper into ruin. My ruin.
“Fuck,” I snarl, the word jagged as the ache coils sharp in my gut.
My belt snaps open. There’s no thought, no hesitation. My fist closes around myself hard, punishing, vicious. Every stroke is rage. Every gasp is prayer. My chest bows, veins burning as I chase the phantom of her heat.
She’s on me again in my head, nails raking down my back, teeth breaking skin, her voice a blade in the dark. You’ll never own me.
I grind into the sheets, stroking faster, savage. “I don’t want to fucking own you,” I growl, biting the pillow, breath breaking. “I just want to burn inside you until you scream my name.”
The pillow reeks faintly of her perfume—roses laced with smoke, danger in silk. I rut against it like a beast starved, the drag of fabric sticky with sweat, each thrust desperate, brutal, hollow. Because it isn’t her. It will never be her.
And then, in the blur of madness, I hear her. Not memory—mockery. Low, merciless. Say my name, Emiliano.
“Zina.” Her name tears from my chest, broken, raw. Louder, harsher, until the walls know it. “Zina!”
Release rips through me violent, wrecking me against the sheets. My body convulses, not with triumph, but with emptiness so sharp it feels like death.
I roll onto my back, chest heaving, staring at the cracked ceiling like it might show me her face. The silence after is worse than the ache. It’s a tomb.
My hand fists the sheets, damp with sweat. My voice cracks, softer than prayer, more desperate than any command.
“You’ll come back. You always come back.”
Vow of Devotion (and Vengeance)
The sweat still clings to me when I leave the bedroom. My chest is bare, slick with the ghosts of her scent. My knuckles itch for an outlet. Desire turned to poison, and poison needs blood to purge.
I don’t bother with a shirt. Just black slacks, leather belt cinched low, the kind of uniform that feels more executioner than man. The villa is asleep, or at least it pretends to be. But I know my men hear me. The echo of my steps down the marble corridor is thunder in their bones.
The courtyard yawns open, moonlight silvering the training yard like a stage set for carnage. Four soldiers linger, whispering, passing a cigarette between them. They snap straight when they see me—fear, loyalty, hunger for my approval.
“Boss?” one of them asks.
I don’t answer. Words would spoil this. I roll my shoulders once, slow, deliberate, then lift my hand and crook my fingers.
Come.
They hesitate only a second before stepping forward. They know what’s about to happen. And they crave it. To bleed for me is honor. To be broken by me is a privilege.
The first man lunges, testing me. I break his nose with a backhand so fast his body doesn’t realize it’s been struck until the crack echoes off the stone. He crumples, choking on blood.
The second I catch by the throat. I slam him into the wall, feel cartilage buckle under my grip. My vision blurs red, but I don’t stop. I smash his skull against the stone until he drops like meat.
The third tries to run at me, fists swinging wild. I take the blows—don’t block, don’t dodge. Let the pain rip across my ribs, because pain is worship when it comes from them. Then I crush his jaw with a single punch, teeth flying like pearls into the dirt.
The fourth freezes. Eyes wide. Young. Too young. He shakes his head. “Boss, please—”
I bare my teeth, a snarl cutting my lips. “Don’t beg. Fight.”
He comes at me trembling. I let him. His fist grazes my temple, a sting more insulting than painful. I drive my knee into his gut, fold him in half, then drag him down to the dirt and pin him there with my boot on his chest. His breath wheezes. His eyes shine with terror.
The yard is silent but for the ragged chorus of pain, men groaning in their own blood. The night air is cold, but I burn like I’m aflame.
“She’ll come back,” I whisper to the broken bodies. My voice is raw, feral, not meant for them but for the phantom that still claws inside me. My Queen. My ruin. My salvation. “But when she does…”
I lift my boot from the soldier’s chest and slam it down into the dirt, missing him by an inch. He yelps, pisses himself. Good. Fear is truth.
“…I won’t be a man she recognizes.” My chest heaves. My fists are bruised. My heart feels carved out. “I’ll be the monster she married. The one she crowned.”
The soldiers lie scattered, half-conscious, broken. Blood paints the dirt. Cigarette smoke still lingers faint in the night air, but it’s overpowered by the copper tang of spilled devotion. They know it too—this wasn’t training. This was ritual.
I stand in the center of the carnage, hands still shaking, and tilt my face to the black sky. The stars don’t answer. They never do.
“This is my vow,” I snarl, voice tearing out of me, meant for her and her alone. “No crown, no rival, no exile will tear you from me.”
The broken men wheeze on the ground like a congregation, baptized in pain. And me—I walk away marked in blood, my devotion sharper than any blade.
The Whisper Before War
The hallway reeks of iron and sweat. My fists are still raw, knuckles cracked open from pounding men who weren’t enemies but soldiers too loyal to refuse me.
Their blood is drying on my skin, tacky against my belt as I drag myself through the darkened villa.
The silence here isn’t peace—it’s suffocation.
Without Zina’s voice echoing in these walls, every corridor feels like a tomb.
I limp past portraits of kings and ghosts, their painted eyes watching me like vultures. My ribs ache with every breath, but I force myself upright. Pain is proof I’m still alive. Pain is the only language I speak fluently anymore.
That’s when I see him. Romeo, pale as marble, waiting in the shadowed hallway like he’s afraid the walls themselves might overhear him. His chest rises too fast, words caught in his throat.
“They’re coming,” he says. No preamble. Just those two words, jagged as glass.
My jaw tightens. “Who?”
He swallows, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to me. “Not just De Luca.” His voice cracks on the name, and for once my brother—Giovanni’s son who was born into power, trained for war—looks like a boy again. “It’s not just them anymore.”
A coldness spreads through me that has nothing to do with exhaustion. It’s venom in the veins, a freeze that burns. My fingers curl until my busted knuckles split open again, blood dripping down my wrist.
I step closer, close enough that Romeo can see the madness burning behind my eyes. “Say it,” I growl, low and dangerous.
Romeo shakes his head, voice breaking. “You don’t understand. This is bigger than De Luca. Someone opened the gates. Other families—others who swore loyalty—” He stops himself, breath hitching. “It’s like the whole fucking underworld just put a bounty on our house.”
The fury that coils inside me is almost a relief—it keeps me upright when my body is breaking. I lean against the wall, tasting blood where I bit my cheek earlier in the yard. My voice drops to a whisper, but it carries the weight of a death sentence.
“They think she’s unguarded.”
Romeo’s silence confirms it. His gaze flicks toward the east, toward the coast where Zina and Guido sleep under false exile. He knows as well as I do: the scent of blood follows them still.
I straighten, every wound screaming, every muscle begging me to rest. But kings don’t rest. Monsters don’t rest. And I’m both.
“They think I’ll let her burn,” I murmur, more to myself than him. A bitter smile twists my mouth, sharp enough to cut. “Let them come.”
The words echo down the corridor, sharp as gunfire, a promise of the slaughter to come.
Romeo takes half a step back, as though even standing this close to me now is dangerous. Maybe it is. The walls feel like they’re leaning in, listening. Waiting.
Because somewhere in the dark, I know Zina feels it too—the storm gathering at our doorstep, the war that will test whether blood, love, or vengeance is the crown we wear to the grave.