Page 41

Reign

A ngelique looks half alive as she sits on the toilet lid, soaked, bloody, and hollow-eyed, wrapped in a robe that clings to her damp skin. Her curls hang in dripping strands around her face, and she doesn’t blink or speak as she sits there, barely breathing, eyes red-rimmed from all her crying.

I stay on the bathroom floor, arms braced on her knees, staring up at her, waiting for a sign of life or crack in the ice.

Anything. But there’s nothing except for the silence, and the low thrum of water still dripping from the shower head, along with the raw ache building steadily in my chest. She’s here in front of me, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so far away.

The cuts she gave herself scare me. They’re not deep enough to kill her.

The razor she used can’t go that far, but the intention behind it…

that’s what turns my stomach. She meant for it to end something.

If not her life, then the part of her that’s still fighting to stay in it, and I don’t know how to fix it, or how to fix her.

All I know is that I can’t leave her like this .

After a few more minutes, I push off the floor and stand, reaching out and taking her good hand in mine, relieved when she doesn’t resist. She lets me lead her down the hall, and when we reach her bedroom, I pull back the duvet and help her climb in.

She moves like a marionette, like her soul isn’t fully inside her body anymore.

I crawl in beside her and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her to my chest. We lie there for a long time in the dark, our bodies pressed together, the only sound the wind through the trees outside and the occasional creak of the house settling.

She gasps suddenly, and then the sobs come, hard, fast, and uncontrollable. Her whole body shakes as she clings to me like she’s drowning, and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat. Her fingers fist into my shirt, and her face burrows into my chest while I silently hold her.

I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in, anchoring myself in the warmth of her body even as she comes undone in my arms. I’d give anything to take it from her—this memory eating her alive from the inside out.

She cries for a long time before the sobs slow, and I notice how her grip loosens and her breathing evens out in small, shaky exhales.

My sweet girl cried herself to sleep.

I stay there, curled around her, wide awake in the dark, heart splintered from the inside out.

I stare at the ceiling, but all I can see is her face and the way it looked tonight.

It was like someone lit a match and blew the last piece of her away.

But I want her back. I want her laughing again, and dancing like the world belongs to her, tearing through it with that beauty that made me fall in love with her in the first place.

I want her alive, not just breathing, and I’ll burn this world to the ground before I let it take another piece of her.

I slowly untangle myself from her, careful not to wake her, then slip out of the room.

For the next hour, I scour the house in silence, pulling open drawers, rummaging through cabinets, searching every dark corner for anything sharp enough to harm her.

Razors. Scissors. Blades. Even the broken piece I found of the mug I broke.

I toss them into a bin—every last one—then carry it to my closet and shove it onto the highest shelf, out of sight, and out of reach.

I hear a thud come from Angelique’s room and I run down the hall, swinging her door open to find her phone dropped on her bedroom floor as she climbs out of bed, her robe trailing behind her.

“Angel?” I whisper, moving to the side as she approaches, her bare feet moving across the wooden floor without a sound.

When she walks out into the hall, passing me, that’s when I see her half-lidded eyes and blank expression.

She’s sleepwalking.

I’m not surprised though. It’s been some time since she last did it, but I’d expected that it might happen the second I gave her the champagne glass earlier, and I was certain it’d happen after everything with Alec.

I follow her as she turns into my room and slides into the bed, pulling the blanket over herself like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like that’s where she belongs. I stand there for a second, staring, before I cross the room and slide in next to her.

Her body finds mine instinctively, curling into my side.

I watch her for a long time, wondering why, when her subconscious needs safety, it always brings her here.

To me .

I rest my hand lightly over her waist, fingers brushing the soft fabric of her robe, and close my eyes. Whatever she needs, she can have all of it, as long as she keeps choosing to stay.

It’s early when I wake up, and for a moment I forget the night before.

I forget Alec, the blood, the bruises, the sound of Angelique’s sobs ripping through me like shrapnel.

But when I remember, I look down, relieved to see she’s still here, tucked beneath my arm with her cheek pressed to my chest, breathing even and slow.

The sunlight beams golden against the warm brown of her complexion, brightening the curve of her shoulder where her robe falls open. My chest tightens as I watch her, reaching up and sliding a curl from her cheek, careful not to wake her.

But a small breath escapes her lips as she shifts, her lashes fluttering against her skin. Her eyes open slowly, and she blinks up at me for a long moment, like she’s not sure if I’m real, and then her gaze softens.

“Hey,” I whisper, noting how swollen her eyes are.

“Hi,” she whispers back.

I lean in slowly, brushing my lips against hers.

Are you still here, Angel?

Angelique answers by kissing me back, her hand finding my chest, fingers curling over the fabric of my shirt like she needs to feel the beat of my heart beneath her palm. I tilt her chin and kiss her again, deeper this time, and she parts her lips, letting me in.

Her body presses closer, soft and hungry, and my hand drifts to her waist, sliding beneath the edge of her robe. Her skin is warm and sensitive from the shower last night, and when my fingers graze the small of her back, she exhales a shaky breath, like she’s still relearning how to feel.

We move together slowly, limbs tangling, mouths meeting in slow, reverent kisses.

I peel the robe from her shoulders, letting it fall away as I kiss a line down her neck, pausing when I feel her heartbeat flutter beneath my mouth.

I need her to remember what it feels like to be cared for, to be loved by me.

I want her to feel everything. Every brush of my hands. Every breath. Every way I worship her.

I reach toward the nightstand without fully leaving her, never breaking contact for more than a second. She watches me as I open the drawer and pull out the condom box, the foil packet glinting under the low light.

I tear it open with my teeth, push my boxers down, and roll the condom on with one hand.

Her gaze drops briefly, then jumps back up to my face, cheeks flushing.

I settle between her thighs again and my hands frame her face, thumbs grazing her jaw as our mouths mold together again and again until the kiss deepens, her tongue brushing mine in a gentle stroke that makes my control splinter.

My cock is already hard; heavy with need—thick and pulsing at the base, the head sensitive, aching. Every second not inside her is excruciating, and yet, I force myself to move slowly, to take care, because this isn’t about release. It’s about her.

It’s about us.

I guide myself to her entrance, rubbing the head of my cock against her slick pussy, and she gasps softly, her hips tilting up to meet me. She’s so fucking ready for me as I press in, inch by inch, the heat of her wrapping around me so tight it punches the air out of my lungs.

“Fuck,” I grit, eyes falling shut for a second. She’s so warm and so wet. I can feel every flutter of her body as she stretches around me, her cunt gripping me like she doesn’t want to let me go.

She moans, breath hitching as I push deeper, and her fingers claw into my shoulders like she needs me buried inside her to feel whole again. I bottom out slowly, holding there for a moment, my forehead pressed to hers.

She’s everything.

Moving inside her is slow torture—perfect torture. Her walls tighten with every thrust, and I’m thick inside her, stretching her open in a way that makes her tremble beneath me. Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me in deeper, and I feel it down to my spine—this raw, aching need.

We find an unhurried rhythm, my hips rolling deep and purposeful, and I swear I feel her shiver every time I drag across that perfect spot inside her. When I hear my name slip past her lips in a soft moan, I lose it.

I kiss her, again and again, our mouths brushing between breaths. My cock drives into her slowly and powerfully, like a promise I’m carving into her skin.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, lips brushing her temple. “I’m right here.”

She whimpers when she comes, her body clenching around me, her face tucked into my neck. I feel her break apart beneath me, unraveling in my arms, and I let go right after—groaning low in my throat, thrusting once, twice more before I still, buried deep as I come hard inside her.

We don’t move for a long time as our breathing evens out. She draws lazy patterns down my back, and I keep one hand cradling the back of her head, the other stroking her hip in soothing circles.

Words feel useless right now, so I say nothing.

They’d only dilute the truth of what’s already been spoken between our bodies.

She doesn’t have to tell me out loud that she loves me, but I feel it now.

She hasn’t said it, maybe because she’s scared to after everything, but I know she does.

So, I hold her tighter, anchoring us both in the silence, where nothing needs to be said to mean everything.

Angelique is curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with her knees tucked tight to her chest. Some trashy dating show plays low on the TV, bright lights flickering across her blank face, but I can tell she’s not really watching.

I’ve tried everything. I made her breakfast this morning, played piano for her after lunch, kissed her hair, her shoulder, her fingers, anywhere I could reach, just to remind her she still means everything to me. But she only ever gives me these faint brief nods—ghosts of what she used to be.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out, my stomach tightens.

Detective Powell:

He’s being released tonight. On a plane back to JFK by morning. Charges aren’t sticking here—not for what happened in New York. UK can’t touch it.

I stare at the screen for a second too long, then I look at her.

Angelique doesn’t notice. She’s still sitting there, barely blinking, her hand clenching and unclenching under the blanket like even her body doesn’t know what to do with itself anymore, so I unlock my phone and fire off a quick text to Lando.

Me:

Need you at the guesthouse now. Stay with her. Don’t ask questions.

His reply comes seconds later.

Lando:

On my way.

I tuck the phone away, eyes still locked on her, but she doesn't look at me. I walk over and press a kiss to her temple, smoothing my hand over her curls.

“I’ll be right back,” I murmur.

She nods slowly, but I know she didn’t really hear me.

As I grab my coat and head for the door, my hands are already curling into fists. Because tonight, I’m not coming back until I finish what I should’ve done the first fucking time.