Page 59 of Vicious Kingdom (Dynasty of Queens #3)

I hovered beside the front door, key in the latch, with my laptop clamped to my chest, sweat already blooming in my armpits.

I could smell the carpet’s recent vacuuming, the burn of citrus cleaner on stainless steel, and the quiet buzz of privacy.

My mother’s voice, still ringing like a fire alarm in the back of my skull.

Traitor. The city had already moved on, of course.

That was the way of media: bleed today, rot tomorrow, wrap fish the day after.

But there was always the aftershock. Always the stares, the tremors of gossip.

Always the knowledge that there was a grenade, but this time I walked away before the shrapnel landed.

He’s going to love the story. Excitement pulsed through my veins.

I opened the door, ready to embrace my future.

He was in the kitchen, hunched over a tiny espresso cup with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

A fresh stubble shadowed his jaw. His shirt was three buttons open, and there was a fine, unmistakable tremor in the hand that held the black swill.

I could tell he hadn’t slept. The air was thick with the smell of the grounds and something sharper underneath.

Adrenaline, maybe, or the dry metallic scent of a body in crisis.

“Hi, Americano, welcome to the land of the living!” I sang out.

He shot me a look, but there was no missing the smirk on his lip. “Been busy, little authoress?”

“Mhmm,” I grinned. “I have.”

Leo set the cup down, wiped his hand on a napkin, and looked at me with the sort of eyes that could read a search warrant upside-down at thirty yards.

“Anna,” he said. The smile broadened as he looked me over. “You did it.”

I could barely contain the rush of endorphins that shot through me.

His smile was everything. The look of pride glowed in his black eyes, focused wholly on me.

I drifted closer, and every step made my pulse tick up, as if the tile floor were a live wire.

When I reached the island, I set the laptop down, making sure the thud had enough finality to it.

“I finished,” I blurted, before I could change my mind and hide my accomplishment as was my habit. The words popped like a balloon between us, sweet and raw and a little bit desperate.

He let out a low whistle. “I knew you would.”

I nodded. The movement felt idiotic, over-eager, but there was no taking it back. I had to keep momentum or I’d tip over.

“Want to see it?” I asked, my voice steadier than I deserved. “I made all the changes. Tightened the second act, gave the villain a real arc. Even killed the backup love interest in the final draft, just like you threatened to if I didn’t.”

He laughed, and for the first time since I’d walked in, the tension in my spine unspooled a fraction. Leo’s laugh was a rough, broken-in sound, like some treasure from a pawn shop to keep forever just for the sentimental value.

He raked a hand through his hair, and I caught the glint of a healing cut on his knuckle. His nights out with his brother produced all kinds of strange injuries—but those were worries I would dwell on another time. Right now was about me—about us.

“You worked so hard,” he said.

I shrugged, more embarrassed than I wanted to be. “I figured I owed you a real ending.”

“I can’t wait to read it, but….” His gaze narrowed. “What happened?”

Damn him. He saw right through me.

“Mom called. The article. She’s furious.”

He rounded the island, his steps slow, deliberate, as if he were worried I’d bolt at any second. He didn’t touch the laptop. Instead, he leaned in and put a hand on my shoulder, thumb grazing the line of my collarbone.

“You okay?” Leo asked, voice pitched so low I felt it more than heard it.

I meant to say yes. Instead, I just shook my head and let the heat behind my eyes do the talking. He squeezed my shoulder, gentle but insistent.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You always do.”

It wasn’t true, but I let it slide. I didn’t have the energy to dredge up the past.

“Sit,” he said, nodding at the breakfast nook. “I’ll make you a cup of something grotesque. Chai or matcha?”

I snorted. “Matcha, please. I filled my morning with chai.”

I settled onto the island stool. The sun kept drifting west, laying out fresh stripes across the counter every minute or so.

I watched Leo measure out the green powder.

Even sleep-deprived, he moved like a man who knew how to run a room—shoulders squared, elbows sharp, always three steps ahead in his own head.

Leo brought over the mug and then dropped into the seat beside me, hands engulfing his own tiny cup. “Tell me about it,” he said.

I shrugged, staring into the coffee like it would yield some secret schematic of the universe. “It’s not the story I started with. But it’s the one I could actually finish.”

He let that hang in the air. Leo was good at silence. He could weaponize it when he wanted to, but today he just let it settle between us, weighty but not oppressive.

“Do you think it’ll sell?” I asked.

He took a sip, then grinned, teeth flashing. “Depends. Did you include the sex scene?”

I shot him a look, but I was grateful for the change of subject. “I thought you said that was cheap melodrama.”

He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “Sometimes you need cheap melodrama. Nobody remembers the subtle stuff. You want a book to break people? You have to make them feel something ugly.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” I asked, hiding a smile behind the rim of the mug.

“It’s my personal opinion,” he said. “And I’m never wrong.”

He reached for the laptop, then paused, fingertips hovering an inch above the lid. “You sure you want me to read it?”

I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

“Go ahead,” I said, and realized I was holding my breath.

He opened it, the screen painting both our faces blue-white. His eyes flickered over the title page, and he let out another whistle.

“You actually gave it a title,” he said, like he was surprised.

I snorted. “Working title. Don’t get used to it.”

He scanned the first page, mouth moving silently with the words.

For a second I watched him, counting the subtle tics—the way his eyes narrowed on a turn of phrase, the tiny furrow between his brows when something didn’t scan for him.

I could map out the story’s strengths and flaws just by watching his face, like reading a seismograph during an earthquake.

He made it two paragraphs in before he glanced up at me again.

“Do you want notes?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “I want you to finish the chapter first.”

He nodded, then lost himself in the screen.

I sipped my green latte, hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the mug.

I pressed the ceramic to my lips to hide the tremor, counting down the seconds until he reached the part that mattered—the part where I’d finally put something true on the page, not just for my readers or my unfulfilled childhood, but for Leo.

The kitchen clock made its way around to the quarter hour. My stomach knotted tighter with every tick. Sunlight inched its way across the table, igniting the gold flecks in Leo’s eyes.

He didn’t look up when he finished the chapter. He just stared at the screen, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Anna,” he said, and my name sounded like a blessing and a curse all at once.

“Yeah?”

“It’s good,” he said, voice hushed. “It’s really, really good.”

A flush rose up my throat. “You’re just saying that because you want me to cook dinner tonight.”

He gave me a look, part exasperated, part fond. “I’m serious. I’ve read the earlier drafts of this, and I thought you’d never nail the landing. But you did.”

I squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, harder than necessary but just the way I liked it. The moment hung between us, charged and fragile, as if the whole city were waiting to see what we’d do next.

Outside, the sky slipped toward dusk, the glass windows turning every high-rise into a mirror. In here, it was just the two of us, and the words I’d finally managed to wrestle into existence.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I might actually be okay.

But then Leo’s eyes darted to the entryway, and his whole body went taut, every muscle locked as if expecting an ambush.

I turned in my seat, expecting nothing but shadows.

But a sharp crack preceded the front door banging open. He was through the door before the echo of the latch had faded, moving with the bull-rush of someone who’d hadn’t spent the last decades growing fat in an office chair.

Uncle Jon.

He looked older than he had at the funeral. Maybe it was the sleepless pallor, or the way his cheeks hung hollow against the angry set of his jaw. But the hands—the hands were the same: broad, veined, and so sure that even the trembling gun never wavered.

The revolver was aimed square at Leo’s chest.

For a second, none of us moved. Time went thick and syrupy, every heartbeat a countdown.

Jon’s voice cut through the cold like a blade. “Step away from her.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The gun did all the talking.

Leo’s chair scraped back. He stood, palms up, slow and measured. “Jon. You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, I do,” Jon said, eyes narrowing. “I want it more than anything.”

I scrambled up, nearly knocking over my drink. My brain was still lagging, struggling to process what was happening. “What are you doing?!”

Jon’s laugh was a graveyard shift—quiet, mirthless, echoing off the glass. “Our family ended when you ran to him. It’s time he paid.”

Leo didn’t answer. His eyes never left Jon’s.

I wanted to say something, anything, but my mouth was dry as a bone. Instead, I edged closer to Leo, putting myself half a step in front of him.

Jon’s face twisted. “Of course. Always protecting him. That’s what the Hertz do, isn’t it? Lie, cheat, protect. Even if it kills the rest of us.”

I found my voice, brittle and barely more than a whisper. “You’re not here to hurt me, are you?”