I shift on the cushions, the storm rattling the windows as if it knows what’s breaking loose inside me. He’s still crouched there, below me, his face in my hands, like he’s ready to carry every weight I can’t bear. But I don’t want him beneath me, not like this.
"Raffael," I whisper, nudging him upward, pulling until he rises, until we’re level, face to face. My legs part,making space for him, and in a heartbeat, he’s between my knees, braced over me on the sofa, every line of him tense, holding back. His hands hover, suspended, trembling like he’s terrified of breaking me. So I take them, place them firmly on my waist, and hold them there, anchoring him where I need him most.
"Sophia," he groans, my name thick in his throat, half-prayer, half-curse.
I shake my head. The storm is still hammering against the glass behind me, urging me forward. "No," I murmur, sliding my palms down his chest, over the hard ridges of muscle, feeling the strength he always tries to cage. "Not like this."
I press gently on his shoulders, guiding him back. He resists for a heartbeat, confusion flickers in his eyes, but I don’t let go. I push again, firmer this time, and with a rough exhale, he lets me move him. I turn him, urging him down until he sits, his broad frame sinks into the cushions, his breath is ragged as he stares up at me like I’ve just undone him.
Then I climb into his lap, straddling him, my knees sink into the cushions on either side of his hips. His hands tighten at my waist, not pulling, just holding, as if he can’t quite believe I put him here.
"Don’t stop," I whisper against his mouth, threading my fingers through his damp hair, dragging him closer. "Not today."
And when I sink against him, feeling the hard, undeniable proof of how much he wants me, there’s no fear flooding my veins. There’s only fire. Only freedom. For the first time in years, I feel like myself.
My head lowers, and I kiss him with all the desire I've kept pent up for so many years. His response is careful, as if he's still afraid to break me, or worried that I'll pull away. My hands search for the hem of his shirt, and our lips have to part for me to pull it over his head. Lightning flickers, revealing his chest to me. It's filled with dark bruises.
"Raffael," I breathe, shocked, "what happened to you?"
"Not now," he rasps, reclaiming my lips. When we break the kiss for a second time, there is a question in his eyes as he grabs the ends of my shirt. I nod. He pulls it over my head.
"Those," he says, staring at my breasts, still covered in one of the lacy bras he must have bought for me, "are a gift from the gods."
A deep chuckle escapes me. But he's serious, his expression is almost worshipful as he cups my breasts, before undoing the clasp and letting them spill free. He leans forward, "They need to be worshipped, they beg for sacrifices," his voice is low and rough, his words are more a vow than a tease. His thumbs stroke over the peaks, coaxing shivers out of me. He lifts his gaze, locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "And I’ll bethe one to lay myself down for them. Again. And again. For as long as you’ll let me."
"For a man who claims to have barely made it through high school, you’re quite the poet," I murmur, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up.
He grins, sharp and unguarded, and for a second the scars that mark his face shift with it, softening into something devastatingly beautiful. "What can I say? You inspire me."
The words lodge in my chest, too heavy and too light all at once. My hand lifts almost without thought, my fingers trace over the scars that climb across his cheek, gentle, reverent. "I’m so sorry," I whisper.
His chuckle is low, but there’s no humor in his eyes when they find mine again. "Don’t be."
I frown; my thumb still smooths over the raised line of scar tissue like I can erase it.
"These?" he murmurs, catching my wrist, bringing my hand down to press it against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. "They’re proof I made it out. Proof I’m still here. Don’t you dare apologize for what kept me alive."
My breath hitches. His chest rises and falls beneath my palm, solid and unyielding, and for a moment I think I feel more of his soul than his body. His words hit me deeper than the touch, as if he’s not just talking about hisbody, but every broken part of me. My chest tightens, heat and tears collide all at once, until the only thing I can do is thread my fingers into his hair and pull him closer.
But when my hands drift down again, over scars and muscle, something stops me—ink etched into his skin, sharp lines beneath my fingertips. I pull back just enough to look, to trace the shape with trembling fingers.
It’s on his left ribs. A queen. Black, fractured but not broken, her crooked crown tilted as if defying gravity. Thorns twist around her body, curling like a cage and armor both, and roses are blooming, sharp enough to bleed.
I trace the design, my throat tight. "This one… when did you get it?"
His breath hitches, just once, and I feel the subtle tremor beneath my touch. "After you married him." His voice is low, rough. "I went on a bender. Three days. When I sobered up, I sat in a chair and told the artist to carve what I couldn’t say out loud."
I swallow hard, my fingers following the fractured lines of the queen. "It’s beautiful. But… what does it mean?"
His eyes burn into mine, unflinching. "You."
The word punches through me, stealing the air from my lungs.
He cups my hand, pressing it more firmly against the ink, against the ribs that rise and fall with every breath. "It’s not your name on my skin, Soph. But it’s what you are. Aqueen. Power. Grace. You have wounds no one sees, but you are still standing, still fighting. That crooked crown—it’s you. Flawed, maybe, but only because no one else is worthy to wear it straight."
Emotion swells so thick in my chest it hurts—my vision blurs. "You carried me here. All these years…"
His mouth twists, a mix of pain and devotion. "Every line. Every cut. I thought I’d never get to say it, never get to touch you again. So I made sure I’d never forget."
