I press the button that seals the steel door. His voice cuts off behind six inches of reinforced metal.
Upstairs, Arlo is waiting.
My coronation awaits.
Ourfuture awaits.
I slip the ultrasound photo from my pocket and look at it again. “My little monsters,” I murmur to myself. Then I turn and climb the stairs, leaving my past screaming in the dark where it belongs.
The mirrors in this room don’t lie. I stare at my reflection—at the woman staring back. A gown of midnight velvet clings to my body, soft where his grip will bruise later. My hair is swept up in a cascade of dark waves, exposing my neck with my mother’s gold necklace.
A reminder of everything I’ve lost. And everything I have left.
His hands slide around my waist from behind. His chest presses against my back. And still, I can’t breathe.
They took my father. They tried to take me. The Sovereign doesn’t feel like a future—it feels like a grave.
But Priest is here, and in the sickest, most twisted way, being in this world makes me feel closer to my father. LikeI’m brushing against the shadow of everything he died for. Everything he lost.
We don’t make it past the east corridor.
One moment, Priest is walking behind me, the next, his hand wraps around my wrist and drags me hard into the marble hallway.
“Priest—”
He says nothing.
Just keeps walking.
The second the bathroom door slams shut behind us, he spins and shoves me back against it. One hand cups my jaw; the other lifts my dress and drags it up my thigh. His eyes look wild, the blue almost eaten by black.
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
His fingers slide over my stomach. His gaze drops to where our babies grow. “I can’t fucking breathe out there.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.” My hands slide into his hair, trying to pull him back to me. “Not to them. Not to me.”
He roughly yanks my panties down, tearing the delicate lace. “Stop talking.” And then he’s on his knees.
He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, yanking my hips flush to his face. My back arches, a gasp tearing from my throat as he buries his tongue inside me.
A shudder racks through me. My fingers dig into the door behind me for support.
His tongue is relentless. Starved. My blood heats, my hips rolling, chasing the friction. My head falls back against the door with a soft thud, my eyes fluttering closed. He slides a finger inside me, hooking it, stroking that spot that makes my vision blur.
“Give me your fucking cum, kitten.” His words are a dark vibration against my folds. “I need it.”
He slides another finger inside, stretching me. The pressure builds, a slow, intoxicating wave of heat that pulls me under. I grind myself against his face, riding his tongue, taking my pleasure.
My climax builds, tightening in my core, a white-hot storm that’s about to break. He adds a third finger, stretching me to the point of pain, and the pressure shatters. My orgasm tears through me, violent and sharp. I scream, my body convulsing, my nails scraping against the door.
I’m still gasping for air, still shaking from the force of it, when he rises.
In one rough motion, he flips me, bending me over the sink. My palms brace on the cold marble. My dress is shoved up around my waist, my thighs trembling beneath the fabric.
I catch his reflection in the mirror—towering behind me, eyes locked on mine as he unzips his pants. That wild look in his eye sends a rush of heat straight through me.
“Don’t forget I’m pregnant.”
