Every bastard who stood around me while I bled and healed and tore whole families apart with a hole where he used to be. Vincenzo knew, too, of course, but he carried it alone because I made him do it. Because I looked at him in that bed and saw a name, a bloodline, an enemy, and none of the reasons my body must have once known to trust the shape of him.
Did I love you?
He loved me, and I left him there eight years ago with nothing but the memory of what we used to be.
As I hear Kai call for a medic, and my vision starts to fade, I understand at last why everyone was careful when his name came up.
Because this was never just a feud, it was a fucking love story.
And they buried it alive.
ten
Vincenzo
Myprivategymsitsin the west wing below the terrace level—all black bats, mirrored walls, free weights, and enough steel to flatter a man’s violence back at him. I came down here because I couldn’t focus on work and whiskey would’ve been too easy.
After the last few days, my body either needs exhaustion or destruction, and the bag is the only thing in this house that can take a hit without asking how I’m feeling afterward.
Sweat drips down my spine beneath a black compression shirt, and my wraps are already soaked through at the knuckles.
I’m halfway through the third round on the heavy bag when I feel him.
Not hear…feel.That’s the first humiliation. My body knows him before thought catches up, and every muscle in me tightens at once.
Not in fear, but that old, dangerous instinct that used to take over at Vintermoor whenever Nikolaj entered a room. My bloodused to sing with the need to fight him, fuck him, or break my own jaw pretending the difference still mattered.
I stop the bag with one hand and turn. Nikolaj is standing just inside the doorway, and for one stupid, treacherous second, my heart forgets how to beat properly.
He’s dressed in black—dark trousers, a black shirt open at the throat, no tie. His hair is not quite as neat as he wears it in boardrooms and, therefore, infinitely more dangerous to my sanity.
I haven’t seen him in over a month.
He doesn’t say anything at first; he just stands there looking at me with those frostbitten eyes. I start unwrapping my fists and have enough time to take in the fact that he came here unannounced and got past my guards—again—before he starts undoing the buttons of his shirt.
I can’t fucking move as I watch him. His eyes stay on mine while his fingers work, and I know exactly what he’s doing to me, because I used to do the same thing to him. Weaponized calm and controlled exposure.
I throw my wraps aside, and because I’m only human, my gaze drops when his shirt parts. I get the full, devastating reality of what time has made of him outside of a suit. I had thought he was massive while clothed, but I was completely underselling the disaster.
He shrugs off his shirt entirely, throws it on the floor, and my mind fucking blanks. I am not proud of the amount of staring I do in the next few seconds.
His shoulders are broader than they used to be, chest heavier, arms thick with the kind of power that doesn’t come from vanity or pretty-boy discipline. It’s from years of using his body like a weapon and making sure it never fails under the weight of what he asks from it.
His waist is still trim, but heavier through the torso than before, abs cut hard beneath skin I know too well and don’t know at all anymore. He doesn’t have the nipple piercings anymore, and it looks like he finally got his stars. Tattoos crawl all the way up from his fingertips, licking over the top of his chest and climbing to the sides of his neck in dark, elegant violence.
And because the universe is a vicious cunt with a terrible sense of timing, my gaze catches on the old scar over his heart—duty. The word looks even more cruel on grown muscle than it did while it was still healing.
My ogling lasts exactly long enough to disgrace me before he moves with no warning, no speech, and no preamble. Nikolaj rushes at me with all the force of a man who has finally run out of reasons to stand still. Instinct takes over before thought can catch its breath.
I pivot just as he reaches me, his fist already coming in hot and fast toward my jaw. It clips the side of my face hard enough to ring my head anyway. I answer with a hook to his ribs that lands solid and earns a sharp grunt.
Then we’re in it, and it’s not graceful—it never was with us.
He comes at me like he always used to: full commitment, no half-measures, every strike built to either connect or create an opening for the next one. I’ve forgotten how fast he is at this range, even with his mass.
Or maybe I haven’t forgotten. Maybe my body remembers before my dignity can pretend otherwise, because I slip one of his punches and counter low to the kidney without needing to think about it. He takes it, grins despite himself, and drives forward harder.
“Your guards are fucking useless, Your Highness,” he says as he swings again.
