Page 51 of Angelo's Vengeance

Non serviam

I leaned in, licking the words and letting my fingers ghost over the letters as I continued rocking my pelvis, using his cock to edge closer to an orgasm. The ink was sharp against his warm skin. Black. Not new, but not faded. Old enough to mean something, permanent enough to sting still.

I retraced the edge of a letter, fascinated and aching all at once. “It’s Latin.”

“Mm.Piccola, we can talk about it later.” He rocked against me as his fingers dug into my flesh, his shaft peeking between our bodies. “Let me in.” I could barely pay attention as he said, “It means,‘I will not serve.’”

“That’s very dramatic of you,” I teased softly, but it lacked the usual sharpness. “Even for you.” My focus was on how he felt against me, but my fingers splayed over the tattoo and his heart.

He cracked one eye open and looked at me. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of?”

His jaw flexed. “That no one owns me. Not my blood. Not the Commission. Not the past.”

I didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at the words, the smooth, warm expanse of his skin, the muscle twitching beneath my fingers. I pressed my lips there, to kiss away the ghosts I knew clung to those words.

“You know,” I whispered against his skin, “you could’ve chosen something more hopeful. Like…hope, orlive, laugh, love.”

Unable to wait anymore I slid onto his cock and groaned, savoring the feel of the stretch.

“Hmmm,” He gave a rough chuckle and anchored my hips, driving up into me. “Not allowing a tattoo needle anywhere near me again. Conall might say it doesn’t hurt, but he’s a liar.”

Keeping one hand on his chest I put the other on my clit, rubbing it hard. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to come like this. I needed more. Needed him powering over me. My shoulder still wasn’t a hundred percent. I whined a little as I slid against him, trying to find my rhythm.

“I need more,” I whimpered.

Rolling us to my back, he angled back in. “Like this?” He searched my face.

“Yes, but harder. I want it harder.”

He obliged, grinning like a maniac as his shaft hit even deeper as he pulled my knees up. Each strike, his pelvis hit mine, bone to bone, grinding against mine before pulling away and hammering back again over and over in an unforgiving rhythm, even after the first blinding orgasm swept over me, he didn’t stop, but kept pistoning into me, watching my face closely, teeth gritted. “Again. Again. Give me another one.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Tears sprang to my eyes as he readjusted my legs and seemed to find his way even deeper.

“You can. You will,” he said fiercely. “ThenI’m going to come.”

Amazingly, another orgasm began sweeping over me, the sensations I was chasing that had seemed impossible were right there as he pushed me further until he crashed against me. I fell against the cushions, my legs clasped around him as he came hard, jetting into me until I felt warmth against my thighs.

We were quiet for a while, limbs tangled,hearts syncing. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that ink. About what it meant. About who he’d been when he got it—and the fact that I was seeing a piece of him that no one else had. A private rebellion etched into his skin.

Sunlight filtered in like a slow exhale, dappled and golden through the half-closed curtains. I blinked against it, the warmth pulling me from the depths of sleep and into something softer.

Angelo hadn’t moved much. Still sprawled on his side, a hand draped lazily across my stomach, his breath steady against the back of my neck.

I stayed still for a long time. Listening. Remembering his explanation of his tattoo.

Non serviam.

The way his voice went low when he said it, like he was speaking to someone long dead.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. About how someone so feared, so ruthlesslyin charge, could carry a piece of his defiance like a shield over his heart.

I’d seen that side of him last night—unguarded. The man beneath the suits and the silence. There were still remnants of the boy who had once been forced to serve things he hadn’t believed in. Who had sworn he never would again.

It rattled around in my ribs, how much that small piece of ink said. How much he hadn’t said outright. Because that was Angelo: he didn’texplainthings. He just did them. Quietly. Decisively. With the kind of control that made people afraid and kept his empire intact.

I turned slowly in his arms, careful not to wake him. He looked younger in the light. Still dangerous—always—but less like a wolf on the prowl and more like one resting between battles. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. His lips were parted, his chest rising in slow, steady beats. My gaze drifted, unbidden, to that tattoo again.

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