Page 33 of Blood Queen

“Who did this to you, baby?” His voice is low, trembling with barely restrained fury.

I don’t answer. Instead, I step aside, inviting him into the wreckage of my world.

He walks in slowly, but his fists are still clenched like he’s barely holding himself back. I can see the exact moment he registers my apartment—the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Miami skyline, the sleek, modern furniture, the immaculate space that looks more like a showroom than a home. He has never been here before. Never seen my world. I’ve kept him separate, kept him safe from the filth I wade through every day. But tonight, for the first time, I let him in.

“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I—” He swallows hard. “I had no idea you lived like this.”

I don’t respond.

Because what is there to say? He was never meant to be here.

His attention snaps back to me, his eyes darkening with something raw. He closes the distance between us in two steps, his hands hovering like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know where it would hurt the least.

His voice drops, rough and urgent. “This has to stop. This—” he gestures to me, to the evidence of the life I live, “—this isn’t you. It’s killing you.”

I stiffen. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he growls, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You’re standing in front of me beaten half to hell, and I—” He cuts off, his jaw flexing. “You have to get out. Leave this life. Come with me.”

His words hit me like a hammer to the chest.

Leave. With him.

I’ve dreamed of it before—of escaping, of disappearing into a life where he is all I ever have to worry about.

I shake my head, stepping back. “You know I can’t.”

His expression shatters. “Why the hell not?”

“Because this is who I am.” My voice is quiet but steady.

His hands run through his hair, yanking at the strands in frustration. “Please,” he pleads, voice breaking. “You don’t have to do this. Just… let me take you away from it. Let me—” He exhales sharply, like it physically hurts him to say, “Let me save you.”

The words sink deep, slicing through me like a blade.

I want to say yes. God, I want to say yes.

But I don’t.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.

Then, something in him shifts. His anger, his desperation—it all folds into something else. Resignation. Determination.

“Then I’m staying,” he says firmly.

I blink. “What?”

“I’m staying for a few days.” He says it like a challenge. “Until you can at least see straight.”

He tends to me with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. Ice packs, painkillers, soft touches against my bruised skin. He cooks, forces me to eat even when I protest, and sits beside me on the couch, close enough that I feel his warmth.

It’s the longest stretch of time we’ve had together since before. Before I left him. Before I became this version of myself.

And it’s dangerous.

Because it feels too good.Too real.

On the third night, I wake up on the couch to find him watching me. The room is dim, the Miami skyline glowing behind him. His gaze flicks over my face, unreadable.

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