Page 45 of Blood Queen

My body’s buzzing. Truman pulls away, his eyes locked on mine. We’re both smiling like idiots and I can’t make it stop. I don’t want it to.

“Maybe,” I whisper, more a breath than a word. “I’ll consider it.”

He flops back onto the floor beside me, an exhale of relief, and we lie there quietly, a mess of arms and legs.

“I didn’t think you’d agree,” he finally admits.

“I didn’t think you’d kiss me.”

Truman kisses me like he’s memorizing every inch of my mouth, like the world could end any second, and he wants tomake sure he’s tasted every single moment of me first. His hands cradle my face, rough but careful, like I’m breakable—precious.

When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless, my lips tingling from the heat of him. He presses his forehead to mine, eyes dark and searching.

“I never asked, when’s your birthday? You’re eighteen soon right?”

I swallow hard, suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. “Tomorrow, actually.”

His whole body tenses, then softens, and something unreadable flickers across his face. “Jesus, Kid,” he breathes, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You should’ve told me.”

I shrug, feeling small but not in a bad way.

His fingers tighten just slightly, like he wants to argue, but instead, he just kisses me again—softer this time, slower, like he’s savoring me.

“It’s important,” he says against my lips.

Truman helps me with the goats, his big, capable hands surprisingly gentle as he rubs down the smallest one, making sure she’s warm enough. He helps me gather eggs, careful not to break a single one, even when I catch him watching me with an expression close to awe in his eyes. It makes my stomach flip, the way he looks at me—like I’m good—a person worth looking at.

We sit in the yard after chores, legs stretched out, sipping sweet tea while the sun starts its slow descent behind the hills. That’s when he finds it—the journalist’s contact information, in one of the pages he printed out at the library. He types out an email on his phone, hands shaking just a little, telling her we need to talk. That we have information she might want. That we need her help.

Then we wait.

27

Present

The Diamond Club pulses with low, sultry lighting and the kind of exclusivity that keeps outsiders at bay. The air is thick with perfume and cigars, the underlying scent of whiskey and sweat mixing with the thudding bass of deep house music. Rocco and Alessio Falcone hold court in the VIP section, surrounded by women who drape themselves over their laps like expensive accessories. While his wife is at home nursing her bruises.

They think they own this place. They think they’re untouchable.

I blend into the opulence, wrapped in a deep crimson dress that hugs my curves but allows for movement. The silk clings like blood on skin, the thigh slit high enough to conceal the compact pistol strapped to my garter. My red wig is swept into a sleek, effortless chignon, my makeup sultry but understated. I’mjust another wealthy woman in this crowd, another anonymous figure in the dimly lit world of the powerful and corrupt.

No one notices as I slip through the bodies on the dance floor. My heels are high enough to be elegant but low enough to run in. Every detail of my presence is intentional—every glance, every shift of my posture, every sip of the untouched whiskey glass in my hand. I take my time, letting the moment stretch, letting my target settle deeper into his arrogance.

Rocco lounges like a king, legs sprawled, a hand around a brunette’s throat as he murmurs something into her ear. She giggles, leaning into his touch. Alessio, his younger brother, watches the club with the lazy half-interest of a man who’s never had to fear for his life.

I move closer, taking a seat at the empty bar stool a few feet away. I let my presence be felt—just a brush of awareness, something to make Rocco look up, to notice me. When he does, he smirks.

“Now that’s a face I didn’t expect to see here.” His voice is slick with confidence, his eyes dragging over me like I belong to him already.

I let my lips curve just slightly, just enough to keep him interested. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention.”

Alessio chuckles beside him, nursing a drink. “Or maybe you’re looking for some real Italian Stallion?”

I tilt my head. “Maybe I’ve been waiting.”

The air shifts. Rocco leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “That so? Waiting for what?”

“For the right opportunity.” I sip my drink, keeping my gaze level. “For the right company.”

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