Page 75 of Blood Queen

We shouldn’t be doing this. Not when I have something to tell him. Not when the weight of it sits heavy in my gut. But right now, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel.

And Truman makes me feel everything.

Clothes fall away. His hands are everywhere—palming my thighs, gripping my waist, sliding up my ribs like he can’t get enough. I sink my teeth into his shoulder as he lifts me onto the desk, and he hisses through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising against my skin.

I should stop this. I should tell him. But the words tangle with the heat between us, lost in the way he moves, the way he fills every empty space inside me. The cool edge of the desk presses against my backside, but I’m burning everywhere else, igniting under every touch. The dim room fades—there’s only skin, heat, pulse.

We move together, frantic and unrestrained, like we’re trying to make this last—like I know that when this moment is over, everything will be different. I open my mouth, try again. But his lips are there before I can speak, stealing the words before they become real.

His taste leaves me dizzy; his hands draw new paths down my spine. I gasp against him as the world narrows to a single point. I come hard. His groan and release follow.

A crash breaks through—papers and pens tumbling to the floor—and a laugh escapes him, low and dark. He pauses, just for a second, his forehead resting against mine, eyes wild and shimmering in a way that makes me ache all over again.

Truman collapses against me, breath heavy against my skin, his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm where I press it to his chest. I close my eyes, trying to memorize the way he feels. Trying to hold onto this before I ruin it.

I know I have to tell him.

So I do.

“I’m not going to Moffitt.”

I say it quietly, but it shatters the air between us like a gunshot. Truman stiffens, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, his brow furrowing like he doesn’t understand the words.

“What?”

I swallow hard. “I’m going to Miami.”

His hands slip from my waist. The warmth disappears between us, and suddenly, I feel cold.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice is sharp, but not loud. Not yet.

I push myself off the desk, finding my feet, my arms wrapping around myself like I can hold in all the pieces of me that are about to break.

“I’m going to meet my uncle. Leonardo Testa.”

His face twists, his jaw going tight, and I canseethe moment realization slams into him.

“No.” He shakes his head like he can will this into not being true. “No, you’re not.”

“Truman—”

“Youcan’t,” he snaps, stepping back, raking a hand through his hair. “You know what that familyis. What theydo.”

I lift my chin. “They’re family.”

“No, they’re not,” he fires back. “Your family is gone, Kid. You don’t have to do this.”

But Ido.

I’ve felt it simmering in my gut for months, the anger, the resentment, the weight of my father’s murder pressing down on me like I’m supposed to just live with it. Like I’m supposed to pretend it doesn’t matter.

But itdoesmatter. And I need answers.

“I have to,” I say, my voice raw. “I need to know—I need to understand—”

Truman’s face is unreadable, but his eyes—God, hiseyes—they cut straight through me, sharp with betrayal.

“Understandwhat? How to become one of them?”

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