Chapter 16 Vincenzo
Vincenzo
By the time I slam my door shut, I’ve already ripped the vest off, tossed the gloves somewhere across the room, and peeled the black tactical shirt from my back. My fingers are still sticky with dried blood—some mine, some not—and my ribs burn from where a Bulgarian asshole got one good hit in.
But it’s not the bruises that bother me, it’s the heat still crawling under my skin. It’s the fire low in my gut that hasn’t dulled since that smug bastard straddled me, whispered sin against my mouth, and walked away like he owned me.
I strip fast, boots thudding against the floor, belt hitting the ground with a metallic snap, and shove open the bathroom door.
The mirror catches my reflection, and I hate what I see—cut lip, swollen jaw, the faint shadow of a mark where Nikolaj’s knuckles grazed my cheek.
I should feel victorious. I should feel like I held my ground.
Instead, I look like I lost something I didn’t mean to give.
The water’s scalding when I step in, but it’s not enough. Nothing is. I stand under the punishing heat, palms braced against the tiles, eyes shut against the memory of him. But it’s no use. He’s still there, burned into the backs of my eyelids like some kind of fucking sickness.
Nikolaj Dragovich. The Bloody Prince. That arrogant little stain with ice in his eyes and too much war in his blood. I hate him, but my body doesn’t seem to care.
My jaw clenches as I shove my fingers through my hair, trying to scrub the day off me, trying to wash the scent of gunpowder and sweat and him off my skin.
But all I can think about is the way he looked at me after that fight, blood in his mouth and amusement in his voice like I was a toy he’d already figured out how to break.
And then he licked my blood.
I slam a fist into the wall hard enough that my knuckles split again. The pain’s clean, better than the filthy noise clawing through my head.
But even then, it doesn’t help.
My skin’s still too hot. My pulse won’t slow down. I brace a hand against the slick tiles again and drop my head, breathing hard as the steam thickens, fogging the glass and drowning the light. My muscles ache. My body screams.
I hate him.
Hate the way he sees through me. Hate the way his smirk makes desire coil in my gut like a goddamn snake. Hate that he saw it—that slip, that pause, that one fucking moment where I didn’t pull away fast enough when he leaned in.
And now I’m stuck with it.
The image of him—sweat-soaked, eyes gleaming, blood on his tongue. The way his breath ghosted over my mouth like a dare. The way my hips bucked beneath him without permission.
I punch the wall again, this time with both hands, and stay there—knuckles bleeding, chest heaving, water burning down my back.
The water scalds my shoulders, red-hot and relentless, but it still doesn’t fucking burn him out of me.
I drag a hand down my chest, slick with steam and fury, and my body jolts like I’ve been shocked—like even the ghost of a touch is too much right now. But I can’t stop. My cock’s already hard, already pulsing, already fucking aching for something I never wanted to give.
I brace one hand against the tile and wrap the other around myself with a snarl. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m already grinding into my fist like I don’t have a choice; like my body made it for me the second he smeared my blood across his fucking tongue.
“You bleed so pretty, Prince.”
I stroke harder, jaw locked, lips parted around a breath I can’t catch. Water hammers my back. Steam clogs my lungs. I pump my fist like I’m trying to purge this sickness twisting through my gut.
He knows something about me I haven’t admitted to myself yet, and I’m fucking sick over it. Sick and shaking and grinding forward into my palm while I’m chasing the edge of something filthy and cruel.
My lip splits wider when I snarl, salt and copper staining my tongue. My hips rock forward, rhythm turning ruthless, faster now. I spit a curse and drop my forehead to the tile with a hollow thud.
“I fucking… hate you,” I breathe. “You smug little—”
With a brutal groan punched out between clenched teeth, I come hard, my release painting the tiles, water washing it away before it even cools. My knees buckle slightly, and I grip the wall to stay upright, heart hammering like I just survived a firefight.
I keep my eyes closed because I can’t look at myself right now. Not when my body just betrayed everything my mouth refuses to say. Not when all I taste is him. Not when I know this isn’t the end.
But I can’t afford this, not with everything riding on this. I’ve got one year to prove I’m worthy of my name. One year to earn my place beside my father. One year to finish what I was born for and put a bullet in my twin’s skull. There’s no room for distraction, no space for mistakes.
And certainly no place for him.
I need to get rid of Nikolaj Dragovich. End whatever sick little game he thinks he’s playing with me. Strip the smirk off his face, break him down the way he wants to break me. Because this—this pull, this fucked-up fixation—I know where it leads.
To weakness and everything I’ve been trained to reject.
I rinse off fast, ignoring the sting in my jaw, the pounding behind my eyes, the brutal rhythm of my pulse still thudding in my throat like the echo of a voice I can’t shut out.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged, but I still see the silhouette of myself through the mist. Not the man my father expects. Not the heir the East Wing calls a prince. Just a boy with too much rage and nowhere to put it. A man carved hollow by expectation.
A man who can’t afford to give in to his desires.
If he wants war, he’s going to get it, and when I finally tear him apart, it won’t be out of hate. It’ll be the only thing that makes me feel clean again.