Chapter 13 Livvie
LIVVIE
I hear the door open before I see him and sense the temperature rise the way it always seems to do when Kingston walks into a room.
However, I don’t turn to face him. Rather, I wander to the low dresser along the far wall of our bedroom, my bare feet silent against the floor.
I set my violin case down with a tenderness I reserve for very few things in this world. My fingers linger on the worn leather handle for a moment longer than necessary.
Straightening, I square my shoulders, aware of his gaze drilling into my spine with the same suffocating intensity as a grip on my neck.
When I finally pivot, he’s leaning against the doorframe with an ease that doesn’t match the look in his dark eyes.
My husband stands before me, perfectly composed in slacks and an open-collar dress shirt. Even now the attraction hasn’t worn off, and that angers me more than I care to admit. The man's looks alone are a lethal weapon to slay me with.
Although, right now, staring at me with silent authority, every line of his body says he’s ready for war.
I cross my arms over my chest, lifting my chin in a challenge, daring him to offload whatever bullshit he has on his mind.
The tension stretches long and taut between us, thick enough to wrap around my throat and squeeze. Finally, I grow bored of his stupid game and hack through the silence.
"You tell me not to trust anyone," I say, the words cutting clean and fast. "But how the hell am I supposed to trust you? You met with the Red Tribunal and what… you’re their puppet now and I’m just the wife at home who doesn’t get answers?"
Kingston pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room in three confident strides, killing the space between us without rushing. He stops a foot away, enough to sense the heat rolling off him in waves.
His dark eyes lock on mine with a force like gravity itself.
"I don't need your trust, Livvie," he says, smirking. "I need your obedience."
The final word hangs in the air like a slap. My heart slams against my ribs, fury and something hotter weaving around my heart.
Without thinking, I lunge for the whiskey glass sitting forgotten on the dresser. My hand closes around it, and before his next breath, I hurl it across the room.
“Fuck you, husband,” I hiss. “I don't do obedience.”
Glass smashes against the far wall, exploding into a shower of crystal shards that rain down onto the floor, sprinkling like falling blood diamonds.
Kingston doesn’t flinch or even blink. Instead, he smiles like a fucking handsome predator humoring his prey.
"Feel better, princess?" he drawls, his voice threaded with amusement.
But I know better than to rise to his sarcasm. So I scowl at him instead and just stand there, heart hammering, every nerve in my body vibrating with the need to either punch him or… straddle him.
God-fucking-damn-it.
Kingston studies me with that maddening calmness he learned from his father, and then after a racing heartbeat, he steps into my personal space.
The scent of his cologne seeps into my skin and short-circuits my better judgment.
He lifts his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch almost tender. His fingers linger against my jaw, and when his thumb drags along the curve of my cheekbone, his pupils flare and his tongue skates between his beautiful full lips.
"You can throw things," he murmurs. "You can scream. You can fight me every damn step of the way."
His thumb glides across my lower lip, sending a shudder down my spine.
"But when it counts, Livvie," he continues, tone softening in that terrifying, lethal way, "you'll listen. And you’ll obey."
I suck in a fast breath, defiance rising in me like wildfire, burning hotter than my fear.
"You really think you’re my Lord and fucking master, don’t ya?” I whisper, the words hissing free. “If you want my compliance, you’ll need to work on trust, Kingston. Starting with the Red Tribunal meeting. What do they want?”
His mouth curves into something dark and devastating.
"I can’t tell you, princess," he says. "I’m sworn to secrecy and if you’re smart, you’ll stop pushing and start… pulling."
His grin widens and my heart pounds.
“In your dreams.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“And yours,” he counters.
For a moment, we just stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. He leans in just a fraction more, his mouth so close his breath ghosts against mine.
For a fleeting second I think he’ll kiss me. Instead, he pulls back with agonizing control, letting the space between us throb with all the things left undone, unclaimed.
I grunt at him and stomp toward the dresser, snatching my violin from its case. Lifting it to my shoulder, I draw the bow across the strings in a savage arco, letting the sound rip through the tension like a scream.
And I don’t hold back.
Music pours out of me in furious waves, each note raw and jagged, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.
The sounds sing through my muscles, anger knotting tighter with every violent stroke across the strings, rage pressing harder against my ribs as I play.
Each sweep of the bow expresses the war inside me, each violent tremor of the strings drowning out the desire I have for him.
My arms ache and my fingertips burn.
Still, I play harder, faster, losing myself in the one thing that still belongs to me.
When the final note fades, my breathing comes in ragged bursts and my hands tremble from the effort to hold myself together.
Then I glare at him, his arms folded across his broad chest and his gaze so heavy it pins me in place.
"Wow… That's the first real thing I've seen you do since we married," he says, the words hitting harder than any threat he could have thrown. "It was beautiful, Livvie. Passion clashing with violence, fury, and grace, all wrapped into a musical masterpiece."
He pauses, his dark gaze raking over me like he’s trying to memorize the way I look right now, trembling with the force of what I unleashed.
"You didn’t just play the violin. You fucking commanded it."
I lower the instrument, his praise catching me off guard, the final note still vibrating faintly against the strings.
The warmth of his words spark in my chest, sliding into the cracks I’ve fought so hard to keep sealed.
He saw me. Not the polished facade I was forced to be in my parents' company or the pawn they shoved into a marriage contract.
Kingston could have walked out. Tossed a half-hearted compliment over his shoulder and left me to stew in my fury alone.
But he didn’t. He stayed to listen. And that tiny flicker of attention, soft and real blooming inside me, is the worst thing ever.
I hate that a Viacava has the power to make me feel seen when every instinct I have screams to stay hidden. I jerk my chin up and keep my expression blank, desperate to smother the warmth spreading under my skin before it roots deeper.
"I didn’t play for you," I snap. "I play for myself. No one else.”
“Well, I enjoyed it nonetheless.”
“Get out, Kingston.”
Rather than respond, he prowls toward me in a few slow strides, and before I can stop him, his hand closes over the neck of my violin. He plucks it from my grasp like he’s taking a toy from a kid and turns his back on me without a word.
Rage flares hotter than before.
"Give it back!" I snap, chasing after him, my fists clenching at my sides. "You don't get to take everything from me, Kingston!"
He says nothing, his pace unhurried. I follow, practically vibrating with anger, through the hallways of the penthouse, past towering windows and sleek marble floors, until he stops in front of a door I don't recognize.
Kingston glances over his shoulder, catching the fire in my eyes, and for a second, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Without a word, he pushes the door open and steps aside.
The breath catches in my throat before I can stop it.
Inside, the room’s decor takes me by surprise.
Sunlight pours in through tall windows, the golden glow sprawling over polished wooden floors, built-in shelves, and a music stand.
Soundproof walls curve around the space, built for performance and creation.
For me?
He holds out the violin with one hand, offering it without looking at me.
"This room’s yours," he says simply. "For playing. For whatever the hell you need it for. You’ll want to go somewhere when I’m busy working.”
His voice is low, almost rough, like the admission costs him something.
I stare at him, stunned into silence, the weight of what he’s just handed me slamming into my ribs harder than any fight we could have had.
He could have punished me. Mocked me. Ordered me to my knees.
Instead, he gave me this.
A space untouched by blood and untouched by lies. A little piece of freedom carved out in a life I never chose.
And somehow, it’s worse than a thousand insults. Because it makes me want to believe Kingston isn't just another mafia monster on a power kick.
He watches me, waiting for a reaction like he’s ready for me to throw the violin at his head or toss him a snarky one-liner.
But I don’t do either.
I take it back from him slowly, my fingers brushing his for a fleeting second, heat sparking through the contact.
“Thank you.”
The atmosphere thrums and the pulse in my pussy throbs with a hot ache. I should hate him with everything I have left, but he’s given me a sanctuary of my own within his world.
"I can’t give you answers I don’t have, Livvie," Kingston says, voice softer now but no less dangerous. “You’re going to have to trust me instead."
The way he stares at me has my heart hammering against my ribs.
I stand there, gripping my violin against my chest, gazing back at Kingston like I’m seeing him for the first time.
Not as the enemy I’ve tried so hard to paint him as or the ruthless man who caged me with a diamond ring and a blood pact.
But a man who noticed my violin and heard me when I said I wanted my own space.
And God help me, I hate how badly I want him. How one more breath, one more look, and I'd be tearing open his shirt, fighting with his zipper, and claiming the man like he really belongs to me.
Truth is, everything has a price and what will trusting him cost me? Before marrying the man, I wouldn't have trusted him with a house plant, let alone my life.
“Is this room a wedding gift?” I prop my violin against a shelf and straighten.
Step by step, pulled by something too strong to resist, the space between us disappears like smoke. He meets me halfway, his gaze burning into mine, dark, wild, and raw.
“You could call it that,” he says without breaking eye contact. “A peace offering…”
“And you’ll expect something in return?”
“Did you have something in mind?” he asks, fingers threading into the hair at my nape, gripping just tight enough to make my scalp tingle.
“Maybe…” I whisper against his lips, raised to my tiptoes.
Kingston crashes his mouth over mine and kisses me hard and dirty.
The slippery wet pressure is fierce and demanding. When I moan into his mouth, he bumps me tighter to his chest, making the full, hard dick in his pants dig into my belly.
My palms roam his shirt on the hunt for buttons to rip open. He grunts with approval, deep and rough, sending vibrations to my core, setting every nerve ending on fire.
In a rush, I fist, pull, and yank open his shirt, sliding my hands over the smooth planes of hard-earned muscle on his abdomen.
His hands map the curves of my hips, pressing me harder into him, like he can't get enough.
And fuck, I want to give it to him.
All of it.
Every broken, furious, desperate piece.
Just when I go to unbuckle his belt, Bronx’s voice rips through the penthouse, loud and urgent, killing the moment. "Yo, King!”
Bronx appears at the doorway. “Clearly, I don't need to babysit your wife anymore. So how about we talk? I want to know what the Red Tribunal had to say."
Kingston stiffens, the breath catching hard in his chest, his forehead pressing against mine as he pants.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word. We stay locked together, tangled in heat and desire and the crushing knowledge of whatever this is.
A momentary truce, or a moment of madness.
After a few quick breaths, he inches back, his hand lingering in my hair, his thumb brushing once across my cheek like he can't quite help himself.
"This isn’t over, princess."
And then he turns and walks away, his shoulders tight, stride confident, leaving me standing there with my lips swollen, my heart pounding, unanswered questions on my tongue and a hunger for my husband burning in my veins.