Semua Bab The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Bab 131 - Bab 140

Hunger is usually a hollow thing. It is a void in the stomach, a dull ache that reminds you of what you lack. I know hunger well. I lived with it for years in my father’s house, where dinner was often a negotiation between the electric bill and the grocery list.But this hunger?This is not hollow. It is solid. It is violent.It wakes me from a deep, dreamless sleep at 0200 hours. It grabs me by the throat and shakes me. It isn't asking for sustenance. It is demanding tribute.I sit up in the dark, my hand flying to the curve of my stomach."Okay," I whisper to the invisible tyrant inside me. "Okay. I'm awake."The bunker is silent. The hum of the air scrubbers is a constant white noise that usually lulls me back to sleep, but tonight, it does nothing to drown out the screaming demand of my body.I need a peach.Not an apple. Not a piece of bread. Not a ration bar from the Russo supply drop.I need a peach.I need the soft, fuzzy skin. I need the bright, orange-yellow flesh that gives

The farmhouse main room is a study in contrasts.It is a tableau of domesticity painted in the colors of violence.I sit in the corner, curled into the worn armchair, a wool blanket draped over my legs. A book lies open on my lap, but I haven't turned a page in twenty minutes.I am watching them.To my left, near the blackened fireplace, Aureliano is cleaning his weapons.He has dismantled his Glock and a Sig Sauer on a white towel. The parts are laid out with surgical precision. The smell of solvent is sharp, cutting through the damp mountain air.He works with a steady, rhythmic efficiency. His hands—large, elegant, lethal—move over the steel components with a familiarity that is both terrifying and mesmerizing. He isn't wearing a jacket. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the hard cords of muscle in his forearms that flex every time he wipes a slide.He looks up.He catches me staring.He doesn't smile. He doesn't look away. His grey eyes lock onto mine across the room, dark and h

Truth is a blade. Usually, I am the one holding the hilt.Tonight, I am grabbing the edge.I am pressed against the cold concrete of the farmhouse hallway, pinned by the lean, wiry strength of Spadino Vitale. The air between us is scorched earth. It vibrates with the static of his anger and the frantic, hummingbird rhythm of my own panic."I can't," I whispered moments ago.Spadino doesn't accept the surrender. He treats it like a challenge.He leans in closer, invading the last inch of space I have left. His forearm bars my chest, holding me against the wall not with brute force, but with an unyielding, vibrating tension. He smells of citrus from the oranges, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline."You can't what?" he hisses, his face so close I can see the gold flecks in his irises swirling with fury. "You can't look at us? You can't touch us? You can't admit that the great Ice Queen finally melted?""I am tired, Spadino," I lie. My voice is thin, brittle. "I am managi

I choose Ciro first.Not because he is the easiest. Ciro is a monolith; moving him is like trying to shift a tectonic plate with bare hands.I choose him because he is the steadiest.If I am going to break myself open, I need to do it against a wall that will not crumble.I walk down the hallway to the third bedroom. The door is ajar.The room smells of him—cedar, gun oil, and the sharp, medicinal sting of iodine. It is sparse. A cot. A footlocker. A weapon rack. It is the room of a soldier who expects to be deployed at any second.He is in the small adjoining bathroom.He stands in front of the sink, shirtless. The fluorescent light hums above him, casting harsh shadows on the topography of his back—the ridges of muscle, the valleys of old scars.He is struggling.He is trying to tape a fresh piece of gauze over the bullet wound on his left shoulder. It is an awkward angle. His massive frame gets in the way, his good hand fumbling with the adhesive strips.He hisses a curse, low and

Two down. One to go.I leave Spadino tangled in the sheets, his face buried in the pillow, sleeping the sleep of the absolved.I walk down the hallway. My body feels different. It feels lighter, scrubbed clean by the truth I have finally spoken. The fear that choked me for months—the fear that loving them would destroy me—has evaporated. In its place is a terrifying clarity.I am not just surviving them. I am of them.I reach the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor. Aureliano’s makeshift office.The door is closed. A line of yellow light spills from beneath it, cutting across the dusty floorboards.I don't knock. I push it open.The room is small, claustrophobic, smelling of stale coffee and the sharp, ozone tang of overheating electronics. The walls are covered in maps. The desk is a disaster of tactical reports and encrypted hard drives.Aureliano is standing by the window, staring out at the pitch-black forest.He is still wearing his tactical gear, though the vest is unbuckl