The air in Peter's bedroom crackled like live wire. Madison stood before him, chest heaving, eyes blazing with equal parts hurt and demand. Her designer clothes suddenly felt like armor—expensive, impenetrable, yet trembling slightly at the edges.
Peter's gaze scraped over her, taking in the flawless face of his queen, the immaculate blowout, the perfect posture of a Torres heiress… and the raw, aching vulnerability she tried so desperately to hide beneath it.
"My Queen."
"'Your queen,'" she repeated, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated with raw need. "That's what I want to be, Peter. Not just the one who stays. The one who matters." Her finger jabbed gently into his chest, not with anger now, but with desperate insistence. "The one you claim first in every space that matters to you. Including this one."
