CHAPTER 208: THE QUEEN’S CLAIM

The action movie rattled the walls, all fireballs and collapsing skyscrapers, while Emma curled against my side like we were kids again. For a moment it was almost normal—no supernatural agendas, no empire-building, no late-night conquests. Just brother and sister watching CGI reduce cities to rubble, which, honestly, felt cheaper than rent in LA.

"You know," Emma said over the surround sound carnage, "this is nice. Having you here. Not vanishing into... whatever mysterious after-hours cult you’ve joined."

"I’m not that bad."

She tilted her head, unimpressed. "Peter, you’ve slept here once since we moved in. Once. Mom still sets out a plate for you at breakfast every morning like she’s waiting for the prodigal son to show up with an appetite and a press release."

That landed harder than the digital missile strike currently leveling Paris on screen.

"I’ve been busy—"

"With Madison. And whoever else is giving you that ’freshly-exorcised’ glow." She smirked, recycling my own line about Sofia with the kind of timing that should’ve gotten her a Netflix special. "You’re different now. Not confident-different. Dangerous-different. Like you could ruin someone’s life and then sleep eight solid hours after."

She wasn’t wrong. Uncomfortably not wrong.

Before I could reply, tires crunched on the gravel outside. Emma straightened, predator-alert.

"The princess arrives," she muttered.

Sure enough, Madison’s BMW curved into the drive as the security system announced er arrival too, the car was like a red-carpet event. Which, in her world, it was.

A few minutes later she breezed in, designer bag bouncing, radiating that specific smile she wore when she’d either gotten away with murder or was planning one.

"Emma! Gorgeous as always," Madison sang, collapsing onto the couch like she owned the deed. "So, how’s it feel living with a mysteriously upgraded brother?"

"Carefully," Emma said, deadpan. "He cooks now, which is terrifying. And he actually listens when people talk, which is even more terrifying."

"Suspicious," Madison agreed, narrowing her eyes at me theatrically. "Very suspicious. It’s like someone replaced our Peter with a functional human being. I preferred the glitchy version."

The three of us traded shots for half an hour—Emma interrogating Madison about our adventures Madison swerving with counter-questions about Emma’s future, me stuck in the middle while the two most important women in my life teamed up for their favorite pastime: dissecting my recent evolution like it was a group project.

Emma was too sharp not to notice the changes. She just wasn’t dumb enough to ask questions she didn’t want the answers to.

Eventually, Madison stood up with that particular stretch—the one that could get flagged on Instagram for "community guideline violations"—managing to be both casual and deliberately distracting. She could probably sell out a yoga DVD without actually doing yoga.

"Peter, can I borrow you for a minute? I want to see this famous master bedroom I keep hearing about."

Emma snorted. "Subtle, Madison. Really subtle."

"I’m a Torres, sweetheart. We don’t do subtle—we do effective." Madison delivered the line like she was pitching it for a reality show tagline.

I followed her down the hallway, already knowing this conversation was going to be either very interesting or very dangerous. Probably both. Story of my life.

The moment the door closed behind us, Madison’s whole vibe mutated. Gone was the casually charming girlfriend making small talk with my sister. In her place stood something sharper—queen energy, claws out.

"Alright, Carter," she said, arms crossing with the precision of a Vogue cover pose, stare sharp enough to slice diamonds. "Start talking."

"About what?" I asked, leaning against my bedroom door like I was auditioning for Hot Guys Who Lie Badly, Season One.

"Don’t play dumb. Sofia Delgado. Last night. Your old house." Her voice had that territorial edge—like Beyoncé finding out Jay-Z had a Tinder account. "I want details."

I gave her my most innocent smile, the kind that usually earned me forgiveness or at least distracted people long enough to forget the question. "I don’t kiss and tell, Torres. Thought you knew that about me."

"Bullshit." She stepped closer, eyes flashing somewhere between jealousy and genuine heartbreak. "I’m not some random girl you’re trying to impress. I’m your main woman, Peter. Your partner in all this empire-building insanity. Who’s supported every reckless plan, celebrated your wins, played co-pilot to your chaos. I’ve never once gotten jealous when you were with other women because I understand what we’re building here... together."

And damn it, she was right. The raw honesty in her voice hit harder than a TMZ headline on Monday morning.

"Madison—"

"No, let me finish." She jabbed her finger at my chest like I was an iPad refusing to unlock. "You fucked another woman in your childhood home. The house where we figured out who you were, where you discovered you weren’t normal, where we had our first real conversation about what you were becoming. And you brought and fucked her there instead of me.

"You fucked her there. You never fucked me there, Carter!"

The words didn’t just sting—they detonated, hanging in the air like a confession scene in a telenovela. She wasn’t just pissed about Sofia. She was wounded that I’d chosen that specific location, our crucible, for someone else’s corruption.

Madison snapped, pacing like a reality TV villain rehearsing her monologue. "But if you want me to forget it, then fuck me here. In this house, in this mansion that represents everything we’ve built together—I should the one who gets your first time here. I should be the one who claims this space with you first before you sneak another woman here, perhaps it will be your neighbor or your mother’s friend. I do not care."

She was all designer fire and glossy rage, heels softening against the carpet like war drums. And it hit me—this wasn’t just Madison Torres making a demand. This was Madison fighting for her crown.

"You’re right," I said, voice low.

That froze her mid-stride. "What?"

"You’re right. About all of it. You’ve been my ride-or-die, my sharpest weapon, and you’ve never once tried to put me on a leash. You deserve more than being treated like a side character."

Her eyes softened—rare, dangerous territory. "I don’t want to control you, Peter. I just want to be... acknowledged. As your queen. Not just another girl in the highlight reel."

"You’re not a highlight," I said, stepping closer. "You’re the constant. You’re the one who stays. You’ve always been my Queen."

She came closer, touching my face like she was afraid I might vanish if she didn’t anchor me.

"Then show me. Don’t say it. Show me. Because whatever you did to Sofia left her looking like she’d been baptized in sin, and I need to know what kind of power you’re walking around with."

That landed between us like a lit fuse. She wanted the same treatment—wanted to be claimed, branded, rewritten into something more. Madison Torres, heiress and chessmaster, was practically begging to be remade by me.

"You want me to do to you what I did to Sofia?" I asked, voice dropping into that place where lust and danger blur.

"I want you to do to me what you do to someone you’re keeping forever," she whispered, nails grazing my jaw like she already owned it. "Because that’s what I am, isn’t it? The one you’re keeping forever?"

Her words slid sharp under my skin. Claiming her wouldn’t just be sex. It’d be power transfer. It’d be crowning her as mine in a way she’d never escape.

"Madison," I murmured, hands tightening on her waist, "are you sure you know what you’re asking for?"

Her smile was all teeth and fire. "I’m asking my king to remind me why I chose to be his queen. I’m asking you to claim this house, this room, this life we’re building—starting with me."

And God help me, the only thought in my head was: damn, she makes palace coups look sexy.