PRINCESS THUGRELLA

ROGUE QUEEN

CHAPTER THREE

ROGUE QUEEN.

I had to live to avenge my father, I knew I had to stay alive so I could come back for my mother.

“Cosa Nostra, the ancient rulers,”

I gritted my teeth.

These people took everything from me.

They killed the father,

Snatched everything that belonged to him.

Raped my mother, in the pool of my father's blood.

I remembered their faces, their names.

The sound of their evil heart-wrecking laughter still rings in my head.

No one believed me, no one came through for me.

My mother was labeled “the crazy fallen queen,”

At the child support welfare people called “the haggard princess, while some called me thugrella,”

The castle I once called home, was taken by the Mafia king of “Cosa Nostra,”

Ranon Blackwell, the ancient ruler himself, the man who orchestrated the whole tragedy that claimed my father's life and wealth.

My tears had already found their way onto my face, flowing heavily. I sat there feeling very numb and broken.

At the age of 20 I was finally permitted to leave the child support welfare, I managed to cross to the other side of the country were was able to execute my properly structured plan against one of the top members of the “Cosa Nostra,” ancient rulers Vin-Moore Kane, while working for him as his personal escort (a hooker) I injected him with syrup of water hemlock (cicuta maculata) each time we met, that was one of my easiest mission so far, I allowed him die slowly after I made sure I had secured enough fortune from him.

After Vin-Moore Kane’s demise which could never be traced to me, I found myself in the southern part of America, where I went to seduce my second target Abraham Zimmerman.

This time I used the fortune I got from Vin-Moore Kane to appear as the anonymous heiress of the Von-Dickson family, I was able to milk from him enough before I got rid of him slowly, this time I did something a bit different, I attacked his family from behind, had his 18 years old daughter brought home dead after being brutally assaulted by his enemies I linked up with. His wife committed suicide three days after their daughter's burial, and he was later sent to the rehab center when his mental health started deteriorating rapidly.

One thing nobody knew was that Madam Doris, wasn't just an ordinary lady who owns the pastry shop where I work, Madam Doris is the wife of one of the people that fell victim to the cruelty of the “Cosa Nostra,” ancient rulers, she came to me when I left the child support welfare, where she claimed me as her adopted daughter, together we joined hands in destroying our common sworn enemies. Her daughter was shot dead when she tried to run away from the hostage of Vin-Moore Kane. Ever since then she took me in and became my personal backup and alibi.

This time we made our way to Los Angeles, where we started life afresh, madam Doris appears as an ordinary lady who owns a pastry shop, while I am the innocent white swan who walks in the shadow.

I was already feeling very tired from crying and thinking, I picked myself up from the floor where I sat, I lay flat on my bed the minute I went inside, I drifted off to sleep allowing the silence of my room to take over the echoes in my head.

The bass at Club Rogue rolled through Isabella like a second heartbeat—slow, heavy, insistent. The hidden corner of the VIP section was wrapped in shadow and velvet, cut off from the main floor by smoked glass and discretion. It was the kind of place meant for secrets. For watching. For being watched.

Isabella moved like she knew that.

She was already dancing when Maverick walked in—not loud, not showy, just a languid sway that pulled the eye without begging for it. Her hips followed the rhythm with lazy confidence, shoulders rolling, hair slipping down her back as if gravity had a personal interest in her. The lights skimmed her skin in flashes of amber and red, enough to suggest, never enough to give away everything.

Maverick sat down, drink untouched in his hand, gaze fixed. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t have to.

Isabella felt him before she saw him. She always did. The weight of his attention pressed against her spine, warm and deliberate. She turned slowly, eyes catching his across the dim, and smiled—not sweet, not shy. A challenge. An invitation.

She danced closer, step by measured step, until the space between them felt charged, like the moment before lightning breaks. Her knee brushed his, accidental in name only. She let her fingers trail along the back of the seat beside him, then along his shoulder, just enough contact to promise more and deny it in the same breath.

“You’re late,” she murmured, lips near his ear, voice nearly lost to the music.

Maverick’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t wait.”

Her laugh was soft, sinful. “I never do.”

She turned her back to him and kept moving, slower now, every shift deliberate. The curve of her body matched the pulse of the club, a silent conversation meant only for him. Maverick leaned forward without realizing it, forearms on his thighs, eyes dark. He could feel the heat rolling off her, the confidence, the way she owned the moment like it was written for her alone.

Isabella glanced over her shoulder, catching him watching, and that look—knowing, daring—was the real danger. She reached for his drink, took a sip, then placed it back in his hand like she was returning something that already belonged to her.

“Careful,” he said, low. “You’re playing with fire.”

She leaned in, close enough that her breath warmed his cheek. “Good. I like to feel it burn.”

Her hand slid to his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading as if she was memorizing him through the fabric of his silk shirt. The contact was brief, electric, and gone too soon. She straightened, but didn’t step away, her knee still between his, her body a question he hadn’t answered yet.

The music dropped into a darker rhythm. Isabella moved again, this time slower, eyes never leaving his. Every sway felt like a confession she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Maverick stood abruptly, the decision made for him by instinct.

Now they were face to face, close enough to feel the pull, the friction, the undeniable truth humming between them. He caught her wrist—not rough, not gentle, just certain.

“Rogue Queen,” he warned.

She smiled, breathless, eyes bright with heat. “Say my name again.”

And in that hidden corner of Club Rogue, with the music pounding and the world narrowed to the space between their bodies, it was clear—this wasn’t just attraction. It was hunger. And neither of them had any intention of pretending otherwise.