The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 349

Arrogance had always been Harlan’s second skin. Nothing, not even the brutal rites of the military camp where his father once dumped him, had ever made him feel truly cornered.

If someone hit him, he hit back. Simple as that.

Only one moment had broken that rule—three years ago, when news reached him that Quinn had married. The helplessness of that day had etched itself into his bones. He had sworn he would never taste it again.

Yet here it was, creeping over him once more. He knew Julius had taken her, but he had no idea where to start looking. The vast world felt suddenly, mockingly, empty.

He knew with painful clarity that Quinn had been taken away by Julius, but he didn’t even know where to find her or where she might be.

The Whitethorn family. Julius Whitethorn.

Julius had sworn he would never harm Quinn, yet an unnamed dread clawed at him. These next fifteen days loomed like a trap waiting to spring. No. I would not wait. I would scour the world for Quinn and bring her back myself.

Given she was stranded for fifteen long days, Quinn chose prudence over open war with Julius.

Though he had trapped her on the island, the cell towers still hummed; her phone and the internet were hers to command.

The single frustration was the blank patch on every map app; Julius had scrubbed the island’s coordinates clean, leaving her no clue where in the ocean she drifted.

Just as Julius claimed, they were the island’s only flesh-and-blood residents; cleaning, cooking, and even laundry were carried out by silent housekeeping drones that glided down the halls like silver ghosts.

On the second dawn, he coaxed her into a dune buggy and traced the island’s ragged perimeter.

The ride showed the place was pocket-sized, with no boats, helipads, or hidden docks in sight.

Unless a rescuer breached Julius’ defenses—or she swam through open sea—escape was impossible.

Even the fresh bandage on her shoulder was applied by Julius himself.

The wound sat at the back of her left shoulder, a tricky spot for solo care.

Inside the sitting room, she lowered her collar, revealing the bruised and stitched flesh.

Julius’s long, confident fingers skimmed the ragged edge of the injury with barely a whisper of pressure. “Does it hurt?” he murmured.

His voice drifted against her ear, soft as a lullaby.

“Not really,” Quinn said, forcing calm. “If you’re going to medicate it, do it quickly.”

Her sentence fractured when something satin-soft grazed the wound.

Only then did she grasp it was his mouth, reverent and warm, sealing kisses over the torn skin.

“Julius, what are you doing?” she snapped, twisting away, but his hand pinned her in place with unsettling gentleness.

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