Page 2 of Blood Heir

I don’t answer. I just turn.

Behind me, the edge of the roof waits. The stone ledge rises only a foot off the surface, the last boundary between me and the air. My feet slip as I step toward it. One step. Another. My toes curl over the edge, searching for something solid that isn’t there.

The garden is a blur below—hedges, paths, wet stone.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him. His eyes. That flash of something desperate in them.

“No,” I say quietly. “No, we can’t.”

My fingers release the knife. It clatters behind me, forgotten.

Rain pours down my back, soaking into the torn threads of my dress. My hands lift, trembling. I wipe the tears from my cheeks.

Then I take a breath. One last breath.

And I step forward and I jump.

There is no wind beneath me. No wings. Just space. Cold air rushing past, howling in my ears, dragging at my clothes. The rooftop vanishes above. Serevin vanishes. Everything does.

The world turns upside down. Then the ground rushes up.

The pain comes first, then peace follows.

Chapter 1 - Fioretta

I wake to a rhythmic beeping.

There’s something cold at the bend of my arm. A sharp sting pulses just beneath the surface of the skin. My mouth is dry. My tongue is thick. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar: white, bright, lined with soft panels and recessed lights that hum low like insects.

The room stutters into focus.

There’s a clear plastic cannula taped to the inside of my elbow, secured with medical dressing. A transparent IV bag hangs beside the bed, its line connected to the cannula.

Panic blooms in my chest—sudden, acidic.

I push up. My spine arches sharply, muscles protesting. A wave of vertigo slams into me as I try to sit, but I fight through it. My fingers tremble as they close around the IV line. I tear it free.

Pain flares hot and fast.

A spurt of blood stains the sheet. The cannula flaps, half-stuck in flesh, then falls. The monitor alarms in shrill panic. My heart is beating too fast now. My body is moving faster than my mind can catch up.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They dangle—bare, weak. My feet touch the tile.

The door opens, and a man enters. Huge. Thick shoulders beneath a black suit. Matte gun in hand, not raised, but ready. His eyes lock on me instantly. He freezes when he sees I’m upright. Bleeding. Awake.

He lifts a hand to the radio at his shoulder, speaking in quick, clipped Italian. “She’s awake.”

I flinch.

My knees buckle, and I crumple onto the floor, palms slapping against polished stone. My breath comes fast, broken. My body screams danger even if my brain hasn’t caught up.

The man doesn’t come closer right away. When he does, his movements are careful. His voice is low.

“Ma’am?” he says. “Are you alright?”

There’s something in his tone—reverence. Hesitation. As if he’s afraid of me. Or afraid for me.

I scuttle backward, palms smearing the blood on the floor as I drag myself away from him.

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