Page 31 of Blood Heir

I glance down, analyzing where she’s pointing. “You’re suggesting we move supply through inland caravans.”

She nods once, firm. “In the short term, yeah, it’s riskier. But these routes here—” she taps again, her nail clicking against the laminated map, “—these jungle routes will flood when the monsoon hits. Those roads will turn into rivers of mud. But the desert routes stay clear all year. Dry. Predictable. You could move heavier shipments without worrying about washed-out crossings.”

I study her for a moment, surprised by her clarity. “You own that sector too,” I murmur. “Your father acquired that land years ago, but we never utilized it.”

“Then approve it,” she says, locking eyes with me. “You’ll have my signature.”

For a second, neither of us moves, the air between us thick with silent understanding. This is her world now, whether she remembers it fully or not.

I nod. “Done.”

I pull the final form from the stack, setting it before her with the pen. The gold tip catches the lamplight as I hand it to her.

Her hand hovers for a brief moment. Then, with one fluid motion, she signs.

She smooths the hem of that oversized shirt draping over her thighs like a casual afterthought. Barefoot. Loose strands of hair fall across her face, catching the glow of the desk lamp.

She turns toward the door without meeting my eyes. “If I’m done here, I should get to bed. It’s quite late.”

Her voice is calm, but something under it wavers. A note I don’t miss.

I step forward, closing the gap between us. She reaches for the door handle, but I plant my hand flat against the wood beside her head, blocking her path.

The distance between us shrinks. My voice lowers. “Why are you nervous?” I ask quietly.

She turns her face up toward me, her breath steady but shallow. Her hands rise, fingers splaying across my chest, palms light against the fabric of my shirt. She traces the line of mysternum like she’s studying me, but her gaze drifts lower. I feel the pressure building in my lower abdomen as her eyes settle where I know she’s looking.

A smile curls across her lips. Soft at first, then sharper, like she enjoys this power shift.

“Hubby, listen.” Her tone sweetens, coated in amusement. Her fingers begin to move in small circles on my chest. “The old me…she gave herself to you, didn’t she? She must’ve wanted to please you so badly. Did anything you asked.”

Her nails drag lightly against the cotton as she gently pushes me back a step. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

“That’s not me.” Her voice drops to a husky whisper. “You’ll have to beg to have me. Do you understand?”

The pulse in my neck kicks. My jaw tightens.

She turns back to the door, curling her fingers around the knob.

But I move. My arm hooks around her waist and pulls her back to me. She fits perfectly against my chest, her warmth pressing into me.

My lips hover close to her ear. “Please,” I breathe. “Please, can I have you?”

Her body stills. The smallest tremor ripples through her before she smiles again.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I don’t know why I’m begging. God, I never thought I would.

But I miss her.

I miss her and I want her.

I want her like a man starving. Like a man drowning.

She stands in front of me now, her gaze sharp, unwavering. She’s different—stronger, colder, but still so achingly beautiful that it almost breaks me to look at her. She lifts her hand and tilts my chin downward, forcing my eyes to meet hers at her level. I swallow hard, my pulse thudding heavily in my throat.

“You haven’t begged before, have you?” Her voice is low, smooth, but carries that edge—like a knife pressing against my skin. “Beg me like the old me begged you to love her.”

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