Page 4 of Blood Heir

I obey—mechanically. The responses are there, but hollow.

“Good,” he says softly, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Go ahead and sit.”

I do. The leather chair is cold beneath me. I clutch my hand against my chest as if that might stop the bleeding.

The door screeches open, and the man who steps in fills the space instantly.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Black suit, wet around the collar. His presence hits like a silent weapon—dangerous. His hair is raven dark, pushed back from a face too chiseled to be soft. His eyes….

They stop me.

Cold. Icy gray. Almost silver. Like winter storms over still water. He doesn’t look at me right away. He just nods once to the doctor.

I stare at him. I don’t know him. But something in my chest twists.

He moves to the chair beside mine and sits like the space belongs to him.

The doctor clears his throat. “Well. Good news is that she’s recovered well. No residual swelling on the brain, no major neuromuscular damage. She’s healed up…very nicely.”

I don’t relax.

He continues. “The bad news is…she’s experiencing post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. Most likely from the head trauma. My neurologist will evaluate her later today. We’ve already started labs—CMP, CT recon, EEG baseline. Just precautionary.”

I glance at the man beside me.

Then, back at the doctor.

“Why does he need to know my medical history?”

The doctor shifts uncomfortably. Before he can speak, the man beside me does. He reaches for my chair and pulls it toward him. I freeze as he stares into my eyes.

“I’m your husband.”

The words don’t land. They drop.

My gaze narrows. “What?”

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t soften. Just lifts his left hand.

A silver band glints on his ring finger.

I look down.

There’s one on mine, too. Slim. Pale. Elegant. It fits like it’s always been there.

“This isn’t funny,” I whisper, looking between them. “Is this some kind of joke?”

The doctor shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s not.”

The man—my supposed husband—doesn’t blink. “I’ll be taking her home. All future checkups will be done privately.”

“Home?” I ask. The word feels foreign in my mouth. “What do you mean, home?”

The doctor nods.

The office fades behind us. I follow him reluctantly, heart thudding as the hall opens into a quiet corridor.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Look, I know there has to be some sort of mix-up here, okay? I don’t remember anything for now, but if I had a husband who looked like you, I would.”

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