Page 48 of Blood Heir

He drags me out of the car as my feet scrape against the gravel, my heels slipping with every forced step. The sun’s glare bounces off the mansion’s walls, blinding me momentarily as we approach the entrance.

The front doors open before we even reach them.

And then I see him.

A man—tall, thin, almost sickly looking—but something about him radiates menace. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing intricate black tattoos that twist like vines along his forearms. His t-shirt clings to his wiry frame, and his relaxed jeans only amplify the unsettling calm behind his eyes.

The smile on his face is all wrong. It’s too wide, too practiced, like a snake wearing human skin.

“Fee,” he says in a syrupy voice, drawing my name out slowly, savoring it. “How nice to finally meet you.”

I freeze. My breath shortens as his eyes rake over me like he’s assessing property.

Then—

Movement behind him.

Emilia steps forward from the shadows like she’s been hiding behind him the whole time. Her short black dress clings to her body; her hair, usually perfectly styled, is a tangled mess. Even through the smeared makeup and hollow eyes, I see it: guilt.

Layers of it.

She fidgets, looking anywhere but at me.

My stomach drops. My mouth goes dry. My entire chest tightens as the dread curls into full realization.

I snap my arm free from Gustavo’s grip, shoving him off me. My voice cracks out sharp, loud.

“You’re not my fucking friend, are you?”

The tension breaks like glass shattering.

Gustavo’s face twists into a grin so nasty it makes my skin crawl. His voice drips with mockery.

“Ding ding ding,” he says, tapping his temple like I’ve finally caught up.

The ground feels like it shifts beneath me, but I steady my feet. My fists clench as I realize just how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into.

Chapter 12 - Emilia

I slam my hips down onto him again, feeling his hands grasp desperately at my thighs as he groans beneath me. His long, wiry frame arches, trying to meet each of my thrusts, his breath ragged, his skin slick with sweat. I watch his face—his mouth open, eyes fluttering, his chest heaving—as he loses himself under me. His pleasure is so easy, so simple. His cock twitches inside me, hard, eager, but all I feel is the dull friction, like I’m grinding out a rage that can’t be spent.

Fiorette.

That smug bitch.

Her laughter still rings in my ears, sharp and humiliating. Always finding ways to remind me of where I stand. Always making sure I’m beneath her. But not here. Not now. Not with him.

I ride him harder, my hips snapping as though punishing him, punishing the world. He moans louder, his fingers digging into my flesh like he might fall apart if he lets go. His head presses back into the pillows, neck straining, Adam’s apple bobbing as he chokes on another groan.

I barely register the stretch of him inside me, the heat of him trembling under me like a live wire. My body moves on instinct, mechanical and furious, while my mind circles around Fiorette’s voice, her smug smile, her eyes always watching. I want to wipe her out with every thrust.

He gasps beneath me. “Oh—fuck—” His voice cracks, desperate and raw, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes hard, gripping me as though trying to hold onto the earth itself. I feel the hot rush of him spilling inside, but there’s no release for me. Just that quiet emptiness that always follows.

When his hands finally loosen, I let my weight fall back into the sheets, sliding off him, my body boneless with exhaustion but not relief. The sheets are a mess, tangled around my legs. My skin's sticky, and my hair’s probably a disaster, but I don’t care. I reach for the cigarette on the nightstand and light it, letting the smoke sit heavy in my chest before I exhale toward the ceiling fan spinning lazily above us.

The man beside me groans and sits up, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He reaches for the cigarette like it’s his, plucking it from my fingers.

“It’s not sexy when you smoke,” he says, like he’s scolding me.

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