Page 49 of Blood Heir

I roll my eyes and wave my hand dismissively. “Don’t pretend you’re here for my health.” My voice drips with that forced little laugh I’ve mastered.

But of course, he can’t resist being grabby. His hand curls under my chin, tilting my face toward his. He plants a sloppy kiss on my lips, smug. His breath still tastes like me.

“You were wild.” He grins, lowering his voice like it’s some secret joke between us. “Rode me so hard I thought I’d pass out.”

I shrug and smirk. “Didn’t you like it?” I ask, batting my lashes like a bored kitten.

“Oh, I liked it.” His grin widens. “But that’s not my question.”

And there it is. The part where they want to talk. God, they always want to talk.

I pull my face from his hand and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes because if I let myself talk, I’ll say too much. And I can’t. Not about her.

Not about how Fioretta embarrassed me. Humiliated me. In front of everyone.

The auction still burns behind my eyes. The laughter. The applause. My designer dresses, my jewelry, my extensions—gone. Auctioned off like some sick game while those rich witches cheered and waved their little bid paddles around like it was entertainment.

And she just stood there. Smiling. Acting like the star. Like she was better than me. Like she was ever better than me.

It’s always been like this.

I had him first. I was there before she even showed up. Before her precious foreign education, before her perfect manners. It was me.

Serevin was my friend. My everything.

We were always supposed to end up together. I practically lived in his house. He looked at me first. Touched me first. We kissed first—okay, fine, I kissed him, but still! It counts. It should’ve counted.

And then she came back. Quiet and perfect. Just standing there while everything I wanted slipped away from me, like she didn't even have to try.

But I waited. I was patient. I thought, fine—let him marry her. That didn’t mean I couldn’t still have him. Men always have someone on the side. It’s normal. It would’ve been me. I would’ve been his constant.

Then the accident happened.

And I thought finally, finally, fate gave me a break.

But no. He became worse. Obsessed. Protective. Like she was made of glass. He shut me out completely. Didn’t even have the decency to pretend anymore.

And now? She doesn’t even remember him, and he still can’t take his eyes off her.

While I stood there, stripped of my dignity in front of every woman in Melbourne, she smiled like she’d won.

I dig my nails into my palm, squeezing until it hurts.

“Why are you so mad?” the man asks again, softer now. He thinks I’m going to open up to him. Stupid.

I turn to him with the fakest smile I can muster. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Why are you so mad?” he asks again, voice low, taunting.

I don’t answer. Instead, I throw the sheets off me and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cold floor.

He watches me as I rise, fully exposed under the dim light. My breasts rise with every sharp breath I take, my waist narrowing into hips he’d just been gripping minutes ago.

I reach for my black dress draped over the velvet armchair. The silk slips easily over my body as I pull it up, the fabric hugging my curves like a second skin.

“Mind your business,” I snap, zipping it up with one sharp motion. “You got what you wanted.”

But he’s still watching, amused. His bare chest glistens slightly with sweat as he props himself up on his elbow.

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