Page 60 of Blood Heir

The path we take is unfamiliar—narrower hallways, colder air, dimmer lights. We descend a flight of stairs, stone replacing marble, the walls closing in tighter.

The dungeon.

The heavy door creaks as Cassian pushes it open, revealing the space inside. My breath catches.

Monte and Gustavo hang from metal restraints, their bodies a canvas of bruises and blood. Naked, exposed, trembling. Their faces are swollen beyond recognition—lips split, eyes puffed, blood smeared and fresh. Their groans fill the thick air, punctuated by the metallic drip of blood hitting the floor.

And then there’s Serevin.

He stands a few feet from them, cigarette burning between his fingers, blood staining the cuffs of his shirt and splattered across his knuckles. The smoke coils lazily around him as he exhales. His eyes meet mine for a moment—calm, cold, unreadable.

The smell of iron and sweat makes my stomach tighten.

I don’t speak.

He doesn’t speak.

I simply stand there, frozen in place, my heart hammering beneath my ribs as my gaze shifts between the broken bodies of Monte and Gustavo and the man who put them there.

Serevin flicks ash from his cigarette, his expression completely still.

I stare at the whip in his hand.

The leather coil glistens under the dungeon light, the handle polished, the edge stained darker. His voice is steady but low as he steps closer, offering it to me.

“They hurt you,” he says. “Hurt them twice as much.”

The two broken men groan, barely able to lift their heads, but I feel their eyes on me. Blood-streaked, trembling, their bodies slump like discarded rags. Monte’s lip splits open again when he tries to speak. Gustavo wheezes, his chest rising in uneven gasps.

I swallow, my fingers curling into fists at my side. The weight of the room presses against my skin like invisible hands. My stomach twists.

I don’t move to take the whip. I look at Serevin instead.

“This is unnecessary.” My voice is steady, firm, but something inside me quivers. “I’ll be returning to my room.”

I turn my back on him before he can answer, before his darkness infects me any more than it already has. My heels echo against the cold stone as I make my way out. My breathing is tight, controlled. Behind me, I hear nothing—no protest, no persuasion, only the sound of my own retreat.

But I don’t get far.

By the time I reach the corridor above, I feel his presence again, close. The moment I step into the office, his hand grabs mine—not rough, not painful, but firm enough to stop me. I freeze, but don’t turn to him.

“They hurt you,” he says again, softer this time.

I glance over my shoulder, forcing a small smile that tastes like poison in my mouth. “Not more than you’ve hurt me, Serevin.”

My words cut through the room, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see it—the flicker of real shock behind his cold stare. The certainty falters in his eyes.

“You…you remember?” His voice breaks just slightly at the end. The tiniest fracture. The one thing I wasn’t expecting to find in him: fear.

That surprises me more than anything.

I tilt my head, my voice light. “No, I don’t. It’s just a feeling.”

It’s a lie. Or at least, not entirely true. The memories are scattered inside me, surfacing in painful flashes, fragments of a storm I can’t yet hold together. But he doesn’t need to know that.

I try to pull my hand away, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to trap me there. His body towers closer. His breath is warm on my cheek.

“You’re mine, Fioretta.” His voice lowers into a dangerous whisper. “No one else can touch you.”

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