Page 69 of Blood Heir

She sniffles, lip quivering. “Why her? Why always her?”

“Because,” I sigh, “Serevin isn’t capable of choosing like a normal man. With Fioretta… he doesn’t choose her. He needs her.”

Her lip trembles again as her shoulders shake, and she lets out a single sob, raw and sharp. I watch her crumble, this woman who’s always been so loud, so insufferable—finally collapsing under the weight she’s been dragging her whole life.

I look at her, and the memory flashes unbidden. A week before Serevin and Fioretta got married, Emilia had exposed Fioretta.

We were in the car. Vittoria sat beside Serevin in the back seat, like always—regal, calculating. Emilia had turned from the passenger seat, her eyes flashing with bitter urgency.

“Her father is using her. You know that, don’t you?” Emilia had said, voice shaking slightly. “He wants her to spy on you, on all of us. Marrying her—it’s all part of his game.”

Vittoria’s smile had been cold, satisfied. “Well, well, well. Look who’s fallen into our lap.” She had leaned closer to Serevin then. “You will marry her. You’ll build something with her family’s wealth, with their power. She will be our prize, and you, my dear, will reign.”

Then Vittoria had looked at Emilia sharply, her voice smooth but laced with warning. “And you, Emilia, you’ll live with them. You’ll watch her. If you succeed, there will be a share for you in the estate.”

I’d caught Emilia's reflection in the rearview mirror then. She tried to look composed, but I saw it—the desperation in her eyes. I always knew what she really wanted. She didn't want land. She didn't want power. She wanted Serevin.

But Serevin never saw her.

Emilia, the orphan Fioretta's father took in. Always second. Always overlooked.

I blink, pulling myself out of the memory. She’s standing in front of me now, breathing heavily, face flushed, tears running freely. My stomach knots.

“That’s in the past now,” I say quietly. “Fee is family.”

She scoffs, bitter. “Family.” The word sounds like poison on her tongue. “You should go.”

I turn to leave, but then she shifts, her foot catching on a loose strap of her bag. Her body lurches forward before she can stop herself. I react fast, catching her by the waist as she falls into me.

For a second, she freezes in my arms, looking up at me, her face only inches from mine. Her breath hitches. My hands tighten, steadying her instinctively. She feels so small, so fragile, trembling beneath my grip.

“Choose me for five minutes,” she whispers, voice barely audible, cracking, desperate. “Please.”

And then she closes the space between us, her lips pressing to mine, trembling and uncertain.

I should pull away. I know I should. Her pain seeps into me as her mouth moves against mine—aching, lonely, pathetic and hungry for something she’s never had.

Instead, my hand slides up her back, anchoring her to me, deepening the kiss. Her mouth parts under mine, eager, hungry, and I feel the subtle quake of her breath against my cheek. She's trembling as though the world might collapse if I let her go.

Gently, I guide her backward, steering her through the small tangle of bags scattered across the floor, back toward the bed. Her breath hitches as the backs of her knees hit the mattress, and I take a half step closer, never breaking the contact of our mouths. She leans into me, hands clinging to my shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only thing tethering her.

She starts to undress herself then—shaky fingers fumbling at the hem of her top, dragging it up and over her head. She’s breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling like she’s fighting through something invisible but heavy. Her skin is flushed, and the tear streaks glisten faintly under the dim light.

My hands catch hers, stilling her. I pull back just enough to speak, my voice rough but careful. “If we’re going to do this,” I whisper, brushing my knuckles over her damp cheek, “at least let me make you feel good.”

Her eyes glisten, rimmed red and glassy, but she nods slowly. Wordless. Trusting. Vulnerable. The softest whimper escapes her lips as I kiss her again, gentler this time, my fingers brushing through her hair as if I can soothe some of that ache.

I take my time peeling the rest of her clothes away, piece by piece. Her leggings slide down her legs, pooling at her ankles. Her panties follow, silky and warm in my hands. She shivers again, standing before me in nothing but raw, exposed emotion.

Her body is soft and perfect, but it's her eyes that hold me captive—the way she looks at me through the dried remnants of her tears. Wide, almost disbelieving. As though she can’t understand why I’m still here. Why I haven’t left.

I strip off my own shirt, letting it fall to the ground, and her gaze follows every inch of exposed skin like she's memorizing me, committing me to memory in case this moment vanishes.

When my jeans hit the floor and I step out of them, her breath catches again. Not in fear, but in awe. Still blinking through the stains of old tears, her mouth parts slightly, wordless but open with want.

I lower her onto the bed, easing her back against the sheets. She watches me, wide-eyed and breathless, her chest rising and falling, her skin flushed with a mixture of nerves and hunger. The dried remnants of her tears still streak her cheeks, and I kiss each one gently, as though erasing every mark of pain.

My lips trail along her cheekbone, down to the soft shell of her ear. She gasps quietly as I brush my tongue along the curve, tasting the delicate skin, before I take her earlobe gently between my teeth. Her body shivers beneath me, her breath coming faster, her fingers flexing against my shoulders.

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