Page 87 of Blood Heir

“Shh. Don’t interrupt my moment.”

The door creaks again.

Vittoria steps in, calm as ever, dressed in her pristine dark suit, her hands gloved, her eyes sharp with satisfaction. She walks like a queen entering her court.

“That’s enough, Gustavo.”

He lowers the whip reluctantly but smiles as he looks at her. “I was just getting started, zia.”

She ignores him, her gaze landing on me.

“I expected better of you, Serevin,” she says softly. “But I suppose, like your mother, you were always ruled by foolish emotion. And emotion makes men weak.”

I breathe through the pain, my chest heaving. My voice cracks as I force the words out. “You’ll regret this.”

Vittoria steps closer, her expression turning almost motherly as she cups my chin. “No, dear boy. You will. You and your wife will die together tomorrow,” she says softly, as though she’s delivering a bedtime story. Her lips curl into somethingsickeningly sweet. “Isn’t it cinematic? The two of you, both rejected by your birth parents, both nothing but pawns in a game you never understood.”

I lift my head as far as my aching neck allows, the metal chains groaning against my movement. My throat feels like sandpaper, but the words crawl out anyway.

“Take me,” I rasp. “Do anything you want. Just…not her.”

The amusement on her face sharpens into a cruel grin. She steps closer, and I can smell her perfume—jasmine and something sharp beneath it, something poisonous. Her gloved hand reaches up and lightly pats my cheek like I’m a child who spoke out of turn.

“Oh, Serevin.” She sighs, voice dripping with mockery. “You think you still have a choice in any of this?”

I feel the sting of helpless rage tighten my chest. My fists clench uselessly against the metal cuffs cutting into my wrists.

“You’re only alive because I need your blood to seal some very important arrangements,” she continues, voice light as silk. “The rest is just…theatrics.”

She flicks her wrist toward Gustavo, who steps forward eagerly like a dog waiting for a command. In his hand, gleaming under the dim light, is a thin ceremonial knife—one of the old family relics.

“Don’t worry, cousin,” Gustavo purrs as he approaches. “It won’t hurt. Well—not much.”

He grips my hand roughly, forcing my thumb outward. The metal cuffs clink as I struggle, but there’s no leverage. He presses the cold blade against the pad of my thumb and slices a cleanline. The sting is sharp, bright for a moment, and then dulls into a pulse as the blood wells up.

Gustavo catches the blood quickly, pressing my thumb against the thick parchment document his mother holds open. The red smear stains the paper, soaking into it like poison ink. My blood. My signature. My unwilling consent.

Gustavo lifts the document, folds it carefully, and hands it back to Vittoria. She smooths the paper between her gloved fingers, admiring it like a prize.

“There it is,” she whispers, gazing at it as if it were a crown jewel. “Clean and final.”

She leans in, her voice turning syrupy in my ear.

“I’ll be back soon to put you out of your misery.”

I clench my jaw, swallowing the scream building in my chest.

She turns with a satisfied little nod and glides toward the door. Gustavo follows, his smirk lingering as the heavy door creaks and slams shut behind them. The sound of the bolt locking echoes like a final nail driven into my coffin.

The silence that follows is thick, broken only by the dripping of water from somewhere in the far corner.

I hang my head, breathing raggedly. My body aches everywhere, my skin burning from the lashings, my muscles screaming from the strain.

But I can’t stop it.

The laughter slips out of me—low at first, then heavier, until my chest trembles with bitter amusement.

Cassian, still dangling upside down, groans.

---