Page 23 of The Cruel Heir
I think that was the moment I knew.
If the world wouldn’t bend her, I would.
I triedto shake off the onslaught of memories, but it was always like this when I thought of her. I couldn’t help myself. When I was in the Alps, surrounded by glass and silence, it wasn’t the snow that haunted me.
It was her.
The sound of her laugh. The stretch of her neck when she defied me. The fire in her eyes, when she pretended not to see me.
I kept a photo I wasn’t supposed to have. Stolen from Clear View Prep’s security. She was mid-laugh, hair wild, hips round. Not traditional beauty.
Real beauty.
Mine.
My little hummingbird.
That’s what I called her in my head.
A sin with legs. A punishment I never wanted absolution from.
I stopped fucking other women. Their taste was wrong. Their bodies didn’t fight like hers did.
I got violent in training. Broke a jaw. Punched a wall. Blamed grief.
It wasn’t grief.
It was rage. Hunger.
And underneath it all: obsession.
I was coming back.
To torment her. To fuck her. To ruin what was left.
Or maybe all three.
She would be mine. Again. Always.
“N-no. I’m not yours. Stay away from me, you maniac,” she spat, voice weak.
I must’ve said that part out loud. I inhaled deeply. The sound thrilled me. Her fear. Her fire. The contradiction. Her scent hit me hard, fear laced with something sweeter.
She was wet.
Her body remembered what her mouth denied.
I chuckled, letting the scent flood my brain. “Then why can I smell your excitement, baby?”
Her cheeks flushed.
I gripped her wrists, locking them over her head, and tore her clothes with one hand.
Smooth, dark skin revealed itself, inch by inch.
She gasped, spine arching. I bit her neck, hard.
She screamed. I bit again.
