Page 27 of The Cruel Heir
Whitmore didn’t argue.
"You want assurance that I won’t pass this empire off to someone who doesn’t drink martinis at the same clubs. Someone whose blackness doesn’t come pre-approved."
"Sterling-"
I raised a hand, cutting them off. "I’m already engaged," I lied smoothly. "Out of respect for my father, I delayed the announcement."
Murmurs of approval rose. Relief softened the edges of their tailored posturing.
Harrington raised a brow. "And the lucky woman?"
I smiled. "You’ll meet her soon enough."
A beat. Then they moved on, to projections, dividends, and luxury vineyard debates, like they hadn’t just tried to script my future.
But that’s what men like them did.
They bought control. Assumed their money could decide what love should look like.
Let them sip their aged whiskey, and smile into their old power. Let them believe I would toe the line.
They could keep their club memberships, their board seats, their mistresses with bleached hair and tight smiles. They could keep pretending their empires weren’t built on the backs of black, and brown, labor. Let them play golf with senators, and toast to legacies they inherited, not earned.
Because the woman who’d bear my name wouldn’t fit their world.
She’d burn it, and I’d hand her the matches.
Stepping out of the building, I adjusted my cufflinks, my mind already elsewhere. My hummingbird. My beautiful, curvy little hummingbird, whose thick thighs and plush curves made me want to wreck her every time I saw her. She had a body that begged to be claimed, dark and full, with skin like the richest onyx, smooth and deep. Her tight curls framed her face in wild defiance, a halo of untamed beauty, that suited her just fine. And those full lips, thick, soft, made to be bitten, had been driving me to the brink of madness, since the day she walked into my world.
It had been too long since I’d seen her. Even if I’d just had her seconds ago, it wouldn’t be enough. I wanted her in my space. Enough to lull her into a false sense of security, to let her believe I’d changed. That illusion ended tonight.
As I slipped into the back seat of my waiting car, the driver already knowing the destination, I leaned back, tapping my fingers against my thigh. Anticipation coiled in my gut, a dark hunger curling around my ribs. My hummingbird had tried fighting me, doing everything in her power to pretend I didn’t exist. It was almost cute. Almost.
The car pulled up to the Kingsley estate, the grand old house looming against the twilight sky. I hadn’t seen her since that morning. But I knew she was here, because Frankie had texted me an hour ago.
She’s at the estate. Already settled in.
I didn’t ask where. I didn’t need to. She always gravitated to a library when she felt cornered but defiant, public enough to feel like a statement, secluded enough to hide how shaken she was. And in this house, the Kingsley library was the only room that offered that illusion of safety.
The moment I stepped out of the car, the staff made themselves scarce, as they always did. They knew better than tolinger when I was around, especially when I came back silent, sharp-eyed, and starved for control. The mood that made lesser men flinch, and sent the staff scattering like shadows.
I moved through the estate like it was mine, which it was, and let the hush of the halls guide me. Every expensive antique, every towering oil painting, every vintage decanter in the corner cabinet, was a reminder of the Kingsley dynasty. And none of it mattered, compared to the woman curled up in the next room.
She was exactly where I knew she’d be, curled into the armchair in the library, her thick thighs pressed together, tight curls spilling over the armrest of a worn leather chair. A book lay open in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it.
Her posture was perfect in that calculated way, like she’d practiced poise as a shield. She didn’t look up, but I knew she felt me. She always did. The air changed when I entered. A shift in pressure. A crackle of something unseen, but undeniable.
I took my time crossing the room. My loafers sank into the Persian rug with every deliberate step. When I reached her chair, I leaned down slowly, placing my hands on either side of the armrest. Caging her in without touching her.
Only then did she look up, her deep brown eyes flashing with irritation and something else. Something softer. Something she hated feeling.
“What do you want, Sterling?” she asked. Her voice was steady but tight.
I smirked. That sharp tongue of hers never failed to amuse me.
“You, hummingbird,” I said simply, voice pitched low enough to skate across her skin.
I let my gaze drift down, drinking her in. Her sweater was slipping off one shoulder, exposing skin that begged to be marked. Her dark skin was flawless, warm and soft, and glowing, even under the muted lighting of the library. She was alwaysso unaware of herself, of the way she tempted me without even trying.
