Page 47 of False Heir

He was lovely.

“Stop,” I managed, prying myself away from his embrace. Frustration gnawing at my insides, I glared up at him. “You can’t fix everything by fucking me, Tristan.”

“Seems to work fine until now,” he shot back, a half-smirk playing on his lips.

“Damn you,” I snapped, the anger seeping through my cracks, but underneath it all, sadness brewed—a tempest of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

“Damn you,” I snapped, the anger seeping through my cracks, but underneath it all, sadness brewed—a tempest of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

“Adriana—“

“Stop,” I commanded again, this time with more force. I shook off the tears threatening to betray my feelings. “Don’t you dare grab me like that again. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”

“I mean, I know you’re pregnant, but–”

I had no idea what he said next. I turned on my heel and stormed out into the crisp Boston morning.

“Where will you go?” His voice followed me onto the sidewalk, tinged with a desperation I’d never heard before.

“Anywhere but here,” I spat, my steps erratic as I tried to put distance between us.

“Back to your father?”

I tilted my head back to try and stop the tears. “Fuck you,” I said. “Was this your plan? To trap me?” I accused, my heart pounding against my chest.

“Adriana, you know that’s not true. I tried to reach you before any of this got out of hand!” His protest sounded sincere, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let myself be swayed.

“Right,” I scoffed. “And those proposals were what? A joke?”

“Never a joke,” he said firmly. “Life just kept getting messy.”

“Then congratulations on the mess,” I retorted, crossing my arms to guard against the chill and the ache in my chest.

“Don’t go, please,” he said. “I need you here.”

The chill Boston air biting at my cheeks as I confronted Tristan. He stood there, a monolith against the backdrop of our temporary refuge, his posture relaxed despite the gravity of what I was about to say.

“Tristan,” I started, my voice steady though my heart thrummed in my chest, “I’m leaving the safehouse. It’s clear that nothing I do can touch you—you’re untouchable. And me being here? It changes nothing.”

He cocked his head to the side, lips quirking into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Untouchable, huh? Must’ve missed the memo on that when I took two bullets meant for you.”

I stepped back from Tristan, the frost-kissed bricks of the townhouse pressing against my spine as if they too sensed my resolve. My breath formed clouds in the late morning air, a stark reminder of Boston’s unforgiving winter.

“Your jokes don’t land when we’re talking about life and death,” I said, folding my arms to ward off more than just the cold. “I don’t need your pity, Tristan, nor your protection. I can take care of myself.”

He folded his hands in his pockets, leaning back against the railing of the townhouse steps, an image of casual defiance. “Pity is the last thing I feel when I look at you, Adriana. If anything, I’m in awe. And this,” he gestured between us with a nod, “isn’t about keeping you safe out of obligation. It’s because I want you—us—to have a future together. I want to marry you, do right by you.”

“Right by me?” I echoed, skepticism lacing my words. His offer was genuine—I saw that much in his eyes—but it was also tangled up in a legacy that demanded blood for loyalty. Whether it was his or mine didn’t matter; either way, it came at a cost.

And I wasn’t sure, but I thought the cost might be him.

I wasn’t willing to pay it.

“You deserve more than this,” he said softly.

“Deciding what I deserve isn’t your call,” I challenged, my voice low but steady. “It’s mine. And right now, I’m deciding what’s best for us both.”

Tristan’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The charm that usually played so effortlessly across his features was absent, replaced with a raw edge that made my stomach tighten.

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