Page 106 of Blood Heir

And they did. The old guards—the heads of Perth, Brisbane, Sydney—they swore fealty to me that day, not because they respected me yet, but because I had broken something none of them could: the Acardi’s legacy.

Since then, we’ve built something new. Something terrifying to them. A power structure that runs on both fear and loyalty. A syndicate not ruled by a puppet don behind closed doors, but by both of us—openly, ruthlessly.

Monte’s family tried to resist at first. But without Gustavo, without Vittoria’s alliances, their routes dried up like cheap wine under the Australian sun. Eventually, they too folded. The Montenegro family now sits as our silent partners, under my thumb, their previous threats long dissolved into desperate compliance.

Serevin still carries the scars from that night—both on his body and in his mind. I see it in his eyes sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking. But he never flinches when we make decisions now. He lets me rule, and I let him protect.

We’ve stopped pretending this marriage was anything but what it always was: an empire built on obsession and survival that somehow bled into something neither of us can control.

“Cassian’s probably pacing already,” he says with a faint smile. “He’s terrified Emilia might leave him at the altar.”

I laugh softly, tilting my head back against him. “If anyone’s likely to run, it’s him. She probably still thinks this is a trap.”

I catch his reflection in the mirror. His eyes aren’t just hungry—they’re soft, too. That softness still disarms me. Two years, and I still haven’t gotten used to how quickly this man can switch between predator and worshiper.

His fingers trail up my spine, finding the zipper of my dress. Slowly, so slowly, he zips me up, knuckles grazing bare skin as he does.

“You know,” I whisper, turning my head slightly toward him, “most men would be downstairs right now, preparing for the ceremony.”

His lips curl into a half-smile. “Most men don’t have my priorities.”

The zipper reaches the top, but his hand lingers at the nape of my neck, fingers splaying, claiming.

His thumb brushes my pulse. I feel it pounding beneath his touch. “If I kiss you now,” he murmurs, “you’ll make us late.”

I smirk, feeling my strength surge. “Then don’t kiss me.”

He laughs softly into my neck. “Impossible.”

Without breaking eye contact through the mirror, his hand glides down, gathering the silk fabric and pulling my dress up, inch by inch, baring my thighs, my hips, until the hem rests justabove my ass. His palm caresses the soft curve, fingers spreading possessively, as if savoring the shape that’s his alone.

My breath hitches as his other hand moves with patience, sliding around my waist, finding the waistband of my lace panties. He tugs them down with an agonizing slowness, letting the fabric slide down my legs and pool at my feet.

I hold the vanity. sharp against my fingertips as anticipation coils low in my belly.

His fingers trail over the freshly exposed skin, tracing the cleft of my ass before dipping between my thighs. I gasp when his fingers find me, already slick, already desperate for his touch.

“So wet for me,” he growls, the softness in his gaze giving way to something far more primal.

Two fingers slide into me from behind, his movements practiced, purposeful. His thumb circles my clit with maddening precision, and my knees threaten to buckle. But he steadies me with his free hand, palm firm against my hip, anchoring me to him.

I watch us in the mirror. His fingers slip between my slick folds once more, but this time, there’s more intent behind his touch. The first finger glides in easily, my body eager and yielding for him. Then a second joins, stretching me just a little more, making me gasp softly against the cool glass. My reflection stares back at me—flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, lips parted in a silent moan.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence and hunger. “So ready for me.”

Then I feel the pressure—gentle but insistent—as his third finger presses in, pushing me open even wider. My breathcatches sharply, my hips instinctively rocking back to meet him, welcoming the delicious fullness of his hand stretching me.

His fingers work in steady strokes, curling slightly as he moves, each motion finding that sensitive spot deep inside me that sends a surge of pleasure rippling through my core. My legs tremble, and I grip the edges of the vanity harder, my forehead pressing into the mirror as soft whimpers escape me.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he withdraws his fingers, leaving me empty for a moment that feels like a cruel tease. But then I hear the soft rustle of his pants, feel his bare length press against the backs of my thighs. His hand finds my waist, steadying me, claiming me.

The swollen head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot, hard, and throbbing. He presses in gently at first, letting my body adjust as he parts me inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite—a sweet, aching fullness that makes me moan helplessly into the glass.

I breathe, my voice trembling, my body arching instinctively to take more of him.

He groans low, his voice tight with restraint as he sinks deeper.

I can feel him dragging along my inner walls, every nerve ending lit up as he slides further inside, brushing places that make me shudder and whimper, my body clenching around him.

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