Page 17 of Blood Heir

Fioretta stands stiff in his arms, her expression a mix of confusion and annoyance. She doesn’t move to embrace him. Her hands hang by her sides, the only sign of discomfort the slight narrowing of her eyes.

She pulls away from him slowly, the dissonance between the affection he’s offering and her unfamiliarity with him too large to ignore. Her voice is flat, unsure.

“Who are you?” she asks, her gaze flicking to Brother Stefano and then quickly shifting back to me.

The question hangs in the air, a sharp sting.

Cassian stands beside me, his face impassive. “I told you, she doesn’t remember us,” he says, his voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration.

I feel Brother Stefano’s gaze turn to me, the anger in his eyes immediate and palpable. He’s not hiding it. It’s raw, bitter.

“This is your fault,” he says, his voice low but heavy with accusation. He steps toward me, his hands shaking with emotion, fists clenched at his sides. “What have you done to her?”

The words hit me like a slap.

My fault. The thought courses through my veins, tightening around my chest like a vise.

I stand there, still, but I feel it—the weight of his eyes, the judgment. He’s right. This is my fault.

I feel Fioretta's gaze shift toward me, those bright hazel eyes flickering with something I can’t read. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want her to see the guilt written on my face, because it’s the truth. This is my fault.

So, I look away, my jaw tightening, my throat suddenly dry. I don’t say a word. What could I possibly say?

Chapter 5 - Fioretta

The garden is a haven of quiet and stillness, tinged with the soft scent of freshly bloomed roses and damp earth. The sun is hidden behind the clouds, casting everything in a soft gray light, and I walk along the stone path, my bare feet grazing the cool ground. I don’t know why I’ve wandered out here. Maybe it’s the way the world feels quieter in this space—or maybe it’s because I’m trying to understand all of this. Trying to make sense of a life I don’t even remember.

Brother Stefano’s robes sweep against the stone, his hands clasped in front of him like a man accustomed to taking time. His presence feels almost like a balm to the confusion swirling inside me.

“Fioretta,” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper. “How are you feeling today?”

I stop walking, standing still for a moment, feeling the cool breeze brush through my hair. There’s something about his tone—so patient, so kind—that feels almost like a reminder that I’m not alone. Maybe for the first time since I woke up, I feel like there’s someone I could trust.

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of my robe. I want to tell him how lost I feel, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Instead, I look at him and ask, “Who am I?”

My voice sounds softer than I intended, the question barely escaping my lips as if I’m afraid of the answer.

He steps closer, his eyes filled with a kind of sadness that makes my chest tighten. His hands, warm and gentle, reach outto take mine, and for the first time since I woke up, I don’t pull away. His touch is steady, grounding, like a quiet promise.

“There is so much I can’t tell you,” he says, his voice low. His gaze flickers to the guards positioned around the perimeter of the garden. I can feel them watching us—feel the weight of their eyes like an added pressure.

“Why not?” I ask, my voice a little sharper than I mean it to be. I pull my hands back slightly, not because I don’t trust him, but because the confusion inside me is starting to overwhelm me again.

He sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging for just a moment before he straightens. He doesn’t let go of my hands but keeps them gently in his, his fingers warm against my skin. “You’ve always been too pure for this life,” he says, his words heavy with something like regret. “I’ve always worried for you, Fioretta. You were meant for something else—something better.”

I don’t understand what he means by that. Pure? What does that even mean in a world like this? I feel a sudden sting of irritation, a small spark of anger igniting inside me.

“But why can’t you just tell me?” I ask, my voice rising just a fraction.

The words feel bitter as they leave my mouth. I know that the question is far from innocent, but it feels good to finally ask it.

Brother Stefano doesn’t flinch. His gaze softens even more, though there’s a certain hesitation in his eyes now.

“Ask me,” he says softly. “And if I can, I’ll answer.”

I look down at our hands, entwined together. His skin is so much older than mine, and yet there’s a sense of strength in theway he holds me. It’s the kind of strength I’ve always wanted but never felt I had.

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