Page 34 of Blood Heir

Even now, spent and breathless, I don’t pull the fabric away from my face.

I just stay there, breathing her in. Needing more.

Always needing more.

Chapter 9 - Fioretta

The moment I step out of his office, I drop the act. The door clicks shut behind me, and my breath stutters. My legs wobble beneath me like useless sticks. My pulse hasn’t slowed since—God. My face burns, and I half-run down the hall, gripping the wall once to steady myself.

I shove open my bedroom door, slip inside, and slam it shut behind me. My back hits the wood. My knees give out, and I sink onto the bed, chest rising and falling too fast. My thighs still tremble.

I bury my face into the pillow, kicking my legs like some lovesick idiot.

The memory floods back in vivid, shamefully sharp detail. The heat of his mouth. The way his hands held my hips in place while I squirmed. The soft hum in his throat every time I gasped his name.

I groan, kicking harder at the mattress, as my body reacts all over again. Stupid. Absolutely stupid.

“Wait.” I flip onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the rolling wave of heat flooding through me. “He isn’t a stranger. He’s my husband.”

The word husband sounds foreign, heavy on my tongue. Like I’m speaking about someone else’s life.

I roll over again, groaning louder, clutching the sheets as my mind races. Why can’t I remember him? Why does everything about him make my skin burn and my stomach twist like this?

Brother Stefano’s voice creeps into my head: He didn’t love you when you were married.

I clutch my chest, pressing the heel of my palm against my ribcage. My heart beats painfully fast, like it wants to jump right out.

Then my gaze shifts toward the bedside table. I crawl forward, dragging myself to the edge. My fingers slide open the drawer, reaching inside to pull out the tiny key I found earlier. Cold metal presses against my fingertips.

I stare at it. The small thing feels heavier than it should. My breathing slows.

Enough waiting. Enough smiling. Enough playing this game.

If Serevin won’t tell me who I was, I’ll dig it out myself.

I rise from the bed, muttering under my breath as I yank open the wardrobe doors. “I need an outfit to sneak out in.”

The hunt begins.

The next morning hits before the sun even finishes waking up. Six a.m. sharp. The house is still half asleep, but I’m very much awake.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting my black t-shirt and tugging my jeans into place. Simple. Practical. My scarf wraps around my head in soft satin folds, the ends tied low at my nape. Sunglasses slide over my eyes, covering just enough of my face.

This isn’t glamorous. This is tactical.

I tiptoe to the window, parting the curtain an inch with my finger. Outside, the staff are already shuffling through the rear gates, dressed down in their normal clothes before they change into their stiff uniforms inside the house. A fresh wave rotatesin every morning at this hour—cooks, gardeners, cleaners. The changing of the guard.

Perfect.

I pull the door open a crack and peek out. The hallway is empty except for two guards standing down by the far end of the wing, their heads bowed in quiet conversation. Likely bored. Probably half awake.

I inhale. My pulse thumps once, hard.

“Heaven help me,” I whisper under my breath.

I clear my throat and then let out the tiniest squeak.

High-pitched. Quick. Like something small and fuzzy had just darted under the floorboards.

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