Page 82 of Blood Heir

There they were. Emilia and Serevin.

His hand rested gently on her back, his voice low, his face far too tender. She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming like victory. That single touch unraveled what little I had left inside.

I snapped.

Blind rage boiled in my veins. My vision narrowed, black and pulsing. I spun back to my room, grabbed the gun from my nightstand drawer, my fingers cold against the steel.

The world blurred as I raced back down the hallway like a madwoman. My bare feet slipped—I hit the ground hard,bruising my hip, but I didn’t stop. I scrambled to my feet, the gun heavy in my hand, my breath wild.

I reached them.

Emilia’s eyes went wide first, a soft gasp dying on her lips. Serevin froze.

I grabbed Emilia by the hair and shoved the gun against her skull, my fingers trembling as I pressed the barrel to her temple. “You fucking snake,” I hissed, my voice guttural, something primal clawing its way out of my throat.

Serevin stepped forward, stunned. “Fioretta, stop.”

Guards burst into the corridor, guns raised—but they wouldn’t shoot. They couldn’t. Not at me.

One guard tried to lunge. I pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the hall.

The guard dropped.

His blood splattered across my dress, warm against my skin, like war paint.

The others froze.

My breath heaved in my chest as my arm tightened around Emilia’s throat.

I tasted the metallic air on my tongue. I felt the pounding in my ears.

This was the moment everything shattered.

The memory snaps back into the darkness like a pulled thread, leaving my chest tight and hollow. I blink, refocusing on the bathroom. The water around me has cooled, my skin pruned and raw from soaking too long.

Emilia’s still sitting there on the closed toilet seat, her knees pulled into her chest, watching me quietly, like she knows I just relived it.

The words slip out of me before I can stop them. My voice is low, almost a whisper.

“I’m sorry for the rooftop. I…overreacted.”

Emilia exhales, her lips twitching like she wants to smile but can’t. She shakes her head and looks down at the tiled floor. “You didn’t,” she says softly. “You didn’t overreact.”

The silence between us grows heavy again, but this time, it’s not angry or sharp. It’s sad. Like two people standing on opposite sides of the same broken mirror.

^^^^

The next morning comes with a strange stillness. Emilia drives us in silence through the sleepy streets of Melbourne, both of us tucked under wide black caps, shielding our faces like two poorly disguised fugitives. I sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly on my lap. My stomach twists with anticipation.

As we approach the church, I pull my cap lower.

Emilia parks near the side gate and mutters, “You know I can just drive off and snitch.”

I turn to her, giving her the faintest smile. “Try me.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, but she says nothing. She knows better.

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