Page 89 of Blood Heir

Monte breathes hard, wipes at the blood from his nose, then laughs—a low, hollow sound.

“You know what?” His voice is cruel now, like oil poured over flames. “Maybe you two should spend some time together. Same bloodline and all.”

“Wait. What?” she breathes out, confused. “What does that mean?”

Monte’s grin widens, but he offers no answer. He simply stands and strides toward the door, his boots clapping against the concrete.

“Monte, what the fuck does that mean?!” Emilia cries, panic breaking through her voice now.

She stumbles after him, reaching for his arm—but he’s faster. The door slams with a deafening metallic clang, the lock sliding into place with a heavy click. She’s locked in with me.

“Monte!” Emilia pounds on the door with both fists, her voice shrill, near hysterical. “Open the door! This isn’t funny! Monte! Open the fucking door right now!”

Her fists slam again and again, but the door doesn’t budge.

Emilia kicks the door again, her bare foot slamming against the metal with a dull thud. Over and over, the same useless pounding. Her breathing grows heavier, her movements more desperate.

I watch her from where I sit, my back resting against the cold stone wall. My head throbs, but I stay still, staring ahead blankly. My voice slips out, quiet, almost absentminded.

“You’ve been played, Em.” My fingers trail over the seam in the concrete absently. “Can you stop it with the ruckus?”

Emilia ignores me, her fists hammering at the door now, the metal vibrating faintly with each strike. Sweat glistens alongher hairline, damp strands sticking to her temple. Her breath quickens, ragged and sharp. And then, as though something breaks inside her, she stumbles toward me, dropping to her knees, her face flushed and panicked.

“They have Serevin!” she blurts out suddenly, eyes wide and watery.

I jerk upright. “What?”

She wipes the sweat from her upper lip with the back of her trembling hand, her voice catching as she speaks quickly, the words tumbling out of her like a confession she’s held in for too long.

“Monte told me—Vittoria has him,” she says breathlessly. “And if I didn’t bring you, she was going to go after me next. Monte’s family, Vittoria—they’re working with the Families in Melbourne. They’re fabricating documents to discredit Serevin—” She chokes on her own breath, fingers digging into the fabric of her jeans.

My mind sharpens instantly. The dread in my chest solidifies into a sick certainty.

“They’ll kill me,” I say slowly, the pieces clicking together, “so they can claim everything. Mine. Serevin’s. Both.” I stare at her. “You were going to help them hurt him.”

Emilia’s face crumples. She lets out a sound between a sob and a bitter laugh. “Yes!” she shrieks. “Because I’m a disgusting rat! What else am I supposed to be? I can’t fight Vittoria! She’ll crush me!” She points to her own chest, voice growing shrill, tears streaming freely now. “You and Serevin—you were born powerful. I’m an orphan, Fee! I’ve always been disposable!”

I exhale sharply and roll my eyes. “Oh, cry me a river.”

Her breath hitches, and she stares at me, eyes wild, as if she’s barely keeping herself upright.

Then suddenly, she grabs my forearm, clutching it with clammy hands. “We need to get out of here,” she begs in a thin, trembling voice. “I need to leave Melbourne. Australia—anywhere. Please.”

I glance toward the tiny barred window high above us. Pale light filters through, casting thin stripes across the filthy stone floor. My mind races. She paces frantically, chewing on her fingernail like a child, her panic vibrating through the air.

“Do you care for anyone apart from yourself?” I ask flatly, my tone dry.

Emilia freezes mid-step, staring at me. “No,” she whispers hoarsely. “I don’t.” Her voice breaks. “But I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here!” she repeats, louder, nearly hyperventilating now as she continues pacing, her feet slapping against the concrete.

I follow her movements with my eyes. She’s going to spiral. She always does.

But I already know my role in this. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. I’ve done enough of that.

I glance at the bucket sitting near the corner of the cell—the only thing we’ve been given. My eyes narrow as my brain starts stitching something together. My pulse calms. I turn toward her slowly.

“I have a plan.”

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