Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(111)

Ana’s heart sank. Morganya was looking directly at her; a corner of her aunt’s lips curled in the shadow of a smile.

“I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov—”

“No!” Ana shouted, but the look her brother gave her was stern—like the ones Papa used to give them.

Everything was going to hell.

“Silence her,” Luka commanded the guards. His gaze then snapped directly to her: bursting with life and confidence and the power of an emperor. “Quiet, brat.”

Brat. She stared at her brother, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that she thought it might burst free.

Luka drew himself straight with the small amount of energy he had left. His voice was dull as he recited, “I, Lukas Aleksander Mikhailov, announce the temporary abdication of the throne to the Cyrilian Empire for reasons of personal health.”

Morganya’s face was aglow in triumph.

“In the event of my abdication or death, I hereby crown the heir to the throne of Cyrilia.” Luka suddenly focused on Ana with such intensity that it took her breath away. “I name the Crown Princess Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov as heir and future Empress to the Cyrilian Empire.”





Ramson was going to die.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet as he dove out of the way of another crashing marble pillar, slamming against the opposite wall. His breaths were coming in ragged gasps, and blood trickled down the side of his face.

He shook his head, clearing the double vision. Focus. Ana was still in there. She needed him to hold Kerlan and his cronies here.

He’d held the yaeger at bay so far—when the tall man with those glacial eyes had taken off after Ana, Ramson had jumped in front of him to stop him. He’d been fighting a losing battle even before the marble Affinite joined the party.

Ramson gripped his daggers, pushing himself to his feet and swiping a hand across his nose. It came back bloody.

Three to one. Kerlan’s big bodyguard wasn’t an issue. That brute was made for throwing around his weight and bullying chained victims in confined spaces, not for actual freestyle sparring. And his prerogative, judging from the way he hovered near his master, was to protect Kerlan. It was the other two he had to watch out for.



He glanced at the yaeger, whose swords were out. Ramson was about to spring at him when he caught a sharp movement to his right.

The marble Affinite flung his hand out, and two fist-sized balls of marble shot from the ground. Ramson ducked behind a nearby pillar, feeling it shudder as the two projectiles smashed into it.

A sudden coldness touched his arm. A piece of marble debris snapped around his wrist. Within the blink of an eye, it twisted and closed over itself like a handcuff, and the ground jerked from beneath him. Ramson was flung bodily across the hall—or rather, the marble around his wrist hurtled so fast that his arm felt like it was going to be ripped from its socket—and the world blurred around him.

Ramson crashed against the wall. Pain flared through his body, but Kerlan was keeping him alive, torturing him. Panting, Ramson tried to heave himself up. It was just like Kerlan, to know that he had Ramson outnumbered and overpowered, and to savor his victory by quashing Ramson’s hope bit by bit.

The marble on his wrist was moving again. It dragged him along the ground, toward where Kerlan and his bodyguard stood. Ramson reached out for anything to grab onto, but his traitorous, marble-manacled wrist persisted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the body of the female Affinite he’d struck earlier, crumpled in the hall. The yaeger stood on the other side of the corridor. His eyes narrowed briefly before he turned and took off down the hallway.

No, not toward Ana, Ramson thought. He strained against the manacle, but it was no use.

“Well, my son.” Kerlan’s eyes twinkled pleasantly as he looked down at Ramson from beneath the shadow of his huge bodyguard. “Had enough yet?”



Ramson coughed up blood. He was curled on the floor, every fiber of his body throbbing in pain, his manacled wrist dangling from the marble Affinite’s control. He forced a smile to his cracked lips. “That the best you’ve got?” he croaked. “You’ve become soft, Kerlan.”

Kerlan’s smile did not waver, but his eyes promised death. He motioned at the marble Affinite. A second piece of debris sculpted itself around Ramson’s unshackled wrist, dragging his other arm into the air, lifting him so that he knelt before Kerlan. His dagger clattered to the ground, the sound reverberating across the empty hall.

Tap…tap…tap.

It took Ramson a moment to realize where the noise was coming from. Kerlan watched him with an amused smile, his gold fountain pen rapping against his ring.

Tap…tap…tap.

The sound sent a shiver through Ramson.

“I don’t know how you define ‘soft,’?” Kerlan said, raising his pen so that it caught the light of the chandelier overhead. He pressed the end with his finger. With a click, a ring of tiny, sharp blades shot out from the tip, glinting like teeth. “Perhaps you’ll let me know how this feels.”

He slammed the pen into Ramson’s chest, right where he’d seared the Order of the Lily insignia.

Ramson screamed. Kerlan laughed and twisted the pen, the razor-sharp blades burrowing into Ramson’s flesh. And then he tore it out.

Ramson fought to stay conscious. It felt as though his flesh were on fire, and the pain sent fuzzy edges of darkness shooting through his vision.