Page 5 of Brutal Heir

But the second she touches me, it’s not her I see, it’s flames.

And the nightmare takes over, pulling me under. The sound of her breathing morphs into screaming. My screaming. Her fingers on my thigh might as well be fire. It’s not skin-on-skin, it’s pain-on-pain.

The tarmac shimmers under the late afternoon sun, heat waves rising off the asphalt like ghosts. Serena stands across the way by the airplane hangar with a tall, dark-haired man. The asshole who kidnapped her.

Who she’s kissing?

What the fuck? I tug at the collar of my perfectly starched dress shirt as I descend the jet stairs, already irritated by the humidity clinging to my skin and now seeing that? What the fuck has Serena gotten herself into?

Unbuttoning the top two buttons, I linger on the last step, waiting for the unlikely pair to stop making out. Beads of sweat pool on my brow as my irritation flares. Milano in the summer always smells like jet fuel and overpriced perfume.

A black SUV waits just ahead, the Gemini crest stamped on the plate like a silent threat. My small security detail fans out, two men only steps ahead and one behind. It’s routine. Familiar. Safe.

Until it’s not.

The click of my shoes on metal.

The pilot and flight attendant laughing behind me.

My foot touches the ground?—

Boom.

The world rips open.

A shockwave punches me in the chest and throws me backward like I’m made of glass. I slam into the tarmac, pain detonating in my shoulder. I attempt to draw in a breath, but there’s no air. Heat licks across my skin, suffocating, searing.

Flames roar to life somewhere to my left. Black smoke rises like a curtain. My ears ring so loud I can’t hear anything else.

My skin, fuck, my skin is on fire. Not metaphorically. Literally.

I try to scream but the air is too thick. Everything smells like burning flesh. My flesh.

I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

There’s shouting. Footsteps. Shadows.

And then…nothing.

Just black.

I blink quickly, ridding myself of the nightmarish scene, my chest heaves, and a trickle of sweat races down my spine. A head bobs between my legs, but I don’t feel anything but suffocating fear and debilitating pain.

A pair of light blue eyes lift to mine, lipstick smeared across full lips. With her head out of the way, I catch a glimpse of my completely flaccid dick. Fuck.

Her hand wraps around my cock, trying to coax it up, but it’s no use. The grisly memories consume my vision, stealing every ounce of heat and lust.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t even get it up, and that might be the cruelest cut of all.They say scars fade. But no one tells you how to survive when the fire keeps burning inside you.

“Are you okay?” Her voice, her eyes as they meet mine, are laced with pity, and it’s the final nail in my coffin.

No, I’m not okay, and I’m not certain I ever will be again.

Her pity slices deeper than the scalpel they used to clean the wounds.She doesn’t flinch, and that makes it worse. I don’t want understanding. I want control. I want to forget.

“Get out!” I growl.

Her light brows furrow as she regards me, fingers still wrapped around my limp dick. “What?”