Page 143 of Brutal Heir

He took another step forward, calm and composed in that infuriating way that made my skin prickle. “Nothing is happening, Sabrina. You’re overwrought after seeing your father. That is all.”

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound ripping from my throat. “I’m overwrought because I saw my father against my will for the first time in the middle of a crowded fucking ballroom. I’m overwrought because there’s a rumor out there that he killed my mother. I’m overwrought because apparently my family is the fucking mob! I’m overwrought because I was brought to Italy under false pretenses. And I’m overwrought because you have been lying to me from the beginning. Don’t you dare tell me why I’m overwrought, Sebastian!”

“How does you hearing some stupid fucking rumor from over twenty years ago somehow turn into an attack on me and why I brought you to Rome?”

“Because we both know I’m not here because you recognized my talent as a fashion stylist."

His hands flexed at his sides, the calm mask beginning to crack. “I’m tired of arguing over this, Sabrina.”

“Then stop fucking lying to me about it, Sebastian!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the stillness of the courtyard. “I’m not stupid. I might not know why, but I know I’m here because of my family name, not because of my talent.”

His lips pressing into a thin, hard line. “If you don’t calm down, I’ll⁠—”

“You’ll what?” I narrowed my eyes.

He lunged for me, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat.

Grabbing my face with both hands, his grip firm but not cruel, his hot breath rasped against my skin. “This.”

Before I could respond, his mouth crashed onto mine with such force it stole the air from my lungs.

The kiss wasn’t soft or gentle—it was raw, demanding, and so overpowering it drowned out every coherent thought in my mind.

CHAPTER 39

SEBASTIAN

She needed to stop.

Stop with the questions.

Stop with the accusations.

Stop looking so fucking vulnerable and broken.

Guilt and rage pulsed through my veins.

I kissed her out of fear and desperation.

Fear that I would ruin everything by telling her the truth.

Desperation that the moment she learned that truth, she would leave…no, not just leave…leave me.

For men like me, emotions like that quickly turned into anger.

Anger was familiar.

Anger was productive.

Anger got the job done.

I sank my teeth into her lower lip, needing to taste her blood. Wanting to cause her pain. Wanting her to feel the same sharp, high emotion coursing through me.

Her small fists beat against my arms and chest, but I refused to relent.

I captured her mouth again, the metallic tang of her blood mixing with the remnants of champagne still on her lips.

I stepped forward, forcing her body back against the rough trunk of a tree.