The Outcast Heiress's Last Stand Novels & Stories

My voice trails, heat creeping up my neck. "It's fine," he grumbles behind me. "You might want to put on some clothes." "I'm not naked, heiress. I have my pants on." I hear amusement in his voice. He may as well be naked with how scandalous his bare chest looks. I clear my throat and turn around slowly. It takes all my strength to not let my eyes travel down his impressive physique. "I thought you might need an ointment for your bruises." I hold up the ointment. There is no way I'm going to close the gap between us while he is like this.

“But right now, the gallery is fully booked. If you had brought this to me a week ago, I would have agreed without hesitation.” A lump formed in my throat. A week ago? If only I had known. If only I had acted faster, moved quicker, been one step ahead instead of drowning in my own hesitation. Delaware exhaled, leaning back slightly as if trying to soften the blow. “At the moment, Hillman has booked a three-week convention to showcase the missing pieces of Hilther—treasures from the ancient times. We’re swamped, Darla.” Hillman. Of course.

She needed to prepare. Land Under Heaven was a sweeping story of power, betrayal, and seduction. The female lead was righteous, guiding the male protagonist to ascend to power. The supporting female lead, however, used every vile method imaginable to undermine her, making enemies and committing acts that would be condemned by society. In the end, she was forced to leap from a cliff, a dramatic end that cemented the female lead’s triumph. Isabella felt a thrill run through her. This was a challenging, fiery role — one that could showcase everything she had been training for.

The fifty outcasts spilled out from the trailing transports, their weapons drawn, forming a tight, flawless defensive vanguard around their King and Queen. "Well, well," Cecelia’s sharp voice rang out across the square, her tone dripping with venomous mockery as she stepped to the edge of the platform. "The stray dog returns, and she brought the pack's old garbage with her. Look at you, Elena. Dressing in leather like a common rogue. You look exactly like the traitor Damon said you were." Elena walked forward, her steps measured, silent, and entirely unbothered. She stopped precisely thirty paces from the stage, her fifty outcasts locking their shields behind her.

When he brought her like a piece of rag from that lying bitch, she admits that she lost hope but she sees a future now and she can grab it. She is not a whore and will never be one. She is the heiress of GLV Winery and she will not let her story turn out this way. She will not be a piece of wood in the closet of this bastard. She will bid her time and escape. She will find that witch and teach her a life lesson she will never forget. She made Uncle Nicholas squandered all her fortune as if that was not enough, she sold her. Talking about having your cake and eating it too but she will make this earth bitter for her.

The rest had barricaded themselves in one of the lower towers and waited for rescue that never came. There were three of them left alive. Two women and a man, all bearing the marks of the attack—burn scars, wounds that had been hastily treated and were starting to show signs of infection. Their eyes were hollow in a way that suggested they'd witnessed things that human minds weren't supposed to see. The older woman's name was Captain Solace. She had close-cropped gray hair and a bearing that suggested she'd spent her entire life trying to hold things together. Even now, even in this catastrophe, she was trying.

Emanuela died on the coldest day of that winter. The poison took three full days to run its course. They said her final state was horrifying. Her skin was ulcerated, and her eyes were bloodshot. She was like a rotting corpse. No one claimed the body. Her ashes were scattered into the Blackthorn River. It was where my grave should have been. Alessandro inherited the title of Don. But he abandoned the main estate and moved into the side wing that had once been mine. My room remained untouched. The Colt pistol lay on the nightstand. He polished it daily.

The burning liquor spilled over my bottom lip, running down my chin and soaking into the collar of my unbuttoned shirt. I leaned closer to the monitor, my chest heaving as I looked at the leaked paparazzi photo from the High Council news. The screen illuminated the dark office with a harsh glare. In the center of the photograph, Silas Winslow stood next to a beautiful woman wearing a heavy black coat. The headline above the image read that the Polar Claws pack had finally revealed the hidden heir of the North, Victoria Winslow.

Then I burst out laughing to the surprise of my men, slapping a palm over my forehead at the ridiculousness of it all. Moonlight glinted off my gun. “We’re going after them.” “Which party?” “The ones that dared to attack my home.” The ones my heiress escaped with. We had unfinished business, she and I. And I very much intended to finish it. There was only one way left for this to go, I’d force her to sign over the hotel, preferably while impaled on my cock, and send her off on her merry way back to Boston. Just one week in New York, and she was already rolling with scum like Primo and Orlov.

Except Lorenzo wasn’t watching the tourists. He was watching one girl. On the third screen, a young woman with long black hair stepped out of a café, carrying a small brown bag. She wore a simple dress and large sunglasses. She moved with elegance, with calm confidence — unaware she was being watched. Isadora Sinclair. The stolen heiress. The girl who lived a life that was never hers, yet should have belonged to him.