Chapter 1 The Wedding Night Inheritance #2
Without thinking, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body and smelled like cedar and something darker: musk and man.
She pulled it tighter. "Thanks."
"Vesper," his voice dropped. "About five years ago."
"What about it?"
"It was not just a kiss. Not for me."
The admission cracked something open in her chest. She'd spent five years telling herself it was nothing. A drunken mistake. A moment of poor judgment. But hearing him say it made the lie collapse.
"It was not just a kiss for me either," she whispered.
They stood there. The ocean crashed below. The wind howled. The space between them felt like a taut wire, ready to snap.
He reached out and touched her face, tracing her jawline with one finger. His calloused skin met her cheek. Her breath caught.
"We cannot," she said.
"I know."
His finger traced down to her chin, tilting her face up. His mouth was inches from hers. She felt his warm, unsteady breath.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
His lips brushed hers, soft, a bare touch, a question.
She answered, pressing into him.
His hand slid to the back of her neck. His mouth claimed hers, and the kiss deepened, hot and urgent. His tongue swept past her lips. She tasted whiskey and wine. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. His other arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her against him.
She felt his hardness through his trousers, pressing against her stomach, thick and rigid. Her body responded. Heat pooled between her thighs, a wetness building that made her ache.
He groaned against her mouth, a low, broken sound. His hand tightened on her neck.
Then he pulled back.
His breathing was ragged. His eyes, black with hunger, stared at her like she was something he wanted to ruin.
"This can't happen," he said. "We're family now."
The word landed like a slap. She waddled back. His jacket slipped off her shoulders and caught on her elbows.
"Right," she said. "Family."
She turned and walked inside, not looking back.
Morning came, gray and cold.
Vesper woke to the sound of gulls and the smell of salt air. She lay in the four-poster bed, staring at the ceiling. Her lips still tingled. Her body still hummed.
She pressed her thighs together, feeling the lingering heat and ache. She closed her eyes and saw his face; felt his mouth, his hands, and the thick press of his cock against her body.
She took a breath, then another.
She got up, showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and went downstairs.
The house was quiet. She found the kitchen, a massive room with copper pots hanging from the ceiling and a farm table that seated twelve. Coffee was already made. A note sat on the counter in sharp, angular handwriting.
Your mother and my father left at 6 AM. The car is in the garage. Supplies are stocked. I'll be in the east wing. Avoid crossing paths with me, and I'll do the same for you.
— C
No signature. No warmth. Just instructions.
She crumpled the note and poured her coffee.
The house felt different without the wedding guests. Bigger. Emptier. The stone walls that had seemed charming last night now felt like a fortress. She wandered through the ground floor, past the great hall, the library, and a sitting room with a piano. Everything was old, expensive, and cold.
She found the estate office behind the library. The door was unlocked. Inside, a massive desk sat covered in folders and legal documents. A portrait hung above the fireplace: an older woman with silver hair and Cillian's green eyes. His grandmother.
Vesper sat at the desk and started reading.
The will was dense, legal language that made her head spin. But she found the clause Richard had mentioned.
The estate, including all property, money, and research assets, passes to the deceased's biological grandchildren. The transfer requires the biological heir and a family-appointed co-executor to live on the property for twelve months. The co-executor must stay for the full duration.
This seemed standard until Vesper found a subsection no one mentioned at the reception.
If the biological heir has a child during the residency, the estate transfers immediately and in full, bypassing the twelve-month requirement. The child must be genetically confirmed as the biological heir's offspring.
Vesper read it three times.
A child. If Cillian fathered a child this year, he would inherit the estate immediately. No waiting. No conditions.
She leaned back in the chair, her mind racing.
The Thorne family was worth billions. The estate alone had to be worth tens of millions.
Cillian also carried a genetic mutation his family's biotech company valued.
She'd overheard Richard mention it at the reception.
His DNA was important to the family's research.
If Cillian had a child, the child would inherit. The bloodline would continue. The research would have its subject.
She stood, her hands shaking.
This was not just about paperwork. This was about Cillian's DNA, his genes, his offspring. The family wanted him to reproduce, and they wrote it into the will.
She needed to talk to him. She needed answers.
She found the east wing and walked down a long hallway. His door was at the end. She knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again. "Cillian."
A pause. Then his muffled voice. "I told you to stay out of my way."
"I found the will. I read the clause about the child."
Silence. A long, heavy silence.
Then the door opened.
He stood in the doorway, barefoot, in a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy from sleep. His eyes were dark.
"You weren't supposed to find that yet," he said.
"Yet? You knew I'd find it?"
"I knew you'd go through the paperwork. You are thorough. Your mother mentioned that." He leaned against the doorframe. "But I was going to tell you myself. Eventually."
"Tell me what, exactly? That your family wrote a breeding clause into your grandmother's will?"
His jaw tightened. "Do not call it that."
"What else would you call it? Produce a child and get the estate. That is a breeding clause, Cillian."
He waddled aside. "Come in."
She entered. His room was larger than hers, minimally. A bed, a desk, and a duffel bag are open on the floor. Military habits. No decoration. No personal touches.
He closed the door. "The clause was my grandmother's idea. She wanted to ensure the bloodline continued. The Thorne family has a genetic marker, a mutation valuable to the biotech division. My grandmother wanted to ensure it would not die out."
"And you? What do you want?"
He looked at her. Last night's hunger still lingered, banked but visible. "I want to honor my grandmother's wishes. I want the estate to pass properly. I also want to do it without involving anyone who didn't agree to it."
"But I am here," she said. "Your co-executor. Stuck in this house for a year while you figure out how to produce an heir."
"I don't need you for that part."
His words struck her. A hot, ugly flash of jealousy hit her. She crushed it.
"Then what do you need me for?"
"The residency requirement. The paperwork. The legal filings. You are the co-executor. Your signature is required on the transfer documents." He paused. "That's all."
"That's all." Two words that should not have stung.
"Fine," she said. "I will do the paperwork. You handle your family obligations. We'll stay out of each other's way."
"Is that what you want?"
She thought about the kiss. Both kisses. The heat of his mouth. The press of his body. The way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world he could not have.
"Yes," she lied. "That is what I want."
He nodded. "Good. My lawyer will send over the documents you need to review."
She turned to leave. Her hand rested on the doorknob when he spoke again.
"Vesper."
She stopped.
"Last night. On the terrace." His voice was low and rough. "That will not happen again."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
She opened the door and walked out. She made it halfway down the hall before she stopped and pressed her hand against the wall. Her heart pounded. Her body shook, not from cold.
It shook from want.
She closed her eyes and breathed, in and out.
Twelve months. She'd spent twelve months in this house with a man who kissed like a sin and touched her like she was sacred. A man whose family wanted him to father a child. A man who was not allowed to be hers.
She opened her eyes and walked back to her room.
A folder sat on her desk. She'd not noticed it before. It was thick, stuffed with documents. A sticky note on top had the same angular handwriting.
Grandmother's medical records. You asked about the family history. This is everything.
She'd not asked. But she opened it anyway.
The first page was a genetic profile. Cillian's name was at the top. Below it, a list of markers, mutations, and scientific terms she did not understand. But one phrase stood out, circled in ink.
Fertility index: Exceptional. Genetic viability: Optimal. Recommended reproductive pairing: High-compatibility donor required.
She flipped the page. A list of names. Women, she assumed. Potential candidates. High-compatibility donors. Women the Thorne family chose for their genetic profiles.
Her name was not on the list.
She did not know why that bothered her. It should not have. She was not a candidate. She was not compatible. She was the co-executor. The paperwork girl.
Standing in the room, she held a folder listing the women Cillian was to breed with. A nameless feeling washed over her.
She felt excluded.
She closed the folder and set it down.
Outside, the ocean crashed against the cliffs. Wind rattled the windows. The house settled around her, old, heavy, and full of secrets.
Twelve months.
She would need every one to survive this.