Red flooded my vision.
He didn’t.
He f*****g didn’t.
“I’M A BILTMORE!”
The words tore out of me loud enough that half the room probably heard them.
I didn’t give a s**t.
He could insult me. He could insult my fighting, my temper, my intelligence, whatever the hell he wanted.
But he needed to stop throwing around the name of a dead man who had contributed nothing to raising me and pretending blood gave him the right to define who I was.
Frederic blocked the furious swing I threw at him and somehow caught both my wrists, forcing them behind me for barely a second before I started fighting the hold.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he whispered near my ear.
I went still.
His voice dropped even lower.
“You can’t change your blood, Biltmore.”
Something in the way he said my name this
