Five more, and Vanya would be delivered.
Along with the viper.
Pen moved again, dragging a hand through her hair, frustration rippling through her posture. She worried her lower lip. Her fingers drummed on her thigh, fast, furious, like she was barely holding herself together.
She was perfection in motion.
Full breasts straining slightly against the dress.
Rounded hips that fit perfectly into my hands.
Thighs strong enough to wrap around me, to anchor me, to ground me.
She was a ghost made flesh.
And I was starving.
Tonight, she would sleep in my bed.
The first woman to do so in five years.
The thought alone sent a brutal thud through my chest, pulse roaring in my ears.
Not because I wanted sex.
Because I wanted possession.
Because I wanted proximity.
Because having her under my roof, in my bed, breathing the same air—it felt like fate circling back to finish a story that had been torn apart too soon.
Penelope shifted again, finally lifting her head, eyes scanning the foyer as if she could will the doors open by force.
Soon.
I straightened in the shadows, extinguishing my cigarette against the banister, crushing it with unnecessary force.
The past was walking toward me.
And this time—
I would not let it slip through my fingers again.
The front doors swung open with a deliberate echo.
Seraphina stepped in first, petite, flawless, and poisonous, dragging Vanya’s hand with her as if she had any right to claim him. Every movement screamed entitlement, every breath she drew was a warning.
Everything about her repelled me.
Her nails—long, sharp, blood-red talons—looked like weapons, ready to carve her dominance into anyone who dared cross her.
Her makeup was aggressive: sculpted cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, false lashes that made her eyes insect-like, lips painted nude with a message: Look at me, but pretend it’s natural.
And then there was the way she moved—hips swaying with calculated seduction, every step measured, every glance deliberate, her body speaking before her mouth ever dared.
The smug curl of her mouth—like she’d already won something she had no right to take.
She scanned the foyer as if cataloguing the wealth, the power, the territory.
