“That you’re my sister,” he says bluntly. “Cassian and Asher, for example. There are whispers that I have a sister. I know you’ve heard them.”
My stomach drops as I remember the conversation I overheard in the bathroom weeks ago. The three bitches, huddled around the sinks, their voices low but clear enough.
This is my fucking nightmare, all of it is one nightmare after another piling up.
“It’s the only thing I have to offer, Lucien.” Just let me get through this semi-intact so I can fucking graduate. Maybe I cango talk to Vincent, maybe he can make this whole thing just go away.
“We’ll see, Little Sinner. We’ll see.”
Chapter 11
Lucien
Obsession has a taste. Like copper and honey on my tongue, thick enough to choke on. It’s been a week since I watched Seraphina walk into her dorm building, her back rigid with fury, the mark of my ownership still fresh on her skin. Seven fucking days of giving her space toprocesslike I’m some kind of considerate boyfriend instead of what I really am—a predator toying and circling his prey.
But playtime’s over. I’ve grown bored of the space and the need to annoy her has only grown.
I lift the garment bag from the back seat of my car, running my thumb over the embossed Black Crown insignia on the zipper. Inside are her new uniforms—all the requisite St. Augustine pieces that mark her as mine now. The black and white standard colors accented with red instead of gray, the devil horns embroidered in various hidden places. A reminder every time she dresses that she belongs to me. I hope every time she finds it that it ruins her day.
Making my way to her dorm, I nod at the security guard who doesn’t even bother to check my ID. Everyone already knows who I am; I’m not some plebeian.
I’m almost to her door when my phone rings and I ignore it. Until it rings twice more, and I shift the garments to drag the loud, irritating piece of metal out of my pocket.
“Someone better be dead or dying, and it’s going to cost me millions for you to call me back to back three goddamn times.” I snarl when I answer without looking to see who it is.
“Mr. Devereux?” A crisp, professional voice responds. “This is Dr. Amara Franklin from Genetek Laboratories.”
My grip tightens on the phone. This is the call I’ve been waiting for. I needed to see it on paper to really let it sink in.
“About time,” I snap. “You were supposed to call two days ago. I paid you well for an expedited service.”
“We needed to run additional verification tests,” she says, her voice measured and clinical. “With results this sensitive, we wanted absolute certainty.”
My heart pounds against my ribs as I lean against the wall outside Seraphina’s door. “And?”
“I have the results of the DNA comparison you requested between yourself and Miss Seraphina Carvelli.” There’s a pause, the sound of papers shuffling. “Mr. Devereux, our analysis indicates with 99.9% certainty that there is no genetic relationship between you and Miss Carvelli.”
“Say that again,” I demand, my voice hoarse.
“You and Miss Carvelli are not biologically related in any way,” Dr. Franklin repeats. “There is a zero probability that you share a parent. The genetic markers we examined show no familial connection whatsoever.”
A laugh bursts from my throat, harsh and wild. “You’re absolutely certain?”
“Yes, sir. We ran the tests three times with samples from different collection dates as requested. The results were consistent across all tests.”
My mind races, trying to piece together everything. There’s no way my father and Mariella Carvelli just assumed Seraphina was his and my father wouldn’t lie about it. He’s a lot of things, but lying about her paternity causes only problems, so what the fuck really is going on and how much of a hand did Seraphina’s mother have in?
“I’ll have the full report sent to your private email as requested,” Dr. Franklin continues. “Is there anything else you need from us?”
“No,” I say. “That’s all I needed.”
I hang up and stare at Seraphina’s door, my pulse hammering in my ears. She’s not my sister. She’s not my fucking sister.
The realization crashes through me in waves. Every restraint I’ve placed on myself, every line I’ve drawn—they’re all fucking meaningless now. Now, she can pay for her sins and I won’t feel bad about any of it.
I grab the garment bag and pound on her door, not caring who hears. When there’s no answer, I pound harder, my patience completely gone.
“Open the fucking door, Seraphina!” I shout. “I know you’re in there.”
