“I’m serious, Lucien,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need my own room. With a lock. And you don’t touch me.”
“Yes yes, you can have your rules and boundaries. You have your own room and it will have a lock. I promise you, I won’t touch you. Not until you beg me to.”
“Well that’s perfect because that will never happen,” she says, tightening my coat around her shoulders.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Chapter 20
Seraphina
Two weeks in the Devil’s house and I still jump at every shadow, expecting to find bloody warnings smeared across the walls. But the only real danger here is the man I’m living with.
I drop my backpack on the marble floor of the foyer, my shoulders aching from hauling around textbooks all day. The mansion is quiet except for the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Lucien and someone else. Their words are too muffled to make out, but there’s an intensity to the conversation that makes me pause.
I should go straight upstairs to my room, like I’ve done every day since moving in. Keep my head down, avoid interaction, maintain the fragile peace we’ve established. But curiosity is a fucking bitch, and I find myself moving toward the kitchen instead, my footsteps silent against the polished floor.
I peek around the corner and see Lucien standing there, phone pressed to his ear, his broad back to me. He’s wearing nothing but athletic shorts that hang low on his hips and a muscle tee that shows off every fucking ripple of his arms. Goddamn him for looking like that when I’ve been actively avoiding him for two weeks.
“I don’t care what Vincent says,” he growls into the phone. “That isn’t an option, and you know it.”
I flatten myself against the wall, straining to hear more. His voice drops lower, and I can’t make out the words anymore.
Since I moved in, Lucien’s been surprisingly decent. He hasn’t pushed into my space, hasn’t tried to corner me in dark hallways, hasn’t even made those smirky little comments that make me want to stab him in the throat. It’s been weirdly civil, like we’re just two strangers sharing a mansion.
The driver he arranged—some stone-faced guy named Marcus who looks like he eats nails for breakfast—takes me to and from campus without conversation. I go to class; I come home; I lock myself in my room. Lucien goes to practice, comes home, and does whatever the fuck Heirs do in their spare time. I assume he goes to class as well, but to be honest I have no idea.
Last week, I came home to find my entire dorm room had been relocated to the bedroom I’m using here. Everything—my clothes, my books, my stupid little ceramic whale collection—arranged exactly as I had it before. He never mentioned it. I never thanked him. We just…exist, orbiting each other like moons that can’t escape their planet’s gravity but refuse to crash into the surface.
“I already said no,” Lucien says, his voice rising enough that I can hear him clearly again.
I should walk away. This is clearly a private conversation, and I shouldn’t be eavesdropping like some nosy bitch. But then he turns slightly, and I catch his profile—jaw clenched, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, knuckles white around the phone.
“We’re not fucking coming, and if he wants an audience so badly, he can fucking come here!” Lucien roars before slamming his phone down onto the counter with enough force that I’m surprised the screen doesn’t shatter.
I must make some small sound, because his head snaps up, those emerald eyes locking onto mine. He’s angry, but then he schools his features into something more controlled. The muscle in his jaw still twitches with barely contained rage.
“Enjoy the show?” he asks, voice deceptively calm.
I straighten my shoulders, refusing to apologize for overhearing. “Not particularly. You’re not exactly subtle when you’re pissed off.”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow is.
“It’s highly likely my father will be here for dinner tonight,” he says after a long pause, the words clipped and precise like he’s measuring each one before letting it out.
“Oh.” I shift uncomfortably. Vincent Devereux is the last person I want to see. The man who might have been my father but apparently isn’t. The man who’s been lying to everyone, including his son. “Should I make myself scarce?”
Lucien gives me a look that makes my stomach clench. “I wish I could grant you that mercy,” he says, voice dropping in a way that makes my skin prickle with anxiety. He gestures to the phone still lying on the counter. “But he’ll demand your presence just like he did when he demanded we come to the estate for dinner.”
“Why would we do that?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “We’ve been avoiding him for weeks. Why cave now?”
“He’s still pissed at me for going against him and choosing you,” Lucien says, his jaw clenching so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. “He thinks he can force my hand by showing up unannounced.”
“Isn’t this your house?” I point out, taking a few steps further into the kitchen. “Can’t you just…I don’t know, not let him in?”
“I could but then that causes even more problems. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, am I right?” he quirksan eyebrow at me and all of a sudden I think about shaving it off in his sleep.
I roll my eyes so hard they practically hit the back of my skull. “Whatever. Maybe we can get some fucking answers out of him at least.” Vincent Devereux owes me some goddamn explanations after the mindfuck my life has become.
