“Not bad for your first time,” she admits, admiring my handiwork. “Now you have to blow on them to dry.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She wiggles her freshly painted toes. “They need to dry or they’ll smudge.”
I sigh dramatically but lean down, gently blowing cool air across her toes. The intimacy of the act strikes me as bizarre. Sitting here blowing on a woman’s toenails. If the guys on the team could see me now, I’d never hear the end of it.
Her fingers find their way to my hair as I continue blowing softly on her toes. She starts running them through the short strands, massaging my scalp in slow circles that make tension I didn’t even know I was carrying begin to dissolve.
“Mmm,” I can’t help the sound that escapes me as her nails lightly scratch behind my ear. “That feels good.”
“Yeah?” She continues the motion, her touch surprisingly gentle. “You’re all knotted up. Staging coups is stressful business, huh?”
I huff out a laugh against her foot, still blowing intermittently on her toes. “Something like that. The annual gala is coming up. We need to get our outfits put together.”
“Mmm. And will I be on your arm at this event?” There’s something hesitant in her voice that makes me look up.
“Where else would you be?” I ask, genuinely confused. “You’re my Chosen.”
She shrugs, trying to seem casual but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “Just checking. Wasn’t sure if taking down Daddy Devereux might change things.”
I stare at her for a moment, trying to understand what she’s really asking me. Is she seriously questioning her place now that I’ve taken over?
“Change things? Why the fuck would that change anything?” I reach out and grab her chin, forcing her to look at me.
She bites her lip, those hazel eyes searching mine. “So I’m still your Chosen? Even though you don’t need me to piss off Vincent anymore?”
Jesus Christ. Is that what she thinks? That she was just a pawn in my game against my father?
“Seraphina,” I say, my voice dropping lower, “do you think I went through all this shit—claiming you publicly, bringing you into my home, and killing a fucking priest just to spite my father?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.” She shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the vulnerability in her eyes. “That’s how this started, right? You wanted to stick it to Vincent by taking the one woman he told you that you couldn’t have.”
I grab her by the waist and reposition her so she’s straddling me, her legs on either side of my hips.
“Listen to me carefully,” I growl, gripping her ass to pull her tighter against me. “I wanted you long before I knew about Vincent’s bullshit.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “But?—“
“But nothing,” I cut her off. “Did finding out it would piss off my father make it sweeter? Sure. But make no mistake, Little Sinner—you were never just a means to his end.”
Chapter 32
Seraphina
I’ve been preparing for this moment for weeks, rehearsing what I’ll say, how I’ll stand, the exact tone of voice I’ll use. But nothing could have prepared me for the actual sight of my mother’s smug face as she sips her afternoon tea, as if she hasn’t spent the last twenty-one years lying through her perfectly veneered teeth.
“Seraphina,” she says, setting down her delicate china cup with that practiced grace that’s always made me want to break something. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
I don’t sit down. Standing gives me the advantage, makes her have to look up at me. “Cut the bullshit, Mother. We both know why I’m here.”
Her eyebrow arches slightly. The only indication she’s even slightly perturbed. “Language, darling. And no, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“The DNA test,” I say, watching her face carefully for any sign of weakness. “The one that proves I’m not Vincent Devereux’s daughter. The one that proves you’ve been lying to everyone for over two decades.”
She doesn’t even blink. “Ah, that.” She takes another sip of tea, her pinky extended like we’re in some fucking period dramainstead of her ridiculous sitting room with its overpriced art and uncomfortable furniture. “You were always such a clever girl.”
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil. I take a step closer to her chair, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
