She slaps my hand away, her eyes blazing. Taking a deep breath, something changes in her posture. The fire dims in her eyes, shoulders slumping slightly as she steps back.
“Just leave me alone, Lucien,” she says, her voice flat and empty. “I didn't ask to come back here. I just want to keep my head down and get the fuck away from this place as soon as I'm able. I don't want any problems. I'll stay out of your way.”
I cock my head, studying her like the fascinating creature she is. Something's off. Her words say one thing, but her body tells a different story entirely. She's trying so hard to force herself to match those empty words, but Seraphina's never been good at hiding from me. I can read everyone, especially her.
“You've always been every single one of my problems, Little Sinner,” I say, letting a cruel smile play across my lips. “So I guess it's tradition at this point. Like fucking Christmas, but with more daddy issues.”
I step entirely into her personal space, crowding her until her back hits the wall. Dipping my head down into the curve of her neck, I inhale deeply. She does the same, a small sniff that she tries to disguise, but I feel it. Her body locks up like a Pavlovian response to my cologne—the same one I've worn since we were teenagers. Custom-made, because nothing mass-produced would ever touch my skin.
“You were born property of Black Crown,” I whisper into her ear, letting my lips brush against the sensitive skin there. “You'll stay property of Black Crown, and you'll die property of BlackCrown. Just like me.” I pull back just enough to see the shiver that runs through her. “You can run and you can hide, but we all end up paying the Society in blood, one way or another. I'll be seeing you real soon, Miss Carvelli.”
Chapter 4
Seraphina
Ican still smell him after he leaves—that custom cologne with its tobacco base and vanilla sweetness, the sharp bite of ginger that hits the back of my throat, and something earthy like wood sap that clings to my skin long after he's gone. My pulse hammers in my throat as I slide down the wall to the floor, legs too weak to hold me upright anymore.
He was in my room. Sitting on my bed like he owned it. Like he owned me.
“Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper to myself, but my lungs feel like they're filled with concrete. The room still feels charged with his presence, the air heavy and electric where he cut through it.
I push myself up on shaky legs and stumble to the window, throwing it open to let in the cold evening air. It hits my flushed face, and I gulp it down greedily, trying to purge the scent of him from my nostrils.
Three years. All these fucking years I spent cleansing Lucien Devereux from my life, and it took him less than five minutes to reduce me to a trembling mess again.
“Fuck,” I hiss, slamming my palm against the windowsill hard enough to sting. The pain centers me, giving me somethingto focus on besides the lingering heat between my thighs. My body is such a fucking traitor.
I pace the confines of my dorm room, trying to burn off the excess adrenaline. What did he touch? What did he look at? The thought of him going through my things makes my skin crawl, but also sends a sick thrill through me that I hate myself for feeling.
My dresser drawers aren't aligned perfectly. He went through them. Jesus Christ, did he touch my underwear? The violation should disgust me, but instead I picture his large hands sorting through my delicate things, and my nipples tighten against my shirt.
Stop it. He's such a freaking psycho.
I stagger through the doorway of my private bathroom, my sanctuary within these walls, and twist the shower knob until it won't go any further. Steam billows up immediately as I peel off my clothes with trembling fingers and step under the scalding spray.
The water pounds against my skin, and I scrub until I'm raw, as if I can somehow cleanse myself of the effect he has on me. It doesn't work. Never has. The memory of his voice—”You were born property of Black Crown”—echoes in my head, his breath hot against my ear.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile and let the water cascade down my back. My hand slides between my legs before I can stop myself, finding the slick heat there that has nothing to do with the shower. I'm soaked, swollen, and aching for him.
The warmth between my legs doesn't subside no matter how much I try to ignore it.
My skin is liable to blister if I stand here much longer, so I turn off the water and wrap a towel around myself before walking back into my room.
The open window has not done a good job of clearing his scent, and my bed where he sprawled like a king on a throne just feels contaminated now. I rip off my duvet and sheets, bundling them into a heap in the corner. I’ll have them washed tomorrow. For now, I dig through my closet for fresh linens, remaking the bed with angry, jerking motions.
I’m not property. I don’t belong to him or Black Crown or anyone else.
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I can say it as much as I want, but if they call, you answer. That’s why we’re here. The Society never truly lets you go. I wish I had been born to different people, normal people. But I wasn’t. So now I’ll play as a card in the deck, or a piece on the board. Like all of us do.
My phone blares at me the next afternoon, my mother's ringtone banging against my temples. I stare at it for three rings before finally picking up, knowing exactly what's coming.
“Seraphina, darling.” Her voice is honey-coated venom. “We expect you for dinner tonight. Seven o'clock sharp.”
Not a request. Never a request with Mariella Carvelli.
“I have a study group,” I lie, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles above my bed.
“Cancel it.” The finality in her tone makes my teeth clench. “Your father needs to discuss some things with you. It's important.”
