Page 105 of Sinful Sacrifice

I pride myself on good customer service. As the old saying goes, I leave my problems at the door when I come into work.

Right now, though, I’m ready to poison a customer’s coffee.

Cernach’s hateful eyes are glued on me while he orders his coffee at the front counter. He asks for it black, plain.

I dump five sugar packets inside his cup.

After he collects his coffee, he takes a seat at the table Damien normally sits at. I narrow my eyes at him, and a hint of satisfaction rumbles through me when he takes his first sip of coffee.

His face twists in disgust as he swallows it down. He whips his head toward me and glares.

I check my watch.

Fifteen minutes until my shift ends.

The asshole timed it perfectly.

He came in before Julian arrives for pickup, so he wouldn’t see him. But late enough where he wouldn’t have to wait long.

I’m shaky for the next fifteen minutes.

I spill two coffees and have to throw one out after realizing I used creamer instead of soy milk.

When my shift ends, I move to him with hesitation.

He’s here for me—that much is obvious. Knowing him, he won’t let up until I speak with him. Might as well get it over with in public.

“Pippa,” he greets when I approach him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I plop down on the chair across from him and cross my arms. “What do you want, Cernach?”

“I thought I’d pay you a visit.” He forces an exaggerated smirk. “Check on my favorite niece.”

I scoff.

“You no longer live in your shithole apartment.”

“Stalking is illegal, you know.”

“It’s funny you believe I mull over what’s legal or not.” The gold rings on his fingers slide against each other as he levels his elbows on the table. Seconds later, he raises them at the realization that it’s sticky. “Your mother said you’re living with Damien now.”

I glare at him, choosing not to answer.

“I found your father.” He says this with too much smugness.

“Did you do something to him?” I hiss, leaning in closer.

He studies one of his gaudy rings. “Ask your little roommate, Damien.”

“Excuse me? I don’t appreciate mind games.”

“Damien knows what happened to him,” he tells me, boredom in his tone.

I flinch.

“Paul has a weak pain tolerance. I don’t know if you knew that.” He stretches out in the chair, pulling at the sticky syrup residue on his shirt. “He bled for a day before I eventually put him out of his misery.”

“Why?” I dig my nails into the bottom of the table. “He did nothing to you.”

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