Page 23 of Taming Seraphine

The man falls backward, trips over his feet, and knocks his head on the pump. As he lies unmoving on the ground, I glance toward the gas station’s door, hoping Leroi didn’t witness my outburst.

Thankfully, he’s not in sight.

I hunch forward in my seat and hope to god we can get out of here without him noticing anything wrong.

EIGHT

LEROI

Five years.

FIVE YEARS?

I’m so preoccupied with the thought of Seraphine spending half a decade in a basement that I don’t hear the gas store attendant until he shouts out my total. With a jolt, I toss my card through the barrier and let him process the payment.

When I found her, I thought she might have been there for weeks, a few months at most. I was more concerned with getting us out of the Capello mansion unharmed and then removing her collar and chip that I hadn’t dug deeper.

I can’t begin to imagine how Anton thought up a concept as twisted as a Lolita assassin. Maybe it was one of the Capellos. No wonder he kept that quiet.

Fuck.

It’s no surprise that Seraphine went on that killing spree. A psychologist I know once said that fifteen days of solitary confinement is enough to change a person’s brain function irreparably, but five years? That kind of damage would be catastrophic.

The clerk hands back my card, and I collect my purchases in a plastic bag. Seraphine complained earlier about being hungry, so I grabbed a selection of snacks in case she still wants to eat.

As I walk back to the Jeep, my mind rings with a warning Anton gave me when I took Miko under my wing. He said that sometimes the only way to save those damaged by abuse is to put them out of their misery.

With a bullet.

I didn’t like that idea then and proved Anton wrong by allowing Miko to find his own path and explore any interest he desired. Now, he’s the best damned friend a hitman could have.

Seraphine’s situation is different. I don’t know if she’s damaged beyond repair because there were extenuating circumstances. Would she have become so stab-happy if Billy Blue hadn’t snuck into her room, trying to reenact what the Capellos did to her in that basement?

Even the sanest of women would make use of a knife in self defense. Some might even describe what she did to the poker crew afterwards as a preemptive strike, but the sandwich? I can’t even tackle that kind of exercise in psychology.

I open the car door, slide into my seat to find her sitting in front, hunched over with her head bowed. A curtain of blonde hair obscures her face, even though I’m certain she’d tied it into a messy bun to dig that grave.

“Hungry?” I ask.

When she doesn’t reply, my jaw ticks. I thought she’d overcome her silent phase.

“Seraphine?”

“Drive,” she growls.

“What’s wrong?” I reach out to touch her face, but she flinches.

At her movement, I catch the sight of blood. It’s on her face, down the front of her shirt, and on her hands. It’s even streaked on the window.

I was gone for less than five minutes.

“Who did this to you?” I snarl.

She shakes her head.

“What happened?” I ask. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not my blood.”

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