Page 2 of Taming Seraphine

Over the next several minutes, different men approach me. Some offering drinks, others dances, one asks if my parents know I’m at a club but I ignore them all. The handler made me memorize both my target and his guards in case he sends a lackey to do his dirty work.

My hands should be trembling. I should be sweating with nerves, but nothing that happens tonight could ever be worse than my so-called training. I’ve been beaten, broken, and torn down. Everyone I love who isn’t already dead is now their hostage. The only way to set them free is with these murders.

As I take another tiny sip of water, one side of my vision fills with a large figure. I ignore him until he grabs my arm and ignites my veins with an explosion of fury.

“Come with me,” the man says.

My lips tighten. I glance from the hand encircling my bicep and lock gazes with one of the faces I was ordered to remember. He’s an employee of my target, although I don’t know his name. The handler said it wasn’t necessary.

“Alright.” I slip off the bar stool and let the man march me through the VIP room to an empty table at the far end.

My target likes his girls innocent and sweet. The younger the better, according to the handler, which is why he forbade me to wear makeup, save for a coat of clear mascara to make my eyes look larger. Based on the number of men who tried to buy me drinks, my target isn’t the only one here with a taste for underage girls.

The man who brought me to the table orders me champagne. There’s no chance to refuse. He looms over me and watches me sip. Wine tasting wasn’t part of my training, but this drink is more bitter than anything my parents ever let me try.

Pain surges across my chest the way it does every time I think of Mom, but I tuck that memory into the back of my mind. I can’t think about her. The memory of how they killed her is seared into my soul. The only thing I can do for her now is save everyone they’ve left alive. Sucking in a sharp breath, I continue drinking, wishing the alcohol would numb the agony. It doesn’t. The handler made me drink a concoction of chalky liquid earlier to dampen any effects of alcohol, drugs, or whatever else might have put in my drink.

I’m already tipsy by the end of the first glass since I made the mistake of inhaling the bubbles. The buzz isn’t enough to affect my reflexes, but it takes the edge off my hurt.

My head lowers, and I rest my chin on my chest, pretending to be drugged. Any more of that champagne and no amount of antidote will keep me alert.

“Hey.” The guard nudges my arm.

Rocking to the side, I let a curtain of blonde hair fall across my face. The citrus scent of the lemon the handler made me use to make my tresses youthful and bright washes over me and clogs in my sinuses.

I try not to shudder as the man hauls me to my feet and walks me through a different door guarded by two other faces I memorized from the intel. My heart is beating so hard and fast that every inch of my skin throbs with both anticipation and terror.

This will be my first kill—the price for Nanna’s freedom. After that, I have a second target to murder so I can rescue Gabriel, and then a third to free myself.

Since my head is bowed and I’m pretending to be semi-conscious, I don’t see the faces of the armed men who pass us as we walk down the hallway. I stumble into the wall, so I can compare the layout with the map I learned, but the man scoops me off my feet and carries me through another doorway.

Strangely, I don’t feel the usual surge of disgust. Maybe that’s because someone’s about to die.

“Is she prepared?” asks a deep voice from within the second room.

“I watched her drink the whole glass,” the man carrying me replies.

The room is dark, decorated in shades of black and crimson with low lighting and rich, opulent fabrics. I peer through my lashes, catching a glimpse of a gray-haired man standing beside a bed adorned with oversized cushions.

My breath catches.

It’s him.

The man I’m going to kill.

I glance at a set of small curtains on the far-left wall in the room that will become my escape route. If the handler is correct, there should be a serving hatch that leads straight to the kitchen.

“Put her on the bed,” says the target.

A heartbeat later, I sink into the softest surface I’ve lain upon since the night Dad turned on us. Closing my eyes, I hold my breath and pray to Mom’s spirit that they don’t use any restraints.

The handler warned me that this was a possibility, since the target likes his girls docile. If that happens, I have to hold still until he frees my arms. Dread swirls in my gut, followed by the bitterness of disdain. They’re all sick, including the handler. They all deserve to die.

“Leave us,” the target says.

I exhale, but it’s too early for relief. Even without the bodyguard, the target is still more than I can handle alone. I didn’t learn his name or what he does. He’ll be dead soon, anyway. He’s a looming presence with eyes so dark they meld into the shadows. In the dim light, he barely looks human. My heart pounds so hard and fast that I’m sure he’s feeding on my helplessness and terror. He’s just like Dad, a man who surrounds himself with armed guards. If I’m right, then he’s dangerous.

Which is why I need to wait until he’s distracted.

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