Page 40 of Taming Seraphine

Seraphine slips a hand beneath the mattress and pulls out an ice pick. My jaw clenches, but I remain silent as she extracts an array of items she duct taped beneath the bed.

“Is that all of them?” I ask.

She nods.

“There will be consequences if you’re hiding anything else.”

I glare down at her for several heartbeats, drilling the message into her skull. If she were any other woman, I would treat her with a little more tenderness, but Seraphine is a potential trip to the electric chair wrapped up in an innocent little package. She bows her head and lowers her lashes, which I take as a sign of her submission.

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself again.” I lift her chin, making her look me in the eyes.

“Promise me you’ll help me find Gabriel,” she says.

“Do you remember the man who removed your collar?” At her nod, I add, “He’s pulling together information on Capello’s drivers and bodyguards. At least one of them will lead us to your brother.”

Hope shines in her blue eyes, but the rest of her features remain stoic.

“I won’t be able to rest until I kill each of those men,” she says, her voice tightening with determination.

“Of course,” I say with a nod.

Her eyes widen. “You’d let me hurt them?”

“Do you think putting those demons to rest will stop you from lashing out?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you kill every one of those bastards who assaulted your mother.”

Her jaw clenches. “I don’t need your help.”

I chuckle, because I know she doesn’t. She killed eight men in my apartment right under my nose. “Not with the stabbing part, but you’ll need me to help track them down, break and enter their homes, and to leave no traces at the crime scene.”

She swallows, looking like she’s about to argue, but I add, “You only got away with that little massacre because one of the assholes in our poker crew was smoking something stronger than weed. We’d drunk several bottles of whiskey and were fucked out of our minds. If more than one of us had been awake?—”

“Fine,” she spits. “We’ll do it your way.”

I nod. “And you will learn how to kill without making a mess.”

Her nostrils flare as though she finds my commentary on her methods an affront.

“Clean kills are what keep us away from getting caught and sentenced to death.”

“But I don’t want them to die slowly.”

“Then we’ll take precautions.”

Her lips part as though to ask a question, but the doorbell rings. My eyes narrow. Miko lives in the apartment next door, and he always knocks.

“Wait here,” I say and guide her toward the bed.

After gathering up her stash of stolen weapons, I place them on the dining table, pick up my phone, and fire up the security app. Whoever is outside has placed a hand over the doorbell camera, hoping to make me think it’s malfunctioning.

Clumsy.

I walk to the door and uncock my pistol. Nobody but Miko visits without arranging it first and even if they did, they would call up via the concierge.

Positioning myself by the wall three feet away from the door, I ask, “Who is it?”

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