Page 68 of Taming Seraphine

She falls back with a yelp.

My stomach plummets to the floor. My gaze locks onto the blood pooling in her palm. Every barrier I erected over the years to contain my fury disintegrate into nothingness in the presence of her pain.

He hurt Seraphine.

He made her bleed.

My vision fogs with red rage. Rage at letting Seraphine get hurt. Rage at the powerless boy I once was who couldn’t stop my bastard stepfather from hurting the two women I was supposed to protect. It clouds my senses, grips my throat, and fills my lungs until I can’t breathe.

Fiori gasps. “I’m sorry. It was a reflex. I didn’t mean to?—”

I tighten my arm around his neck and lift him off his feet. His face turns crimson, and he stares up at me through bulging eyes.

“I can’t breathe,” he rasps.

“That’s the point,” I growl.

Fiori wriggles, writhes, and retches for air. I barely notice his struggles because I’m transfixed at the sight of Seraphine’s fascination with her bleeding palm.

She gazes down at the blood, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Pink stains her cheeks the way it did when she talked about wanting to have an orgasm.

Seconds pass, and the man continues to fight against my choke hold. Seraphine gazes up at me through those artificially colored eyes and all I want to do is tear off her disguise. I want to see her–not the facade. I want to witness the softening of her features as I end her pain.

Fiori stops struggling and falls limp, his death pushing away the bloody haze. I release my grip around his throat, twist his neck, and let him fall to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Seraphine,” I say.

She offers me her wounded palm, her eyes bright. Blood spills from her fingers and down her arm, dripping DNA onto the floor.

I take her wrist. “Let me take care of it.”

“Wait.” She drops into a crouch and picks up Fiori’s dagger. “If he had a knife all along, why didn’t he use it earlier?”

“He was waiting for the right moment.”

I guide her to the kitchenette, to the first aid box in the corner by the stove. After lifting her onto the counter and opening the kit, I hold her hand under a stream of running water.

“Why are you washing it away?” she asks, her voice breathy.

“You like blood?” I ask with a smirk.

She grins, her eyes sparkling. “It’s beautiful.”

So, Seraphine smiles at Farfalla, at the woman at the fetish store, and at blood. Interesting. I pat the wound dry with a wipe, only for it to start bleeding again. The cut isn’t deep enough to need stitches, so I apply some ointment, gauze and medical tape.

She watches me work with rapt attention, her cheeks still flushed.

“Next time a man comes at you with a knife, don’t run toward its blade,” I say.

“Alright,” she grumbles.

Her delicate fingers close around mine in a grip so tight that my heartbeat doubles. I’m about to ask if she also likes pain when something cool lands on my throat.

It’s Fiori’s knife.

TWENTY-FIVE

SERAPHINE

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