Page 80 of Taming Seraphine

I turn her around. “Then where did you get the knife?”

Her arm twitches toward a kitchen towel concealing a long knife, but I grab its hilt before she can even reach the counter.

With any other woman, my behavior would be irrational and controlling, but Seraphine near any weapon is like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.

She glances at the blade, her breath quickening. I can’t tell if it’s out of fear or excitement, but the sight of her looking so flustered makes my balls tighten.

Seraphine is a tornado in a Tiffany box. You never know what to find in that pretty little package.

“Answer my question,” I snarl.

“I found it,” she blurts, her pretty features crumpling. “Pietro had so many knives, and I took one. I wasn’t planning on using it to hurt anyone. When you’re not around, I get all these horrible thoughts and then all the memories pour in and I don’t know if it’s a dream and I’m still stuck in the basement because you’re not there to tell me I’m safe. Cutting things up is the only thing that helps.”

Her words continue in a stream that becomes more jumbled with each passing moment. I let her continue until tears are rolling down her cheeks.

“Seraphine,” I say.

“What?” she rasps.

“If you agree to go to bed right now, I won’t say anything about the knife.”

She stares up at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. After several heartbeats, her shoulders sag and she nods.

I can’t tell if I’m taming Seraphine or if she’s taming me.

TWENTY-NINE

SERAPHINE

I don’t understand what just happened. First Leroi is making my skin heat and my core throb. Then he’s annoying again, and now I’m being put to bed like I’m fragile and he’s agreeing to everything I ask for.

Well, not everything.

He refused to let me into his room and didn’t believe me when I said I couldn’t sleep, which wasn’t even a complete lie. How am I supposed to relax when he’s plotting to kick me out on the street? Or at least I thought he was.

After tucking me in so tightly that I can’t move my arms, Leroi strokes my hair. The warmth of his fingers seeps into my skin and soothes my nerves. I don’t remember the last time someone touched me with so much care. Mom was always too busy to check in on me, and Gabriel acted like I was a pest. Whenever Dad was home, he always sat at my bedside and kissed me goodnight.

Tears well in my eyes and threaten to spill over. I’m no longer that little girl. My hands are saturated with blood, my soul is stained with gore, and I’ve been tainted by more men than I want to admit. But the way Leroi takes care of me awakens something in my heart I thought was long gone.

Maybe I still have a chance at being normal. Leroi is a killer, just like me, but he knows how to tread the line between darkness and light. He’s worth keeping alive, at least until he stabs me in the back.

My eyelids flutter close, and I let the warmth of his touch lull me to sleep. For the first time in over half a decade, I no longer feel so alone. This time when I sleep, there are no nightmares, not even a flashback. It’s as though Leroi has chased them all away with his imposing presence.

The next thing I know, I’m awakened by the scent of fried meat. Sunlight streams through my closed eyelids, Leroi’s cocoon of sheets still holding me in a warm embrace. It takes several tries to slide out of bed, but when I do, I feel awake and refreshed. When I emerge from my room, I find Leroi stepping out of the balcony, dressed in a white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum.

My gaze lingers on the muscles of his chest and travels up his strong neck to the vein pulsing at the base of his jaw.

He catches me staring and raises a brow. I drop my gaze, my cheeks heating.

“Steak and eggs hash,” he says.

My head snaps up. “What?”

He flicks his head toward the balcony before walking back to the kitchen. “I made breakfast.”

Leroi emerges seconds later, carrying two iron skillets. The first contains a frittata of potatoes and cabbage, while the second holds sizzling strips of steak, sliced peppers, and cherry tomatoes. The aroma fills the living room, and my stomach growls.

“Are those the vegetables I cut?” I ask.

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