Chapter 14 Dante
Her hair caught the light like a wildfire.
Even across the table, with the soft gold pendant lamp illuminating only half her face, the color of her hair — deep copper, brighter at the ends — looked like it was born to burn.
Just like her brother’s.
That part shouldn’t have surprised me. They shared the same red hue, the same pale undertones, even the same freckles dusting their noses. But seeing it on her — on this woman, in this dress — hit differently.
Seraphine Vale was… striking.
The kind of striking that wasn’t polished or intentional or sculpted.
It was raw.
Unfiltered.
Honest.
And in that tight black dress, with a leather jacket framing her curves, she was damn near impossible to look away from.
My gaze tracked the line of her shoulders — soft, strong — the way the black fabric shaped to her waist, how the boots added height she didn’t need because she owned every inch of space she stood in.
She was nervous beneath the confidence. I heard it in her breathing. Saw it in the way her hands rested lightly together on the edge of the table, fingers brushing the napkin.
But she met my eyes when she spoke.
She didn’t shrink.
She didn’t tremble.
A dragon-born would call that fire.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her the way a man evaluates something he doesn’t yet understand but absolutely intends to.
“What were you doing with them?” I asked at last. “Your… charming table company.”
Her lips twitched — amusement or bitterness, I wasn’t sure. “I owed my brother a favor.”
“And that favor?” I pressed.
She exhaled. “A double date. With his partner from work.”
I tilted my head slightly. “And what does your brother do?”
“It’s public record,” she said. “Stephen’s a detective.”
Of course he was.
I’d already known that from Lucian’s file, but I preferred hearing her say it.
“And the other one?” I lifted a brow. “The man beside him. Rio.”
“Detective,” she confirmed. “They work together.”
Interesting.
Two detectives.
One journalist.
And a consort from Kael’s territory moving in the same orbit as her.
Coincidence rarely existed in my world.
My attention returned fully to Seraphine. Her salmon sat untouched, steam fading in slow ribbons. The vodka soda glistened in the low light, the cherry slice catching the red in her hair.
I noticed her plate still untouched, the salmon cooling slowly in front of her.
“You’re not eating,” I said.
She straightened slightly, almost guilty. “I—well… I’m waiting.”
“For what?” I asked, genuinely curious.
She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “For your dinner to arrive.”
My brow lifted. “Why?”
She blinked. “Because it’s rude to start before everyone has their food.”
A slow breath left me — part amusement, part something far more primal.
“And who taught you that rule?” I asked.
“My mother,” she said softly. “It’s just… manners. You don’t eat before the other person is served. It’s disrespectful.”
I stared at her for a long moment.
Something in my chest tightened — interest, heat, something I didn’t name.
“You were waiting for me?” I asked, voice lower.
Her cheeks warmed. “Well… yes. It would feel wrong otherwise.”
“Seraphine,” I murmured, leaning forward, “if I ever want you to wait for me, you won’t have to guess. I’ll tell you.”
She stilled, breath catching.
“But right now?” I added.
“I want you to eat.”
She hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be rude.”
I let my gaze hold hers — deliberately.
“If you refuse again,” I said calmly, “then we’ll have a problem.”
Her hand tightened around the fork.
Not in fear.
In something else.
She took the first bite.
And I felt something deep inside me respond in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Good girl, I thought.
But I kept that part to myself.
I watched her finish another bite, the soft clink of her fork against the plate oddly grounding. For a moment, there was a peaceful quiet between us — something I wasn’t used to. Something I didn’t expect to like.
But there were questions I needed answered.
And she was running out of places to hide them.
I let my gaze settle on her, steady and unblinking.
“Seraphine,” I said, “why were you at Obsidian Veil?”
She froze — barely, but enough for me to notice.
She swallowed her salmon carefully before answering.
“I was… investigating.”
My jaw tightened.
“Investigating,” I repeated. “For your brother?”
Her eyes shot up, sharp, insulted. “No. Absolutely not. I would never do that to him.”
“Then why?” I pressed.
She glanced down, fingers tracing the condensation on her glass.
“Because I’m a journalist,” she said. “And I was given a story… a story that might be connected to your club.”
A cold, controlled tension unfurled in my chest.
“Connected how?” My voice dropped — not loud, but edged.
She shifted in her seat, clearly weighing how much she could say. “I can’t tell you that.”
I leaned forward slightly. “Seraphine.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“This isn’t about loyalty to your editor,” I continued. “If what you’re investigating involves innocent people being hurt, I want to know. I need to know.”
Her lips parted — surprise, maybe even confusion — but she didn’t speak.
She looked away instead, lifting her drink and taking a long, careful sip.
Vodka.
Cherry lime.
Strong.
Unexpected.
I’d pegged her for something sweeter, lighter.
But this?
This was sharper.
Bolder.
Just like her.
She set the glass down, her expression unreadable.
“I can’t go into details in public,” she said finally, voice low. “Not here. Not with… all these people around.”
I exhaled through my nose, slow and controlled.
Of course she was cautious.
Smart.
More cautious than the average journalist — which only made me more certain she wasn’t stumbling into this story.
She knew it was dangerous.
She walked into the fire anyway.
“Tell me something,” I said. “Do you like Rio?”
Her brows pulled together slightly. “Rio?”
“Your brother’s partner.”
She hesitated, glancing back toward their table again. Stephen was pretending not to watch. Rio wasn’t pretending at all. Carol looked like she was two seconds from spontaneously combusting.
Seraphine slowly turned back to me.
“He’s… handsome,” she said honestly.
Of course he was.
Tall. Fit. The clean-cut detective type women liked.
“But,” she added, “I’m not attracted to him.”
That… surprised me more than it should have.
“And why not?” I asked.
She shrugged lightly. “He’s not my type.”
I leaned in, folding my hands on the table. “And what is your type, Seraphine?”
A faint flush rose in her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know,” I repeated, studying her.
She bit her lip — not trying to be seductive, just nervous. “I’ve never really… dated anyone.”
I went still.
“You’ve never dated.”
Not a question. A statement.
She shook her head once, embarrassed. “Not seriously. Not at all, actually.”
I took that in.
She had never dated anyone?
My jaw tightened at the thought.
“Why?” I asked quietly.
She flinched just slightly, as if the question hit deeper than I meant it to.
“I just…” She exhaled. “I guess no one’s ever really looked at me that way.”
I stared at her. Hard.
“That’s a lie,” I said.
Her head jerked up, eyes wide.
“You may believe it,” I continued, “but it’s still a lie.”
Her lips parted.
“Don’t tell me no one has noticed you,” I said. “Not when every man in this restaurant can’t stop staring.”
Her breath caught.
“And certainly not when I…”
I paused, choosing my words carefully.
“…haven’t looked away from you since the moment I walked in.”