Chapter 42 Seraphine
I didn’t have a choice.
That was the thought that kept looping through my head as I sat back down at Dante’s desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Three columns.
Three deadlines.
One very real job on the line.
So I did what I’d always done when the world got loud and terrifying—I worked.
Dante stayed nearby for a while after the… incident. He didn’t crowd me. Didn’t hover. He just leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, presence steady. Grounding. Every time my thoughts started spiraling back to my brother’s name on the screen, his calm voice cut through it.
“Focus on what you can control,” he said quietly. “One sentence at a time.”
It worked. Annoyingly well.
I edited line by line, tightening arguments, fixing grammar, flagging sources that needed double-checking. The column about my brother stayed open the longest. It felt wrong—deeply wrong—that it had been routed to me at all. Everyone at the office knew who Stephen Vale was. Knew exactly how close we were.
Which meant this wasn’t an accident.
That realization sat heavy in my chest, but I pushed through it anyway. If the story was going to run, it would be airtight. I refused to let sloppiness—or bias—be the reason it fell apart.
Amara hovered nearby, mostly quiet now, curled into one of the chairs with a blanket Lucian had produced from somewhere. She looked fine, all things considered. No burns. No blisters. Just a little pink at the edges.
I’d watched in stunned silence as Lucian had knelt in front of her earlier, pressed his hands gently to her skin, and murmured something under his breath. The redness faded like it had never been there.
“Fire destroys,” he’d said when he noticed me staring. “Water restores.”
Two halves of the same coin.
I filed that away with everything else I wasn’t ready to fully understand yet.
By the time I hit send on the last edited column, the clock read 3:27 p.m.
Barely made it.
I leaned back in the chair, exhausted, and realized how empty my stomach felt. Not just hungry—starving. Like I’d skipped meals for days.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Food. Now.”
Dante had stepped out minutes earlier for a call about one of his clubs, so I followed the smell drifting down the hall toward the kitchen.
And then—
I stopped dead in the doorway.
Lucian and Amara were… very much not just talking.
Clothes were still on. Mostly. But there was absolutely no mistaking what was happening on the kitchen table.
“Oh—my—GOD,” I gasped, spinning around immediately. “I am so sorry—so, so sorry—I did not need to see that—”
Behind me, Amara burst out laughing.
“SERAPHINE, WAIT—”
Lucian’s voice followed, amused and completely unapologetic. “You should knock.”
I snapped. “THAT IS THE KITCHEN. NOT A BEDROOM. NOT A PRIVATE SUITE. A SHARED SPACE WHERE FOOD IS SUPPOSED TO GO—NOT YOU.”
Amara laughed harder. “Oh my god, I love her.”
“I AM NEVER EATING IN THIS ROOM AGAIN,” I yelled, already storming down the hall. “BURN THE TABLE. REPLACE IT. CLEANSE IT WITH HOLY WATER.”
Lucian called after me, utterly unapologetic, “For the record, it was sturdy.”
“That does NOT HELP,” I shouted back.
Their laughter followed me all the way down the corridor as I buried my face in my hands, cheeks on fire, muttering to myself.
Dragons.
Mafia politics.
My job hanging by a thread.
And now this.
I desperately needed food.
Just… not from that kitchen.
I leaned my forehead against the cool wall and exhaled slowly, trying to ground myself.
It wasn’t that I didn’t understand sex. Or want it.
I had masturbated before. Plenty of times. I wasn’t naïve. I knew what desire felt like—how it curled low in my belly, how it made my skin hum.
But I’d never actually gone all the way.
Not with anyone.
And not because I didn’t want to.
I had tried.
God, I had tried.
But every time it came down to it—every time things edged closer than kissing or fumbling hands—it stopped. Not because of nerves. Not because of me pulling away.
Because of them.
They always said it gently, like it was a kindness.
You’re amazing, but…
I just wasn’t expecting…
Your size kind of threw me off.
Once, a guy laughed awkwardly and said lingerie “worked better on smaller frames.” Another told me I was “sexy in theory, just not… in person.”
So eventually, I stopped trying.
The effort hurt more than the rejection.
Besides the disastrous double date with Rio, I hadn’t been on a real date in three years. After the last guy, I’d decided I was done putting myself on trial just to be found lacking.
I swallowed hard.
I didn’t want to go down that road again. Not now. Not ever.
I turned the corner—
And walked straight into a solid chest.
Strong arms caught me before I could bounce back, hands steadying me by instinct.
Dante.
I blinked up at him, breath hitching as his presence hit me all at once—heat, strength, calm, him.
“Oh—sorry,” I blurted. “I wasn’t looking.”
His brows knit instantly. “Are you alright?”
I nodded, then shook my head, then groaned softly. “Lucian and Amara have officially occupied the kitchen.”
His mouth twitched. “Occupied?”
“They are very busy,” I said flatly. “On the table. The kitchen table.”
Dante snorted before he could stop himself.
“I am starving,” I added immediately. “Like, now. I need food before I lose my mind.”
He studied my face for a second—really looked at me—then softened.
“I own a restaurant a few blocks from here,” he said. “Quiet. Private. It’ll be fine to go there.”
Something in his tone—easy, certain, like this was the most natural thing in the world—made my shoulders relax.
“Yeah?” I asked. “Even with… everything?”
His hand brushed the small of my back, not possessive—protective.
“Especially with everything.”
He turned us toward the entry hall, already reaching for the closet near the elevator.
“Wait,” I said as he pulled out a long, dark coat. “That’s not mine.”
“I know,” he replied calmly.
I frowned. “Then whose—”
“Yours,” he said, like it was obvious. “I bought it.”
I blinked. “You what?”
He draped it over his arm and looked at me with that maddeningly steady gaze. “You don’t own a proper coat. Not one meant for real cold. Everything in your closet is fashion pretending to be warmth.”
My mouth opened. Closed. “You went through my—”
“I noticed,” he corrected lightly. “Observation is not the same thing.”
I huffed, but before I could argue, he stepped closer and gently settled the coat around my shoulders. It was heavier than I expected—lined, warm, expensive in a way I didn’t want to think about. His fingers brushed my collarbone as he adjusted it, slow and careful.
Heat bloomed anyway.
“There,” he murmured. “Better.”
I swallowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he said simply.
Then, just as he leaned in to open the door, he dipped his head closer to my ear and lowered his voice—barely more than a breath.
“Though,” he added, amused, “I was fairly certain it was going to be us on that table.”