Page 192 of Taming Seraphine
“Where am I?”
“Roman said we could stay in his cottage.”
I crack open an eye to find Seraphine cuddled up to my side. There’s a lightness in her expression I’ve never seen before. I’m not hopeful enough to believe that I’ve solved all her problems, but the darkness in her eyes has retreated to let in more light.
“Why not one of his spare rooms?”
She raises a shoulder. “He didn’t want to house a Capello.”
My brow furrows, and I wonder how much Seraphine told my cousin about her past.
“Not me,” she says with a bright smile. “Samson.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He’s still alive?”
She gives me an eager nod. “Roman let me bring him back with us. I was saving the best part for you.”
“Seraphine,” I say, my breaths going shallow. “What have you done?”
She lowers her gaze and walks her fingers up my chest, her lips curving with mischief. I let out an exasperated chuckle.
I knew what I was getting into when I allowed myself to kiss Seraphine. She isn’t the kind of woman who would balk at my line of work because her hands are just as steeped in blood as mine. Besides, nothing she could ever do to Samson would compensate for the horrors of her five years in that basement.
“Don’t huff and puff when I prove you wrong,” she says.
“Wrong about what?” I ask.
“See, you’re already getting huffy,” she says, her voice light.
“Seraphine,” I growl.
“Alright.”
She sits up, letting the sheets slide down her body, revealing delicate curves that steal my breath. The wound in my gut throbs, but it’s nothing compared to what she’s doing to my aching cock.
I groan as she stretches, her body arching so beautifully that I lose track of my suspicions. Then she glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes gleaming, a smile playing on those pretty lips. It’s not difficult to see why she’s such a successful killer. Seraphine is a siren and I would let her lure me to a watery death.
“Want to see?” she asks.
“No.” I lean back against the pillows. “Dr. Sal says I should stay in this bed for a week.”
She hops off the mattress. “If you don’t come now, he’ll start to smell.”
“What?”
She giggles, puts on a satin robe, and disappears behind another door. Throwing off the covers, I swing my legs off the edge of the bed. The pain in my gut isn’t as acute as it was the night before, and there are no red patches seeping through the dressings.
“After the doctor fixed your wounds, I made him heal Samson,” she says from beyond the door, seeming to read my mind.
“Why?”
“To keep him alive for this,” she replies.
Curiosity gives me an energy boost. I’ve never seen her so happy or light-hearted. I pad after her in my boxers, still not knowing what to expect.
Samson Capello lies in a bathtub of diluted blood. The handle of a scalpel protrudes from one closed eye, and the other is wide open in a rictus of horror. Deep gouges criss-cross his chest, some of them revealing glimpses of muscle and tendons.
“And before you complain, I didn’t touch his junk directly,” she says. “I used a knife and fork.”