Chapter IV
Seraphina
Ican still smell him after he leaves—that custom cologne with its tobacco base and vanilla sweetness, the sharp bite of ginger that hits the back of my throat, and something earthy like wood sap that clings to my skin long after he's gone.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I slide down the wall to the floor, legs too weak to hold me upright anymore.
He was in my room. Sitting on my bed like he owned it. Like he owned me.
“Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper to myself, but my lungs feel like they're filled with concrete. The room still feels charged with his presence, the air heavy and electric where he cut through it.
I push myself up on shaky legs and stumble to the window, throwing it open to let in the cold evening air. It hits my flushed face, and I gulp it down greedily, trying to purge the scent of him from my nostrils.
Three years. All these fucking years I spent cleansing Lucien Devereux from my life, and it took him less than five minutes to reduce me to a trembling mess again.
“Fuck,” I hiss, slamming my palm against the windowsill hard enough to sting. The pain centers me, giving me something to focus on besides the lingering heat between my thighs. My body is such a fucking traitor.
I pace the confines of my dorm room, trying to burn off the excess adrenaline. What did he touch? What did he look at? The thought of him going through my things makes my skin crawl, but also sends a sick thrill through me that I hate myself for feeling.
My dresser drawers aren't aligned perfectly. He went through them. Jesus Christ, did he touch my underwear? The violation should disgust me, but instead I picture his large hands sorting through my delicate things, and my nipples tighten against my shirt.
Stop it. He's such a freaking psycho.
I stagger through the doorway of my private bathroom, my sanctuary within these walls, and twist the shower knob until it won't go any further. Steam billows up immediately as I peel off my clothes with trembling fingers and step under the scalding spray.
The water pounds against my skin, and I scrub until I'm raw, as if I can somehow cleanse myself of the effect he has on me. It doesn't work. Never has. The memory of his voice—”You were born property of Black Crown”—echoes in my head, his breath hot against my ear.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile and let the water cascade down my back. My hand slides between my legs before I can stop myself, finding the slick heat there that has nothing to do with the shower. I'm soaked, swollen, and aching for him.
The warmth between my legs doesn't subside no matter how much I try to ignore it.
My skin is liable to blister if I stand here much longer, so I turn off the water and wrap a towel around myself before walking back into my room.
The open window has not done a good job of clearing his scent, and my bed where he sprawled like a king on a throne just feels contaminated now.
I rip off my duvet and sheets, bundling them into a heap in the corner.
I’ll have them washed tomorrow. For now, I dig through my closet for fresh linens, remaking the bed with angry, jerking motions.
I’m not property. I don’t belong to him or Black Crown or anyone else.
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
I can say it as much as I want, but if they call, you answer.
That’s why we’re here. The Society never truly lets you go.
I wish I had been born to different people, normal people.
But I wasn’t. So now I’ll play as a card in the deck, or a piece on the board. Like all of us do.
My phone blares at me the next afternoon, my mother's ringtone banging against my temples. I stare at it for three rings before finally picking up, knowing exactly what's coming.
“Seraphina, darling.” Her voice is honey-coated venom. “We expect you for dinner tonight. Seven o'clock sharp.”
Not a request. Never a request with Mariella Carvelli.
“I have a study group,” I lie, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles above my bed.
“Cancel it.” The finality in her tone makes my teeth clench. “Your father needs to discuss some things with you. It's important.”
Important. In our family, that word only ever means one thing: Black Crown business.
“Fine,” I mutter, hanging up before she can lecture me about my tone.
I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of my closet, staring at the rows of “appropriate” attire my mother insisted on buying me. Cashmere sweaters, tailored slacks, modest dresses that scream old money and good breeding.
With deliberate slowness, I pull out my tightest Balenciaga jeans—the ones that hug every curve like they're painted on.
I pair them with a black Gucci crop top that shows a solid two inches of midriff and costs more than most people's rent.
The ensemble is completed with my all-black Alexander McQueen sneakers.
Everything costs a fortune but breaks every unspoken rule of proper Carvelli daughter attire and it’s perfect.
I don't bother with much makeup—just enough eyeliner to make my hazel eyes look sharper, more defiant, and a dark red lip stain that my mother will definitely comment on. My hair I put in twin braided space buns, knowing it makes me look unkempt by mother’s standards.
The car drops me at the gates of my parents' estate at eight past seven. Late enough to annoy them, not late enough to provoke a full lecture. The wrought iron gates swing open automatically like they've been watching for me on the security cameras.
Our house isn't as grand as the Devereux mansion, but it still screams wealth—three stories of pristine white stone with massive windows and perfectly manicured gardens.
A monument to new money trying desperately to look like old money.
I walk up the steps slowly, each footfall deliberate, preparing for a battle.
The door swings open before I can knock. Davis, our longtime butler, gives me a once-over, his expression perfectly neutral despite my outfit.
“Miss Seraphina,” he says with a slight bow. “Your parents are waiting in the dining room.”
“I bet they are,” I mutter, handing him my small purse.
The dining room is at the end of a long hallway lined with portraits of Carvellis past. Stern-faced men and women who look constipated as hell. God forbid any of them actually crack a smile.
I push open the heavy oak doors to the dining room and walk in.
My parents are already seated at opposite ends of the ridiculously long table, a sea of polished mahogany between them.
My father's reading something on his tablet, barely glancing up as I enter.
My mother, however, looks like she's just bitten into something rancid.
“Jesus Christ, Seraphina,” she says by way of greeting, her eyes traveling from my braids to my crop top to my tight jeans with increasing horror. “Could you not dress like a common streetwalker for one family dinner?”
I slide into my usual chair, right in the middle of the table where I'm equally far from both of them. Perfect metaphor for my entire fucking life.
“Nice to see you too, Mother,” I say, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring myself a generous glass without asking permission. I take a long, deliberate sip, leaving a red stain on the crystal.
“And those ridiculous...things in your hair,” she continues, waving her hand dismissively at my braids. “You look like a child. Or worse, one of those musicians’ girlfriends.”
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my head. “They're called space buns, Mother. All the girls are wearing them.”
“Well, I don't care what 'all the girls' are doing. You are a Carvelli, and Carvellis do not follow trends set by social media nobodies.”
My father still hasn't looked up from his tablet. Typical. I wonder if he even realizes I'm here.
“And you're late,” Mother adds, checking her diamond-encrusted watch like she's the fucking timekeeper of the universe. “I specifically said seven o'clock.”
“Traffic,” I lie, taking another sip of wine.
“Don't slouch,” she snaps. “And that shirt—if you can even call it that—is completely inappropriate. I can see your stomach. What if someone important had been joining us?”
I look around the empty dining room pointedly. “Yeah, looks like a very prestigious dinner you've got going on here.”
“Your attitude is absolutely intolerable,” she hisses. “And those jeans! They're practically painted on. Do you have any idea what people will think? What the Society will think?”
“Enough.” My father's voice cuts through her tirade like a knife. He sets down his tablet with a sharp click against the table. “Your voice is aggravating me, Mariella.”
My mother's mouth snaps shut, her eyes widening in offense. She takes a delicate sip of her wine, composing herself before launching her counterattack.
“Well,” she says with a saccharine smile that doesn't reach her eyes, “at least someone in this family cares about our daughter's appearance and behavior.” She flicks her gaze pointedly at my father. “Someone has to maintain standards.”
The implication hangs in the air between them—she's the one who actually parents me, while he's just the checkbook. It's a familiar dance, this passive-aggressive waltz they do around each other, with me caught in the middle.
My father's eyes narrow dangerously, and he sets down his wine glass with deliberate precision. “Mariella,” he says, his voice dropping to that quiet tone that always makes my skin prickle, “I suggest you remember your place in this household.”
My mother's face flushes pink, but she doesn't back down. “My place? I'm merely pointing out—”
“Your place,” my father repeats, cutting her off with a single raised finger, “is not to question how I manage my family or my daughter. Your job is to look pretty at functions and keep your opinions to yourself unless explicitly asked.”
The dining room goes so quiet I can hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. My mother's face has gone from pink to white, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palm.
“Davis,” my father calls without taking his eyes off my mother, “we'll have dinner now.”
Davis appears almost instantly, as if he's been hovering just outside the door waiting for the tension to break. Two other servers follow him, carrying silver platters that they set down with practiced precision. The smell of expensive beef and truffle oil fills the air.
“Filet mignon with black truffle reduction, roasted asparagus, and potato pavé,” Davis announces, his voice neutral as if he hasn't just witnessed my father verbally muzzling my mother.
We eat in silence for several minutes. I cut my steak with unnecessary force, imagining it's the thick tension in the air.
My mother picks at her food, taking tiny bird-like bites and sipping water instead of wine.
My father eats methodically, like he's refueling a machine rather than enjoying a meal.
“I had an interesting meeting today,” he finally says, breaking the silence without looking up from his plate. “With some of my well-respected associates.”
I snort, the sound loud and ugly in the formal dining room. “Wouldn't it be better to call them your bosses?” I take another gulp of wine, liquid courage warming my veins. “You can just say you got called to stand in front of the council of rich old fucks of Black Crown.”
My mother gasps, her fork clattering against her plate. “Seraphina! That language is—”
“Accurate,” my father interrupts, surprising us both. His lips twitch in what might almost be amusement. “Though I would have perhaps phrased it a bit differently.”
“Elliott!” My mother looks genuinely scandalized, her perfectly Botoxed forehead attempting to wrinkle.
I take a bite of steak, chewing slowly. “So what did the council want? Another virgin sacrifice? Someone's firstborn?”
My father hums, running his finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Actually, the meeting was about the Choosing Ceremony . It's happening next month.”
I pause mid-chew, the meat suddenly tasting like sawdust in my mouth. I force myself to swallow before carefully setting down my silverware. My heart hammers against my ribs as I reach for my wine glass, taking a long, deliberate sip to buy myself time.
Across the table, my mother's hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her own drink. She's twitchy, eyes darting but refusing to land on anything.
“They wanted to remind me that you’re eligible.”
I turn back to my father, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “I'm sure I am, just like every other daughter of Black Crown. Luckily for me no one is going to touch me, we're practically pariahs. So thank fuck for that.”
My father's lips quirk up in that not-quite-smile again. “Well, you never know. Stranger things have happened.”
The wine turns sour in my mouth.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?