Chapter 16
Seraphina
The taste of him lingers on my tongue like sin itself, and I can’t fucking breathe.
I shove Lucien away so hard he falls back on his ass, looking stunned as I scramble to my feet. My legs are numb from kneeling, my jaw aches, and the reality of what I just did comes crashing down like a fucking avalanche.
“Oh my God,” I choke out, wiping frantically at my mouth, at my face, feeling the sticky remnants of his cum mixed with my tears. “Oh my God.”
Lucien reaches for me, his expression shifting from satisfaction to something else. Maybe concern or confusion? I don’t fucking care. I can’t be here, can’t look at him, can’t process what just happened.
“Seraphina—”
“Don’t!” I scream, backing away. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
I turn and run, nearly tripping over my own feet as I flee the library. The hallway stretches before me, doors on either side, and I have no idea where I’m going. I just need to get away, need to wash his taste from my mouth, need to scrub his touch from my skin.
My vision blurs with tears as I push through the first door I see that looks like it might lead to a bathroom.
I slam it behind me, fumbling for a lock that isn’t there, before realizing I’ve stumbled into his bathroom.
The massive marble space with its gleaming fixtures and glass shower stall almost mock me.
“Fuck,” I gasp, but I don’t have time to find another bathroom. I’m going to be sick.
I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, retching violently, but nothing comes up. Just dry heaves that wrack my body as I sob. What have I done? What the hell have I done?
I just sucked my brother’s cock. I just let him cum in my mouth, on my face. I fucking liked it.
“I’m disgusting,” I whisper, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain. “I’m disgusting.”
The jersey feels like it’s burning my skin now.
I claw at it, desperate to get it off me.
I rip it over my head and throw it across the bathroom floor like it’s contaminated.
My boots come next, yanked off with such force I think I hear something tear.
Then my jeans are peeled down my legs with frantic, jerky movements.
When I’m completely naked, I stumble into the shower, turning the water on full blast. I don’t care that it’s ice cold at first—maybe that’s what I deserve. A fucking baptism of ice to cleanse me of my sins.
The water gradually warms as I grab the nearest bottle of soap, squeezing a massive amount into my palm. It smells like the fucking ocean and I never thought I could hate the smell, but here we are.
I scrub at my skin with a vicious determination, like I can erase what just happened if I just rub hard enough. My flesh turns angry red under my assault, but I can’t stop. I scrape my nails across my chest, my stomach, between my legs. Anywhere his eyes touched me, anywhere I felt desire.
“Get it off,” I mutter, grabbing more soap, working it into a lather that burns my already raw skin. “Get it out, get it off.”
Blood blooms in thin streaks where my nails have broken the skin. Good. I need to bleed. Need to purge whatever sick fucking part of me enjoyed kneeling before him.
I grab his loofah and scrub harder, ignoring the sting as it tears at my already damaged skin. More little beads of blood appear, mixing with the water swirling at my feet.
“Not enough,” I whisper, scrubbing frantically at my neck where his mark still stains my skin. “Not fucking enough—”
The shower door yanks open and suddenly Lucien’s there, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of me. He’s still shirtless, his lounge pants back to being slung low on his hips, and the sight of him makes me want to vomit all over again.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, reaching for my hands.
I try to twist away. “Don’t touch me! Get out!”
But he’s already stepping into the shower, fully clothed, grabbing my wrists to stop my frantic scrubbing. “Stop it, Seraphina! You’re bleeding!”
“Good!” I scream, struggling against his grip. “That’s what needs to happen! I need to bleed it out!”
“Bleed what out?” His voice is sharp as he holds my wrists in one large hand.
“The sin,” I sob, my legs giving out beneath me. Only his grip keeps me upright. “I need to bleed out the sin. It’s inside me, it’s fucking poisoning me. I let you—I wanted—oh God—“
“Enough,” he commands, his voice cutting through my hysteria. He reaches behind me to shut off the water. “That’s enough.”
“It’s not enough,” I babble, shaking violently now. “I’m disgusting. I’m filthy. I need to get clean. Need to bleed it out—“
“Seraphina, STOP.”
The command in his voice is so powerful it actually silences me for a second. I blink up at him through the water dripping from my lashes, suddenly aware of how cold I am, how badly I’m shaking.
He releases my wrists to grab a towel from the rack, wrapping it around me with surprising gentleness. I’m too shocked to resist as he lifts me out of the shower, my naked body pressed against his.
“Put me down,” I demand, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, carrying me across the bathroom.
I blink through my tears, disoriented, as he sets me down on what I realize is a padded bench in front of an illuminated vanity mirror at the far end of the enormous bathroom. The towel is wrapped tightly around me, cocooning me in its softness.
He grabs a small white box from beneath the vanity and kneels in front of me. His fingers work quickly, pulling out gauze pads, antiseptic, and some kind of cream. I watch, numb and disconnected, as he gently dabs at the raw patches on my arms where I’ve scratched myself bloody.
“This might sting,” he warns, applying the antiseptic to my self-inflicted wounds.
I don’t even flinch. The physical pain is nothing compared to the churning in my gut, the self-loathing that threatens to consume me whole. I stare at the ceiling while he methodically cleans each scratch, each bloody streak.
When he’s done with my arms, he tilts my face to examine the damage I’ve done to my neck and chest. His touch is clinical, almost impersonal, as he treats those wounds too. I can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see whatever emotion might be lurking in those green eyes.
“Tu es si têtue. Pourquoi tu te fais du mal comme ca?” he murmurs, his French flowing soft and low as he works.
I have no fucking idea what he’s saying. French was never my thing. I took Spanish in high school. The words wash over me, strangely soothing despite coming from the very person I’m trying to scrub from my skin.
He continues muttering as he finishes tending to my wounds, his voice a constant stream of melodic sounds that mean nothing to me. When he’s done, he grabs a brush from the counter and moves behind me.
The first stroke through my wet, tangled hair makes me wince, but he’s surprisingly gentle, working through the knots methodically, section by section. Nobody has brushed my hair since I was a little girl. The unexpected tenderness of it makes my throat tight.
“Tu es si belle, même quand tu es en colère,” he says softly, his fingers occasionally brushing against my neck as he works through a particularly stubborn knot. “Je ne peux pas te laisser partir. Tu es à moi.”
I finally find my voice, bitter and raw. “I guess this is part of it, huh. Sinners breaking their Chosen.” I laugh, the sound hollow and dead. “Well consider me fucking broken. Can you please cast me away now? Let me go.”
He says nothing, his fingers sliding through my damp hair. I’m about to turn around and tell him to fuck off again when I feel him sectioning my hair into three parts. The motion is so unexpected that I freeze.
“What the hell are you doing?” I finally ask, my voice still raw from crying. From his…cock.
He continues working silently, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he begins weaving the strands together in a braid. The rhythmic tugging against my scalp is strangely hypnotic. I should push him away but I allow myself to stay.
“Why are you braiding my hair?” I demand when the silence stretches too long.
His hands never pause. “I like it braided,” he says simply, his voice even. “Plus it’s easier to sleep in so it doesn’t tangle.”
Sleep? Is he fucking insane? “I’m not sleeping here.”
He continues braiding as if I hadn’t spoken, his fingers occasionally brushing against the nape of my neck, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
“You’re not allowed to make yourself bleed, Seraphina,” he says suddenly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Don’t do it again.”
I snort, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. “Since when do you care about my blood? You marked me with yours, remember?”
“That’s different.” His fingers tighten slightly in my hair before resuming their work. “You’re broken and beautiful. Stop letting others into your head.” His voice drops even lower. “Only me. Only ever me.”
I whip around, jerking my half-braided hair from his grasp. “Are you fucking serious right now? You are one giant mind-fuck. What is this? Are you trying to Stockholm syndrome me?”
His eyes narrow slightly, but his face remains impassive. “Is that what you think?”
“What else would you call it?” I wrap the towel tighter around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite the covering.
“You drag me to your house against my will, make me...do things, then act all concerned when I have a completely normal breakdown. Now you’re braiding my fucking hair like we’re at a slumber party?
It’s textbook psychological manipulation. ”
“Turn around. Let me finish,” he says, reaching for my hair again.
Against my better judgment, I slowly turn back around, if only because I’m too exhausted to fight anymore. His fingers resume their methodical work, weaving my hair into a tight braid that pulls gently at my scalp.
“There,” he says finally, securing the end with something I can’t see. “Done.”
He stands abruptly, walking out of the bathroom without another word. I sit there clutching the towel around me, confused and drained. Part of me wants to make a run for it while he’s gone, but I know it’s pointless. The house is locked down, and I’m naked except for this fucking towel.
A minute later, he returns with clothes in his hands. He tosses them onto the bench beside me—a faded black t-shirt and a pair of dark gray boxers.
“Put these on,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless now.
I stare at the clothes, then back at him. “You expect me to wear your underwear?”
“Unless you want to sleep naked.” He shrugs like it makes no difference to him either way.
“I already told you I’m not staying here,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction.
Lucien crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at me with those cold green eyes. “I can’t trust you to be by yourself tonight. Not after what I just witnessed. So no, you’re sleeping here, and tomorrow I’ll take you back to campus.”
“I think the fuck not,” I spit, standing up so fast the towel almost slips. I grab it at the last second, holding it against my chest. “You don’t get to decide where I sleep.”
“You really don’t have a choice,” he says calmly, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my fucking freedom. “The security system is armed, and I have the only code. You’re staying.”
I glare at him, hating how helpless I feel. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
Amusement flickers across his face before he snorts. “No, I wouldn’t dare think you would.” He gestures around us. “You’ve seen this house, right? There’s more than one bedroom.”
“Oh, how considerate of you,” I snap, snatching up the clothes he brought. “The kidnapper offers separate bedrooms.”
“You’re not kidnapped,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re being protected. From yourself, apparently.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, clutching the clothes to my chest.
“You already did that, in a manner of speaking,” he replies with a smirk that makes me want to punch him.
Before I can respond, he turns and walks toward the door. “Get dressed.”
When the door closes behind him, I stand there for a moment, confused and exhausted. Dropping the towel I pull on the clothes because it's a better barrier against eyes and hands and whatever else he can sneak.
My life is a disaster and not my own. Never my own. Owned by my parents, by Black Crown, and now by Lucien Devereux.
I’m so drained from this very existence.