Chapter 18
Seraphina
I’ve spent the last week trying to scrub his taste from my mouth, but it fucking lingers like a ghost I can’t exorcise.
The chapel is empty when I slip inside, thank fuck.
The last thing I need is Father Richards asking why I look like death warmed over or why I haven’t been to a single class since Lucien dropped his little DNA bombshell and sped away like the coward he is.
Seven days of silence. Seven days of me hiding in my room, staring at walls, barely eating, barely sleeping.
Seven days of not being his sister.
I slide into the last pew; the wood creaking beneath my weight. The stained glass casts colored shadows across my hands, blue and red and gold, like some fucked-up visual metaphor for the bruises Lucien left on my soul. I’m not even religious, but coming here helps I guess.
“What the fuck am I doing here?” I whisper to the empty church, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably my mother, calling for the twentieth time today. I ignore it, just like I’ve ignored everything else. Classes, meals, showers. Basic human functions seem pointless when your entire identity has been shattered twice over in less than a month.
We’re not siblings.
Those three words have been playing on repeat in my head, a sick soundtrack to my unraveling. All that guilt, all that self-hatred, all that scrubbing until I bled—for nothing. He knew. He fucking knew, and he let me torture myself.
I pull my knees up to my chest, not caring that my boots are on the pew. Let me add sacrilege to my growing list of sins.
“Didn’t take you for the praying type.”
The voice startles me so badly I nearly fall off the bench.
I whip around to see Cassian fucking Crowe leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with those unnerving silver eyes.
He’s dressed all in black, making him look like some kind of avenging angel—or more accurately, a well-dressed grim reaper.
“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, heart hammering in my chest. “Do you always sneak up on people in churches?”
“Yes, it’s one of my best qualities. You’ve been in hiding,” he replies, sliding into the pew beside me without invitation. He keeps a careful distance, like I’m a wounded animal that might bolt.
“I’m not hiding,” I lie, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing. “And I don’t recall us being on speaking terms, Crowe.”
“We’re not,” he agrees easily. “But someone needs to talk some sense into you, and lucky me I drew the short straw.”
I snort, turning away from him to stare at the altar. “If Lucien sent you to fuck with me, you can tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a rusty knife.”
Cassian just stares at me for a long moment, eyes taking in every detail of my appearance with clinical precision. I can practically feel him cataloging my unwashed hair, the dark circles under my eyes, the way my clothes hang a little looser than they did a week ago.
“He didn’t send me,” Cassian finally says. “Though I’m sure he’d appreciate the creative suggestion for masturbation techniques.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes me—more of a choked sound than actual humor. “Then why are you here?”
“Because you look like absolute shit.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I can’t even be offended. “When’s the last time you showered, Carvelli? Because heroin chic went out in the ‘90s, and trust me, the whole ‘I’m so traumatized I’ve forgotten basic hygiene’ look isn’t doing you any favors.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I showered...” I trail off, trying to remember. Three days ago? Four?
“Right,” he drawls, pulling a protein bar from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto my lap. “Eat that before you pass out and I have to carry your dramatic ass to the infirmary.”
I stare at the protein bar like it might bite me. “I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit. You’re starving. Your body’s just too busy processing emotional trauma to remind you that food is necessary for survival.” He unwraps another protein bar and takes a bite. “Eat. I’m not leaving until you do.”
Something about his no-bullshit approach cuts through the fog I’ve been living in. I slowly unwrap the bar and take a small bite. It tastes like sawdust and chocolate, but I force myself to chew and swallow.
“There. Happy?” I mutter after finishing half.
“Ecstatic,” he deadpans. “Now, are we going to talk about why you’re hiding in a chapel instead of attending the classes or literally doing anything except being a depressed bitch?”
“We’re not siblings,” I say, the words still feeling foreign on my tongue. I have no doubt he knew, he’s literally The Devil’s right hand. There’s no way he didn’t know as soon as Lucien found out we were related, not that it really mattered.
“No shit.” Cassian shifts slightly, angling his body toward mine. “And?”
“And? What do you mean ‘and’?” I snap, turning to glare at him. “He let me think—he made me believe—“ I can’t even finish the sentence.
“That you were committing some biblical sin by wanting to fuck him?” Cassian fills in bluntly. “Yeah, that was pretty fucked up, even by Lucien’s standards.”
“Yeah, that’s the understatement of the fucking century,” I mutter, taking another reluctant bite of the protein bar. “He knew and just...watched me destroy myself over it.”
Cassian studies me for a long moment, his silver eyes unreadable. “And now what? You’re going to hide in churches and starve yourself to prove a point?”
“I’m not proving anything. I’m just...” I trail off, not sure how to explain the hollow feeling that’s taken over my entire body.
“Wallowing,” Cassian supplies. “And doing a piss-poor job of it, I might add. Look, Lucien is a twisted bastard. Always has been. But you’re not exactly innocent here either, Carvelli.”
“Excuse me?” I snap, turning to face him fully. “How the fuck am I not innocent? I thought he was my brother!”
“And yet you still sucked his dick,” he says bluntly, his eyes boring into mine. “You knew it was wrong, and you did it anyway. So maybe spare me the victim routine.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out because he’s right. I knew who Lucien was supposed to be to me, and I still knelt before him. Still fucking liked it.
“You’re an asshole,” I finally manage, my voice shaking.
I flip him off, but he just smirks.
“I’m an honest asshole. Look, Carvelli,” he says, standing suddenly.
“This little pity party you’re throwing yourself?
It’s pathetic. You got played. It happens when you’re entwined with Luci.
Now pick your ass up and move on. Lucien is becoming even more unbearable than usual and I have to deal with it. So your problem is my damn problem.”
“Fuck you,” I snarl, but he’s already walking away.
He pauses at the end of my pew, turning back with that cold, calculating expression. “Don’t come here anymore.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the abrupt command. “Excuse me?”
“This chapel. Don’t come back here.” His voice is flat, brooking no argument.
“It’s literally a church,” I protest, gesturing around us. “I have every right to be here.”
“Yeah, and there are six other places of worship on campus,” he counters, his jaw tightening. “Choose a different one if you really want to pray to a god who isn’t listening.”
I stand up, suddenly furious. “You don’t get to tell me where I can and can’t go.”
Cassian steps closer, and there’s something dangerous in his eyes now—something that reminds me why people whisper about the Crowe family in hushed, fearful tones.
“Don’t come to this one, Carvelli,” he says, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You won’t like what happens if I find out you’ve stepped foot in here again.”
Before I can respond, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the empty chapel. The heavy wooden door slams behind him with a finality that sends a chill down my spine.
“Okay, that’s fucking weird as hell,” I mutter to myself, staring at the door where he disappeared.
What the fuck was that about? Since when does Cassian Crowe care which chapel I brood in? I drop back onto the pew, wrapping my arms around myself as a silent fuck you forms in my head toward Mr. Grim Reaper.
I should leave. Whatever Cassian’s deal is, I probably don’t want to find out. But something about being told what to do makes my contrary nature flare up like a bonfire doused in gasoline.
I stay for another ten minutes just to be petty before finally gathering my things.
The walk back to my dorm feels longer than usual. Each step is an effort, like my body is fighting against the direction my feet are taking me. Cassian’s words echo in my head, cutting through the fog I’ve been living in.
The whole ‘I’m so traumatized I’ve forgotten basic hygiene’ look isn’t doing you any favors.
Fuck him. But also...he’s not wrong. I catch a whiff of myself and wince.
When I finally reach my building, I drag myself up the stairs, each step feeling like I’m climbing a mountain. My key fumbles in the lock before the door swings open, and as soon as I step inside, something feels...wrong.
The air in my room feels thick, heavy. Like oil sliding across my skin.
My first thought is Lucien—he’s been here, waiting to ambush me with more mind games.
But this feeling...it’s different. For everything Lucien has ever made me feel—rage, desire, self-loathing—it’s never been like this. This is something else entirely.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding entirely too small in the empty room.
No answer. Just the sound of my own uneven breathing.
I glance around, scanning for anything out of place. My bed is still unmade, clothes still scattered across the floor where I’ve left them for days. Nothing seems disturbed, but I can’t shake this feeling of...violation. Like someone’s been here, touching my things, breathing my air.
I really need to get a grip, maybe he really did cause a psychological break.
I’m just being paranoid. Too many days of isolation and self-pity have made me jumpy. That’s all this is.
I grab a clean towel from the closet and head toward the bathroom. And it’s totally not because Cassian fucking Crowe called me out. I just need to wash away this weird feeling crawling across my skin.
I push open the bathroom door, flipping on the light.
The scream tears from my throat before I can even process what I’m seeing.
Blood. Everywhere. Smeared across my mirror in crude, dripping letters:
SINNERS WILL BE PUNISHED
I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet and falling hard on my ass. My heart hammers against my ribs as I scramble away, still screaming.
“What the FUCK?”
My hands shake so bad I can barely move as I crab-walk backward, eyes still locked on that bloody message. Holy fucking shit. Holy FUCK.
Scrambling to my purse on the floor, I dig frantically through the mess of receipts and makeup until my fingers close around my phone. I hit Lucien’s contact without hesitation, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
One ring. Two rings.
“Seraphina.” His voice is cold, distant. Like we’re strangers.
“Someone’s been in my room,” I gasp out, the words tumbling over each other. “There’s blood—fuck—there’s blood all over. It says ‘Sinners will be punished.’ Lucien, I—“
“Are you alone?” His tone shifts instantly, sharp and commanding.
“I think so—” I’m practically hyperventilating now.
I hear movement on his end, keys jingling, a door slamming.
“I can’t move,” I admit, my voice small and pathetic. My legs feel like they’re made of concrete. “What if whoever did this is waiting for me?”
“Seraphine, listen to me. Go to your end table and grab the knife I know you have there.” Lucien’s voice cuts through my panic. “It’s a dorm room, if they were still there you’d know it by now. There aren't many places to hide. I’m already on my way.”
My eyes dart to the end table. Ironic that I never thought to use it against Lucien. “How do you know about my knife?”
“For fuck’s sake, just grab it and stay on the phone,” he snaps.
“Okay,” I whisper, crawling on my hands and knees toward the nightstand, unwilling to stand and make myself a bigger target. My fingers are shaking so badly I can barely pull open the drawer, but I manage to grab the blade. The familiar weight of it is oddly comforting.
“Do you have it?” Lucien demands.
“Yeah,” I breathe, flicking it open with a practiced motion. The six-inch blade gleams in the dim light of my room. “I’ve got it. What if they come back?”
“Then you use that knife,” he says without hesitation. “Aim for the throat, the eyes, or the groin. Don’t hesitate, don’t show mercy.”
I tighten my grip on the knife, the metal warming against my palm. “I’m not a killer, Lucien.”
“You will be if you need to be,” he says with such certainty that a chill runs down my spine. “I’m like three minutes out. Just keep talking to me.”
I just start rambling, about anything and everything. I’m not even sure if what I’m saying makes sense but then I feel him, and then I see him and hear him as he squats down in between my legs.
“Hey Little Sinner.”