Chapter 21
Lucien
“Ishould have known you’d be a disappointment. Just like your mother. Weak. Undisciplined. You’ve always been a liability, but this?” He gestures wildly at us. “This is beyond redemption.”
I feel something shift inside me—a cold, crystalline clarity replacing the rage that’s been building.
My father’s words wash over me like they’ve done my entire life, but for once, I don’t feel the need to defend myself.
I just stare at him, watching spittle fly from his mouth as he continues his tirade.
“I gave you everything!” he roars, slamming his fist on the table again. “The Devereux name, the Society connections, my fucking legacy! And you squander it on this—this whore?”
Seraphina tenses on my lap, but I keep my hand firmly on her thigh, squeezing once to keep her still. Let him exhaust himself. Let him show her exactly who he is.
“You’re just like her,” he continues, his voice dropping to something uglier, more venomous. “Your mother is weak too. Can’t handle what it means to be part of this family. Can’t handle her duties. And now you—my own son—fucking your sister.”
I don’t correct him. Don’t tell him we’re not related. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a response yet. My silence only fuels his rage.
“You think the Society will accept this? You think you can just do whatever the fuck you want because you’re the heir? There are rules, Lucien. Traditions. Lines that even we don’t cross.”
My thumb traces lazy circles on Seraphina’s bare skin while my father’s face grows redder with each word. I can feel her heartbeat accelerating under my touch, her body practically vibrating with the tension she’s holding back.
“Nothing to say?” Vincent sneers, his perfect composure completely shattered. “No clever comebacks? No justification for your depravity?”
I simply take a sip of wine, maintaining eye contact over the rim of my glass.
“This is what happens when you’re given too much, too young,” he spits. “You become entitled. Spoiled. Rotten to the fucking core. I should have been harder on you. Should have beaten that weakness out of you when I had the chance.”
Seraphina’s body goes rigid at that. I can practically feel the fury radiating off her in waves.
“You know what?” Vincent continues, his voice dripping with disgust. “Maybe you deserve each other. The disappointing son and the bastard daughter. A fitting punishment for both of you.”
I still say nothing, just watching him unravel. This is what I wanted—for her to see him as he truly is. No masks, no pretenses. Just the raw, ugly truth of Vincent Devereux.
“You’re fucking pathetic,” he snarls, directing his venom back at me. “A stain on the Devereux name. Your grandfather would be disgusted if he could see what you’ve become. He’d—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
It’s not me who speaks.
The words don’t come from me but from Seraphina, who rises from my lap in one fluid motion. She’s fucking magnificent in her fury.
“You don’t get to stand there and spew this bullshit about morality when you cheated on your wife and fucked a married woman and then lied about it for over two decades.”
My father heads looks like it might actually pop. Imagine it, like a little cherry tomato. I wonder if I poke it with a tine of my fork if it really will happen.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about—“
“Oh, I think I do,” she cuts him off. “You’re not mad because you think he’s fucking his sister. You’re mad because you’ve lost control of him. Of this whole fucking situation.”
I lean back in my chair, enjoying the show. My Little Sinner has claws, and she’s not afraid to use them.
Vincent’s face contorts with a new level of rage as he leans toward Seraphina, hand raised.
The movement is so quick, so instinctive, that I’m on my feet before I even register the thought to move.
My arm wraps around her waist, yanking her up with me as my other hand shoots out to capture my father’s wrist mid-air.
The sound of his bones grinding together under my grip is fucking satisfying.
“Do. Not. Touch. Her.” Each word drops from me like ice, my voice so controlled it barely sounds human. I tighten my grip until I feel the delicate bones in his wrist shift. “You lay one fucking inch of skin on her, and I’ll have you dealt with in the old ways.”
My father’s eyes widen slightly. He knows exactly what I mean.
The Onyx Dominion might have officially separated from Black Crown decades ago when we excommunicated them, but their methods—flaying the disobedient alive and displaying their bodies as warnings—are still whispered about in the darkest corners of Society meetings.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he breathes, but there’s uncertainty in his eyes now. Uncertainty and fear.
“Try me.” I twist his wrist just enough to make him wince. “I’ve always been curious how long it takes for a man to die when they’re skinned inch by inch. I’ve heard the screaming can last for days if it’s done right.”
Seraphina’s breath hitches behind me, but I don’t take my eyes off my father.
“You’re insane,” Vincent whispers.
“No.” I smile, the kind of smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “I’m simply your son. Molded exactly as you intended. Ruthless and calculating. Willing to do whatever it takes to protect what’s mine.”
I release his wrist with enough force to make him stumble backward, his other hand automatically coming up to rub the reddening marks my fingers left.
“Get out of my house,” I tell him, my voice eerily calm now. “And don’t come back.”
For a moment, I think he might argue. His eyes dart between me and Seraphina, calculating, assessing whether this is a battle worth fighting tonight. Then his shoulders straighten, that perfect Devereux mask sliding back into place.
“This isn’t over,” he says, straightening his cufflinks with practiced nonchalance. “The Society won’t stand for this...abomination.”
“The Society will follow me,” I remind him. “All it will take is one little drop of your infidelity.”
He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “You think you’re untouchable, but even heirs can fall, Lucien.” His eyes shift to Seraphina. “And when you do, she falls with you.”
The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the crystal glasses on the table.
I’m still standing, my body thrumming with adrenaline and rage, my hand still hovering where I’d gripped my father’s wrist.
“Well, that went about as expected,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the fury still pounding through my veins. My jaw aches from clenching it so tight.
Seraphina stands frozen beside me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I can’t tear my eyes away from her—the flush on her cheeks, the wild look in her eyes, the way her lips are slightly parted as she catches her breath.
Fuck, she’s beautiful when she’s angry. When she’s standing up for herself. When she’s standing up for me.
I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted from the confrontation. Without thinking, I reach out and grab her wrist, tugging her down with me. She lands in my lap with a small yelp of surprise, her ass pressing against my still-hard cock.
“Jesus,” I breathe out, some of the tension finally leaving my shoulders as I wrap an arm around her waist to keep her in place. Having her weight on me, feeling her warmth—it grounds me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
The moment doesn’t last. She squirms, trying to stand up.
“Where do you think you’re going, Little Sinner?” I growl, tightening my grip on her waist. “We’re not done here.”
“Let me go,” she demands. Her body is still vibrating with leftover adrenaline, just like mine.
“No.” I slide my hand up to cup her jaw, turning her face toward mine. “You’re not running away this time. Not after what just happened.”
Her eyes dart to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. “What do you want from me, Lucien?”
“The truth,” I say simply. “Why did you defend me?”
She tries to look away, but I hold her chin firmly. “I wasn’t defending you,” she mutters. “I was attacking him. There’s a difference.”
“Bullshit,” I counter, my thumb tracing the outline of her lower lip. “You could’ve let him tear into me. God knows I’ve given you enough reasons to hate me. Instead, you stood up to him. For me.”
Her breath catches as my thumb presses against her lip, parting it slightly. “Maybe I just hate him more than I hate you.”
I laugh, the sound low and rough. “High praise indeed.”
She shifts in my lap, and I have to bite back a groan as her ass grinds against my cock. “Can I get up now? This little revenge play is over.”
“Hmm,” I muse, tightening my grip on her waist. “What will you give me if I let you get up?”
She glares at me, those hazel eyes flashing with defiance. “You won’t get me scratching the fuck out of your face.”
“Maybe I’d like that,” I counter, my voice almost purring. I trace my finger along her cheek, down to her jaw. “Maybe they’ll leave faint scars. Maybe aim for my eyebrow.” I tap the spot above my right eye. “Heard the girls love an eyebrow slit.”
“You’re fucking deranged,” she says, but there’s less heat in her voice now and more amusement.
“Yes, I am.” I loosen my grip on her, letting my hands fall to my sides. “Go on then, Little Sinner. You’re free to get up.”
She pushes off my lap, and I expect her to storm out of the dining room, to flee upstairs and lock herself in her room like she’s done every night since moving in. Instead, she straightens her clothing, gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, and slides back into her chair across from me.
I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “Staying for dessert?”
“I’m still hungry,” she says simply, picking up her fork and stabbing at the barely-touched food on her plate. “And I’m not letting that asshole ruin my appetite.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. She continues to fucking surprise me at every turn.
“Antoine,” I call, and the server appears immediately. “We’ll have dessert now.”
As Antoine clears our plates and disappears back to the kitchen, I study Seraphina across the table. The flush is still high on her cheeks, her hair slightly mussed from our little performance.
“That was quite the show you put on,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Didn’t know you had it in you to stand up to Vincent like that.”
She takes a sip of her wine, eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“I’m learning,” I admit, watching the way her throat works as she swallows. “Though I have to say, the jersey was a nice touch. Didn’t take you for the type to go for such an obvious power play.”
“I learned from the best,” she says with a shrug that’s too casual to be genuine. “Besides, it worked, didn’t it? He completely lost his shit.”
“Worked like a fucking charm,” I agree, raising my glass in a mock toast.
Antoine glides back into the room with two dessert plates balanced expertly in his hands. He places them before us with a flourish.
“Crème br?lée with gold leaf and Grand Marnier-infused berries,” he announces before disappearing again.
The dessert is a work of art—golden caramelized sugar topped with actual fucking gold leaf, surrounded by plump berries glistening with liqueur.
Seraphina picks up her spoon and cracks through the caramelized surface with a satisfying snap. She scoops up a bite, making sure to get some of the creamy custard beneath and a berry alongside it.
When she slides the spoon between her lips, her eyes flutter closed.
“Mmm,” she moans softly, the sound hitting me straight in the dick. “Holy shit.”
I shift in my seat, my dick going from half-mast to full on boner as she takes another bite, this time dragging the spoon slowly from her mouth.
“This is so good,” she breathes, licking a smear of custard from her bottom lip.
I watch, transfixed, as she savors each bite. Her little sighs and moans of pleasure are pornographic, her tongue darting out to catch every last trace of sweetness. My own dessert sits untouched as I grip my thigh under the table, trying to control the throbbing in my pants.
“Aren’t you going to eat yours?” she asks, catching me staring.
I clear my throat. “I’m enjoying the show.”
She tilts her head, confused, then realization dawns in her eyes. A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face as she deliberately takes another bite, this time letting out a moan that’s so obviously exaggerated it would be comical if I wasn’t newly celibate except for me and my hand.
“Are you?” she asks innocently, scooping up more custard. But instead of bringing it to her mouth, she holds the spoon out toward me. “Maybe you should have a taste.”