Chapter 31
Lucien
My father’s empire is crumbling beneath my feet, and I’ve never felt more alive.
“It’s done,” Cassian says as we stride down the marble hallway, our footsteps echoing off the ornate walls of the Black Crown headquarters. “The vote was unanimous. Even Wallace backed you in the end.”
I adjust my cufflinks, the weight of my family signet ring heavy on my finger. “Of course he did. Wallace has always been a rat who jumps to the winning side when the ship starts sinking.”
We push through the massive oak doors into the cool night air. The grounds are empty. Just our cars and a few others belonging to council members still inside, probably drowning their shock in expensive whiskey.
“I still can’t believe you pulled it off,” Cassian mutters, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “A fucking coup against Vincent Devereux himself. Your own father.”
“Every king must fall,” I say, straightening my tie as we reach my Aston Martin. “Some harder than others.”
Cassian leans against the hood of my car, arms crossed over his broad chest. The streetlight catches the edge of his jawline, highlighting the calculating gleam in his eyes. “The old guard won’t take this lying down. Your father still has allies.”
“Let them come.” I unlock my car with a casual press of my key fob. “Anyone who stands with Vincent after what he did deserves whatever fucking fate they get.”
The events of the past week flash through my mind. Each image feeds the cold rage I’ve been nursing since that night, the rage that finally pushed me to call this emergency council meeting through Cassian’s father.
“Vincent crossed a line he couldn’t uncross,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. “He thought he was teaching me a lesson about control. Instead, he taught me exactly how far I’m willing to go to protect what’s mine.”
Cassian nods slowly. “Your father underestimated how much you care about her.”
“He underestimated everything about me.” I check my watch—it's almost midnight. Seraphina will be wondering where I am. “The board seats, the investments, the property transfers—it’s all been filed?”
“As of an hour ago, you control sixty-eight percent of Devereux Holdings.” Cassian’s mouth curves into a cold smile. “Your father has been effectively neutered.”
I run my hand through my hair, exhaustion suddenly hitting me. I’ve been planning this takeover for years, but the timeline had to be accelerated. Tonight was just the final move in a long game.
“Give your father my thanks,” I say, opening my car door. “And my apologies for the mess he’ll have to clean up.”
“He knows what he signed up for when he backed you,” Cassian replies with a shrug. “Besides, he’s been waiting for Vincent’s fall longer than either of us.”
I slide into the driver’s seat; the leather creaking beneath my weight. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Always.” Cassian steps back, hands in his pockets, the perfect picture of casual confidence. But I know better. Behind that relaxed stance is a mind just as calculating as mine. It’s why I trust him. “Give Seraphina my regards.”
“Oh, fuck off, Crowe.”
The house is mostly dark as I pull into the circular driveway, just a few lights glowing from the windows. It’s nearly one in the morning now. Seraphina’s probably asleep.
Because when you’re meeting about the head of the Sinners, the discretion of midnight is a necessity or whatever.
Destroying my father was always the endgame, but I didn’t expect it to feel this fucking good. Like finally scratching an itch I’ve had since I was old enough to understand what kind of man Vincent Devereux really is.
The front door clicks shut behind me as I drop my keys in the Baccarat crystal bowl on the entryway table. I loosen my tie, rolling my shoulders to release the tension.
“Seraphina?” I call out, my voice echoing through the marble foyer.
No answer, but I hear faint music coming from the living room.
I follow the sound, rounding the corner to find her sprawled across my custom Italian leather sectional—the one that cost more than most people’s cars—with her feet propped up on a throw pillow and a bottle of bright red nail polish in her hand.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, taking in the scene.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my white dress shirts, the fabric riding up to reveal a sliver of black lace underneath.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face.
She looks perfectly at home, perfectly comfortable—defiling my forty-thousand-dollar couch with nail polish that could spill at any moment.
She glances up at me, those hazel eyes widening slightly before her lips curve into a smile. “Hey. How’d the coup go?”
“Successfully,” I reply, shrugging out of my suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a nearby armchair. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Painting my nails.” She wiggles her toes, showing off the half-finished pedicure. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
I move closer, eyeing the open bottle of polish precariously balanced on the arm of the couch. “You can’t go get those done? We have more money than we need in a lifetime. We can afford it.”
She snorts, dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle. “I could, but I wanted to do it myself. It’s relaxing.”
“Okay, well then you couldn’t do it at a table or in the bathroom?” I gesture to the couch, feeling unreasonably irritated. “You’re going to do it on the Minotti?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then pitches her voice lower in what I assume is meant to be an imitation of me. “We can afford a new couch if we need it.”
“That’s not the point,” I growl, walking over and plucking the nail polish from her hand. “This shit is impossible to get out of leather.”
“Give that back,” she demands, sitting up and reaching for the bottle.
I hold it above my head, out of her reach. “Not until you move your ass to somewhere that isn’t my favorite piece of furniture.”
“You’re such a fucking control freak,” she mutters, but she stands up anyway. “Thought I was your favorite piece of furniture with the way you sleep on me.”
“I just overthrew my father and came home to find you about to ruin my furniture.”
She stands there with her hip cocked, shirt riding up to show more of that lace, and fuck if my dick doesn’t twitch in my pants despite my exhaustion. She makes me want to bend her over the arm of that couch, expensive leather be damned.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically, fluttering her eyelashes. “Should I be throwing you a parade? Making you dinner? Sucking your dick to congratulate you on your hostile takeover?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
She lunges for the nail polish again, but I hold it higher. “Give it back, you absolute asshole. I have three nails left to do.”
“Move to the kitchen table and I will.”
“The lighting sucks in there,” she whines. “Come on, Lucien. I’m being careful.”
I look at her half-painted toes, the way she’s pouting at me like a child denied candy, and something shifts in my chest. It’s these little moments of normalcy that fuck me up the most—her doing something so ordinary in my house like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged here.
“Fine,” I say, surprising us both. In one fluid motion, I scoop her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shrieks, grabbing onto my shoulders. “Put me down! You’re going to make me smudge my toes!”
I sit down on the couch, settling her across my lap. “There. Problem solved. I’m protecting my investment.”
“I’m not a fucking investment,” she snaps, but she’s already adjusting herself on my thighs, getting comfortable.
“The couch is the investment, Little Sinner. You’re the liability.”
She smacks my chest, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Fuck you.”
“Later,” I promise, dangling the nail polish bottle in front of her. “Now finish your toes so we can go to bed. I’m fucking exhausted.”
She reaches for the bottle, but instead of taking it, she gives me a calculating look. “You do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, wiggling her toes. “You paint the rest. You’re so worried about your precious couch getting ruined—you do it.”
I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “I’m not painting your fucking toenails.”
“Why not? Afraid you’ll like it? Afraid it might damage your big bad alpha male image?” She smirks. “Nobody’s here to see but me.”
It’s a challenge. She’s baiting me, and I’ve never backed down yet.
“Fine,” I say, taking the tiny brush from her hand. “But if you tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking deny it.”
She grins triumphantly, stretching her leg out and placing her foot in my lap. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your reputation, Satan.”
I examine her foot, noticing she’s already done the big toe and the one next to it. The polish is blood red, almost the exact shade I’d choose if someone asked me what color best represents her—vibrant, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
“If you fuck this up, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” she warns as I bring the brush to her nail.
“Hold still and I’ve never half-assed anything in my life,” I command, dipping the brush into the bottle. I steady her foot with my left hand, wrapping my fingers around her ankle to keep her in place.
I apply the first stroke carefully, my hand surprisingly steady considering I’ve never done this before. The brush glides over her nail, leaving a perfect streak of crimson.
“Mmm, that’s debatable,” she teases, wiggling her toes slightly. “Your performance the other night was definitely lacking.”
My head snaps up. “The fuck it was. You came three times.”
Her smile is downright wicked. “I’m an excellent actress.”
“Bullshit,” I growl, deliberately running the brush along the side of her toe, leaving a streak of red. “Oops.”
“You asshole!” She tries to jerk her foot away, but I hold her ankle firmly.
“Stay still or they’ll all look like shit.” I grab a tissue from the box on the side table and clean up my deliberate mistake. “And for the record, you can’t fake the way your pussy clenches around my dick when you come.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. “Just paint my fucking nails.”
I smirk and return to the task, feeling strangely satisfied as each nail turns glossy red. There’s something weirdly intimate about holding her foot like this, touching her with no sexual intent. Well, minimal sexual intent. I’m still thinking about bending her over the couch later.
“You’re actually not terrible at this,” she admits, watching me work.
“I excel at everything I do,” I respond, focusing on the pinky toe. “Whether it’s basketball, overthrowing my father or painting your fucking toenails.”
She snorts. “Your ego is exhausting.”
I finish her foot and pat her ankle. “Other one.”
She obediently lifts her other foot, resting it on my thigh.
“So you really did it,” she says quietly as I work on her middle toe. “You actually took everything from Vincent.”
“Not everything.” I keep my eyes on her foot, concentrating on staying inside the lines. “He still has his name. For now.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re ruthless.”
I glance up at her, catching the hint of admiration in her eyes. “He tried to effectively sell you, Seraphina. He’s lucky I didn’t put him in the ground next to Richards.”
Her pinky toe is tiny, barely bigger than the brush itself.
“Almost done,” I murmur, adding a final stroke to her pinky toe. “See? Fucking perfect.”
“Not bad for your first time,” she admits, admiring my handiwork. “Now you have to blow on them to dry.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She wiggles her freshly painted toes. “They need to dry or they’ll smudge.”
I sigh dramatically but lean down, gently blowing cool air across her toes. The intimacy of the act strikes me as bizarre. Sitting here blowing on a woman’s toenails. If the guys on the team could see me now, I’d never hear the end of it.
Her fingers find their way to my hair as I continue blowing softly on her toes. She starts running them through the short strands, massaging my scalp in slow circles that make tension I didn’t even know I was carrying begin to dissolve.
“Mmm,” I can’t help the sound that escapes me as her nails lightly scratch behind my ear. “That feels good.”
“Yeah?” She continues the motion, her touch surprisingly gentle. “You’re all knotted up. Staging coups is stressful business, huh?”
I huff out a laugh against her foot, still blowing intermittently on her toes. “Something like that. The annual gala is coming up. We need to get our outfits put together.”
“Mmm. And will I be on your arm at this event?” There’s something hesitant in her voice that makes me look up.
“Where else would you be?” I ask, genuinely confused. “You’re my Chosen.”
She shrugs, trying to seem casual but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “Just checking. Wasn’t sure if taking down Daddy Devereux might change things.”
I stare at her for a moment, trying to understand what she’s really asking me. Is she seriously questioning her place now that I’ve taken over?
“Change things? Why the fuck would that change anything?” I reach out and grab her chin, forcing her to look at me.
She bites her lip, those hazel eyes searching mine. “So I’m still your Chosen? Even though you don’t need me to piss off Vincent anymore?”
Jesus Christ. Is that what she thinks? That she was just a pawn in my game against my father?
“Seraphina,” I say, my voice dropping lower, “do you think I went through all this shit—claiming you publicly, bringing you into my home, and killing a fucking priest just to spite my father?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.” She shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the vulnerability in her eyes. “That’s how this started, right? You wanted to stick it to Vincent by taking the one woman he told you that you couldn’t have.”
I grab her by the waist and reposition her so she’s straddling me, her legs on either side of my hips.
“Listen to me carefully,” I growl, gripping her ass to pull her tighter against me. “I wanted you long before I knew about Vincent’s bullshit.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “But—“
“But nothing,” I cut her off. “Did finding out it would piss off my father make it sweeter? Sure. But make no mistake, Little Sinner—you were never just a means to his end.”