“Because it’s in my blood?” I arch a brow.
“Because you’re you, and I’ve never gotten a handle on you, though Lord knows I’ve tried.”
“You just need to spend more time with me. So spend more time with me.”
“Tomorrow, maybe . . .”
“Tomorrow night, meet me at the beach at nine o’clock. By the rocks to the left, way down the beach.”
“I’ll see.”
“You’ll do it,” I tell her. “You’ll do it because you want me as much as I want you. And you want to know what’s going to happen next. You want to know what it feels like to have me inside you, making you moan, making you come. You want me to become your world, and that’s exactly what I’m going to fucking do.”
She’s speechless.
Good.
I hope that knocked some sense into her.
I get up, my hard-on still straining against my jeans, begging for mercy. I’ll have to deal with it later.
I reach down and pull Seraphine off the bed until she’s standing in front of me. She gives me a sheepish look before she redoes her bra and pulls her shirt down, but I’m looking over her shoulder.
I’m looking at the door that I thought I’d closed, but I guess I didn’t.
I’m looking at someone in the doorway.
Just a glimpse of a face in motion.
Pascal.
Fuck no.
“Well, I didn’t expect this tonight,” she says, looking up at me, and I avert my eyes to hers before she sees where I was looking, hoping that my face isn’t registering my shock and the very realization at how fucking screwed we suddenly are. If Pascal saw anything . . .
“To add more to the dysfunction of the Dumonts,” she continues, a tiny smile on her lips.
I can barely smile back. I can’t even think. I have got to get out of here.
“You’re right,” I say dumbly. “I should go.”
“Okay,” she says uneasily. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” I move past her toward the door.
“Tomorrow on the beach at nine?” she calls after me, and I nearly jump at how loud she sounds. Pascal is sure to hear her if he’s anywhere out in the hallway.
I nod, afraid to speak, and quickly exit her room.
I see Pascal down the hall just as he goes into his room, closing the door.
Fuck.
Fuck me.
If Pascal heard us, if he saw us, the first thing he’ll do is tell my father. He’ll tell him and then my father will make our lives a living hell.
If not that, he might just kill me.
It’s no secret what he thinks of Seraphine. Both he and my mother look down on her, pity Ludovic for taking her in. The fact that she was an orphan, that she was poor, that she came from what they consider “scum” would have been enough, but that she’s brown really disgusts them. She’s not white, not French, not rich by blood—she’s not them.
And while I have no doubt her saintly mother and father would go above and beyond to protect her, I also know that this dalliance would touch on my father’s pride. The very idea that his failure of a son and his brother’s unworthy adopted yet much-loved daughter got together would embarrass him more than anything else.
I can’t let that happen.
And yet I don’t know what to do.
I don’t want to talk to Pascal about it, just in case he didn’t see or hear anything damaging. And I’m not about to bring it up with my father either.
There’s only one thing that I can do. One thing that will probably break me.
I can’t be with Seraphine ever again. I probably shouldn’t even talk to her, because Pascal might be watching for any sort of sign—something to fuel his suspicion, if that’s all there is to go on.
I’m going to have to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Or face the consequences.
CHAPTER TEN
SERAPHINE
Nine years ago
Mallorca
I’m in big, big trouble.
I mean, major shit.
One minute I was lost in my thoughts as I headed to my bedroom, the next minute Blaise was blocking the doorway, badgering his way inside.
I should have shut that door on him. Tried harder. Been quicker.
I shouldn’t have let him in my room.
I knew the moment I let him in my room, I’d let him in my heart. For once and for real. And that’s exactly what happened.
He came in with the look in his eyes of a man who has been lost at sea, finally seeing land. I’ve never been looked at that way before. I’ve dreamed about it. I’ve seen that look in movies, I’ve read about it in books, but I never thought it existed in real life. That hunger, that yearning. It was written on Blaise’s face, clear as day.
And his body too. If the thought of feeling his erection scared me at one time, it didn’t then. In that moment, the fear melded into something else. It was a fear of myself. A fear that I might become someone else if I give myself to him, and if I give myself to him, I might never get myself back.
It’s scary to want something so badly.
It’s even scarier when you’re not sure if the other person feels the same.
I mean, I know what Blaise wants from me. It’s always been there, an elephant in the room. Sexual tension that morphed into bickering and insults because that’s the only place for it to go. For God’s sake, we could never act on it.
Or so I thought. It was the one thing that held me in check, even in the days and nights that my thoughts turned to him. When I thought about kissing him again. What it would be like to feel his body. What it would be like to have sex with him, to be naked, to be the object of his primal and lustful affection. My teenage hormones were always kept in line because I knew that we could never be anything more than just cousins.
But Blaise is braver than I am. Or perhaps he’s just stupider. I always thought he was the one so carefully composed and in control, and I expected nothing but that strength around me. That facade that we both weren’t feeling anything for each other. To see him weakened . . .
I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t turned me on. How fucked up is that? Not just to want your own damn cousin but to want his walls down so that he’s vulnerable around you and only you.
Now it’s eight o’clock the night after, and I’m sitting with my mother on the large terrace overlooking the beach. Thankfully the spot where Blaise wants to meet me is far out of reach, and I have another hour.
“Are you all right?” my mother asks.
I notice I’m tapping my fingers against the arms of the rattan chair. It’s hard to act normal when all I can think about is him. I don’t even know what to expect tonight. Are we going to talk? Make out? Will I end up sleeping with him? I’m pretty sure he knows I’m a virgin, even if he’s tried to hint otherwise.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, reaching for my glass of wine and having a large sip.
“Careful,” she says, eyeing the glass. “You’re only seventeen.”
“Mother, it’s France,” I say, giving her a dry look. “You can’t pretend that this isn’t part of the culture.”
“Be that as it may, you’ve been drinking like a fish while you’ve been here. I know we’re here to celebrate and everything, but I think it’s worth having a sharp and clear head.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “Tensions are a little high, if you haven’t noticed.”
No fucking kidding they are. Oh, but she’s talking about everyone else. The drama last night over my drunken aunt, which has made everyone cagey and hungover today.
I should care about that. I should be more in tune to the fact that something is going on, something I know nothing about. But family drama is prevalent every time we get together. Over Christmas, Pascal and Renaud got in a fistfight, and Uncle Gautier had the nerve to call the cops, trying to get Renaud put away even though Pascal started it. Other times my aunt will get my mother drunk and then pick a fight with her
over something in the past. It’s always something.
“I’ll be careful,” I tell her. I need the wine for my nerves. I didn’t even eat dinner; I just picked at my food and did my best to ignore Blaise, who was sitting across from me.
He did the same. In fact, he did it a little too well. The times that I did look up at him, lost in the beauty of his handsome face, an attraction that I’ve denied myself for too long, he didn’t even give me a glance. It’s like I didn’t exist at all.
That’s another reason why I’m nervous. Because I’m trusting him, someone I’ve always told myself I couldn’t trust. One of them.
God, I hope I’m making the right decision. My heart right now feels so precarious, like it’s balancing on the edge, and if I lean just an inch, one way or the other, I will fall. One side and I’ll fall forever. The other side and I’ll hurt forever.
You should have slept with Emil. Or Armand. Or anyone else. You shouldn’t be a virgin for Blaise. If this goes wrong, if he screws you over . . .
It’s like it’s on autoplay in my head.
And my mother, well, I suppose she’s trying her best to ignore everyone and whatever sort of drama there is floating around this vacation house, and she’s talking my ear off about this and that. I keep checking my phone for the time, wondering how I’m going to excuse myself. Thankfully, at about ten to nine, she gets up and says she’s heading to bed.
I hug her good night, catching a glimpse of frailty in her face, suddenly struck by the realization that my mother is on the older side (especially compared to my aunt Camille, who is considerably younger than my uncle), and that I love her so much and I’ve only known her for eight years. It reminds me of what I lost as a child. I know it’s better late than never, but I should have had my mother from the very moment I was born.
“I love you,” I tell her. I feel like I need to tell her more often.
From the surprised look on her face, I know I need to. She’s not used to it. I used to say it all the time as a child, when I was first adopted and learning what love is. Then the last few years, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been the stereotypical bitchy teenager, subconsciously pushing her away.
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says to me with soft eyes, patting me on the cheek. “But try not to drink so much, okay?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not drunk. I mean it.”
She gives me a gentle smile. “Good.”
I watch as she walks into the house. The lights are on in the lounge, and I see my father and Olivier sitting around talking, my mother stopping by them briefly before continuing on her way upstairs.
I exhale loudly and shake out my arms, turning my attention back to the beach. I need to get down there before anyone sees me out here and notices me leaving in the opposite direction.
I hurry down the long stone stairway that leads down to the beach, taking off my sandals as soon as I hit the sand. I look both ways but it’s dark, with only a half-moon to light the way. I don’t see anyone in either direction, but I hurry to the left, walking quickly through the soft sand until I’m around trees and bushes and the rocky outcrop that cuts into the sea.
This has to be where he meant. To go any farther would be to climb on the rocks, and with the waves crashing against them, it would be completely dangerous, especially in the dark.
So I sit down and I wait, running grains of sand through my fingers, over and over again.
I’m so nervous about what’s going to happen that time seems to pass even slower. Each second stretches on with each crash of the waves. And yet time is also skipping. I keep thinking that I’m going to see him, and then that’s going to be it and everything is going to happen so fast, and I don’t even know what I truly want.
I just want to trust him.
I want to let him in.
I want to lose myself to him, go up in the heat and flames, and somehow manage to not get burned in the process.
But he doesn’t show up.
I don’t see him.
I keep looking at my phone and watching the time tick on while the grains of sand run through my hands. Nine fifteen turns to nine thirty. Nine thirty turns to nine forty-five, then ten o’clock. I don’t even have Blaise’s damn phone number, so I can’t text him and see where he is.
I end up staying until eleven, thinking that maybe he got held up and couldn’t escape. That has to be it. He was so into me last night; I saw it, I felt it. That wasn’t a show. He would have come, right?
Even though it’s May and the days are hot on Mallorca, the nights can get cold, and by the time I get back to the villa, I’m shivering from head to toe.
And that’s when I see him.
Blaise, sitting on the veranda where I was earlier, drinking by himself.
I walk right up to him, rubbing my hands down my arms in an attempt to get warm even though the anger that’s starting to flare through me is doing a good job of it.
“Blaise,” I whisper harshly to him. “Where have you been?”
He doesn’t even look at me, just takes a drink from a glass of amber liquid. Probably Scotch.
“Blaise,” I say again. “What’s your problem? What happened? Just fucking look at me, will you?”
But he doesn’t. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly and continues to stare out into the open. His jaw is held tensely, warring with his relaxed pose.
Something inside me starts to break.
I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but I’m a mess inside; my heart, my gut, my pride, it’s all getting so twisted and tangled, threatening to choke me.
He’s going to fuck me over, isn’t he?
I put my trust in the wrong guy.
I need to be wrong.
I go and stand right in front of him, and he finally looks at me, his eyes looking me up and down. Maybe he sees the goose bumps on my skin and my shivering. Maybe he sees the confusion in my eyes. For a second he looks at me like something inside him is breaking too.
And then it’s gone.
Just like that.
The wonderful world of promises that his eyes held last night in my room, it’s all gone. Replaced by a void.
I thought he wasn’t like the rest of them, I think. Then I correct myself.
No, you hoped he wasn’t like the rest of them.
And I was wrong.
“Where did you go?” I say, trying to keep my voice calm but failing. “I was waiting out there for you for two hours,” I add in a harsh whisper.
He stares at me blankly. “Hi, Seraphine. Bit late to be out, don’t you think?”
What the actual fuck?
“What are you talking about?”
“You should probably head to bed.”
Wait, is that innuendo, like a hint, or . . .
“Just tell me what happened,” I tell him. “Why didn’t you show?”
His gaze gives me nothing, and his voice is bored. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
No.
I try to form words but can’t. My lips flap soundlessly as I try to understand why he’d do this.
I look around, wondering if maybe we’re being watched, but I don’t see anyone.
I lean in closer to him, my eyes searching his. “Blaise. Just . . . tell me that things are going to be okay.”
He tilts his chin up and gives me a chilling look. “They’ll be okay when you stop fucking annoying me like some little fangirl.”
It’s a fucking shotgun blast to my chest.
Little fangirl?
Is that what he really thinks?
Is that how I’ve been acting?
“But last night,” I say, my words shaking, falling from my lips as my heart continues to shatter in my chest. “Last night you . . . you . . .”
“Sounds like last night was a product of your imagination,” he says, motioning for me to get out of his way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going out.”
“What? Out? Where?”
What the
hell is going on? What is he talking about?
“A bar in town,” he says. “Have a good night.”
“Blaise!” I cry out, reaching for his arm.
He looks down at my hand and then pulls it off him, as if my touch suddenly disgusts him.
“I said have a good night. Maybe I’ll see you again in a year or two. Don’t go falling for the wrong boys, okay?”
And then he’s gone, walking down the stairs and around the side of the house.
And I’m left behind with a hole in my heart.
I can’t believe it.
I can’t believe him.
How could he do this to me?
But then I know why.
Because he’s a liar.
He’s an asshole, a selfish prick.
He’s like his father, his brother.
And I’m me.
I’m not a model. I’m an orphan, I’m from India. I can change my name and learn French, but I can never lose that past, that person I was—the person nobody wanted. The person people abused and spit on and humiliated.
And here I am, humiliated again.
By someone I dared to put trust in. Even when I thought I was keeping a cage around my heart, even when I thought I was protecting myself from the worst-case scenario, he still managed to find a way in through the bars.
I’ve been so stupid to think anything could be different for me.
I’m just a young, stupid girl who was fooled into thinking she was someone more.
Well . . . fuck that.
Never again.
Never again.
He’s as dead to me as I’m dead to him.
And that’s the way it’s always going to stay.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SERAPHINE
It’s been five days since I had the meeting with Cyril and Jones.
Five days in which I’ve tried to keep myself as busy as possible while waiting for news from Jones.
Five days of staring at my uncle at work and trying to imagine what I’ll say and do if Jones uncovers the truth and the truth points to him.
Time has never passed more slowly.
I feel like I’m living Groundhog Day.
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