Taming Seraphine

LEROI

Fuck.

I never thought I could get turned on by a girl holding a knife to my throat, but here I am, aching so hard it hurts. Seraphine is wild, untamed, reckless, but there’s something about the way she handled that blade that has me in a chokehold.

It wasn’t just the blade. The way she ground on my cock like a wicked little angel, her blonde hair a halo of gold cascading down her shoulders, forming a frame around her pert breasts. It took every effort not to fixate on her erect nipples and every ounce of self control not to stare at those lithe legs.

My gaze slips for long enough to catch Seraphine disappearing through the door, the fabric of her t-shirt clinging to her slender curves. I throw an arm over my eyes and groan.

She’s off-limits, even if she’s twenty-one years old and capable of slaughtering eight men in a fit of outrage. Seraphine is vulnerable. She needs help, and not the kind that involves her riding me until my vision explodes and I see stars.

I can’t let myself get caught up with someone so out of control—not when my work is so dangerous. Losing focus right now would be foolish, especially when Capello’s death will launch the underworld into chaos.

Ten minutes later, I’m still trying to pull my thoughts from the press of her sweet little pussy. I’m still painfully hard and desperate to bust, but I refuse to jerk off to my close encounter with the Lolita assassin. Instead, I haul my horny carcass off the bed and into the shower. The only thing that cools me off is the thought that my mentor helped turn a girl into a killer. Anton is of the sick bastards that taught her to lure in sick fucks with her innocence.

Seraphine waits for me by the dining table, dressed in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that arrived by mail earlier, with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She’s breathtakingly angelic and sweet, but with a touch of darkness I can no longer unsee.

I take her in the Lamborghini to the complex of high-end stores and offices on Lower Saye Street. She agreed to see a mafia-friendly therapist to work through her issues while we search for her brother.

“This is the first time I’ve been here during the day,” she says, her voice breathy.

“You were here during the night?”

Her features shutter, the way they always do when I get close to asking about the time she spent in captivity.

I open the car door for her and she steps out onto the sunny sidewalk, then we cross the street in silence. If she’s not ready to tell me what happened, I won’t press. That’s why she’s seeing a professional who won’t balk at discovering she’s an assassin.

“Remember,” I say as we approach the glass-fronted clinic. “Monica is bound by her professional ethics, but she’s still connected, so no mention of your last name, understood?”

Seraphine nods, and I let her into the office.

Monica Saint is a tall brunette I met through an associate who was going through a gambling addiction and was gracious enough to give Seraphine an appointment on short notice.

She steps out of her office with a bright smile. “Leroi, it’s been a long time. How can I help?”

“I brought the new client I told your receptionist about,” I say. “Angela Smith.”

Monica ushers Seraphine into her office. I hover by the exit for a few minutes in case there’s a commotion, but I shake off the thought. A female professional shouldn’t be a threat to Seraphine, and Monica has dealt with a wide array of criminal clients. They’ll be fine.

I step out of the door, lean against the window, pull out a burner phone, and speed dial my cousin, Roman.

He answers in one ring. “Leroi.”

“How’s prison treating you?”

“It’s a dump. Benito told me your tech guy can find the dirt I need to get the fuck out.”

“You want him to extract it?”

“Yeah, and congratulations on pulling off that job. Any loose ends?”

“No.” The lie rolls off my tongue.

“I’ve got another one for you,” he mutters. “Turns out that Capello was playing happy families with another woman. He has a daughter.”

The words hit me in the gut. Two of the guys at poker night mentioned Capello kept something in his basement that was so top secret nobody could enter it but his sons. Now, here’s another hint about Seraphine’s existence.

“More offspring?” I drawl, feigning boredom.

Roman chuckles. “Don’t worry, you didn’t screw up. This daughter lived with her mother overseas until the woman died. Word on the street is that Capello’s lawyer is trying to reach her about her inheritance.”

“Shit.”

“She doesn’t even know about her billionaire father, and I want it to stay that way.”

My pulse quickens. In other words, he wants me to kill Seraphine. If I refuse, he’ll just employ one of the other contract killers in New Alderney. Maybe even the Moirai Group, who always gets their target, regardless of the collateral damage.

“Have you located her?” I ask, my voice even.

“She’s a visual artist, whatever the fuck that means, and living uptown with a bunch of girlfriends.”

“Her name?” I ask, my brows pulling together.

“Emberly Kay.” The phone buzzes. “I just sent you a photo.”

I glance down at the screen into the smiling features of a dark-haired woman who looks nothing like Seraphine but easily resembles the Capello twin I shot in the bathroom. I let out an exhale, my lungs deflating with relief.

“The family resemblance is unmistakable,” I say.

Roman snorts. “You can take care of it, right?”

“No women or children,” I say. “I broke my code to get you off death row, but no more.”

My cousin falls silent for a few heartbeats before saying, “You’re right. Don’t think I won’t forget how you saved my life.”

I’m about to wax lyrical about how he and his family were my rocks after Dad died, but a scream from behind the glass cuts through the tender moment. I barrel through the entrance, push past the receptionist, and barge into Monica’s office.

Seraphine stands with a letter opener dripping with blood with Monica cowering behind her desk, holding a bleeding hand to her chest.

“Call 911,” Monica says to the receptionist at the door.

“No.” I advance toward Seraphine and squeeze the hand holding the letter opener until her fingers straighten and it drops to the floor. “Let me handle this.”

“I’m professionally bound to make sure my client gets the right help,” Monica says, her voice trembling.

My jaw tenses. Once again, I’m doubting my decision about not putting Seraphine out of her misery. She stares up at me with those huge, blue eyes, her bottom lip trembling, looking so vulnerable that the sight of her pulls at my frayed heartstrings.

I pull out my card. “How much can I pay you to make this problem go away?”

Monica’s gaze drops to my hand. She might be a therapist with professional training and degrees, but she’s also a realist.

“F-fifty,” she says.

The corner of my lip lifts into a smile. If my life was a Shakespearian tragedy, my fatal flaw would be overestimating women. “The cost of a contract on a man’s life?”

She flinches. “Twenty-five.”

“Ten.”

Her breath quickens. “F-fifteen.”

“Done.” I draw Seraphine into my side and hand the receptionist my card to process the payment.

Seraphine clings to me as the other woman’s fingers tremble over the credit card machine. I gaze down at her blonde head and sigh. She is going to be a handful.

Several minutes later, after I’ve ordered her out of Monica’s establishment, she sits in the front seat of the car, breathing hard, her fingers tightening into fists. I give her a few moments to compose herself and explain, but she’s too wrapped up in her own emotions to know where to begin.

“Why did you stab Monica?” I ask.

“I… I don’t know.” She glances away.

“Look at me, Seraphine,” I say. “Are these outbursts out of your control? Do you black out?”

She shakes her head, her bottom lip quivering. “No, just…” Her head bows, and she exhales a ragged breath. “I can’t stand being prodded. Or touched.”

My brow pulls together. “What happened?”

“She wouldn’t stop asking questions. Then she slid a box of tissues to me, and I snapped.” Seraphine sniffs. “I didn’t even think about it. My hand just moved.”

I wince. This is more than just an aversion to physical touch. “We can find another therapist⁠—”

“No. No more,” she says in a rush. “The only person I can trust is you.”

My breathing shallows. This reminds me of a TV show where the kidnapped girl fell in love with the cop who pulled her out of a basement. The woman from Internal Affairs called it white knight syndrome. Unease twists through my insides at the thought of an emotional attachment. I’m no hero. I get paid to kill strangers in cold blood.

She clings to my jacket, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Leroi, could you be my therapist?”