Taming Seraphine

LEROI

Tearing myself away from Seraphine on the operating table, I cross the room to where the last Capello shuffles on his hands and knees toward his fallen lackey’s pistol.

My footsteps are light, but I doubt he can hear me through his labored breaths. Gunshot wounds to the gut are excruciating, but not immediately fatal, and I intend to deliver him to Seraphine alive.

Overtaking him, I kick the pistol away, sending it skidding across the floor. Samson’s eyes snap up to meet mine, his features twisted into a rictus of pain.

“Let me go, and I won’t kill you,” he says.

I pull him up by the lapels. Pain flares across my abdomen, and I clench my teeth. “You’re in no position to make demands.”

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks with a pained moan.

“Call your contact at the Moirai Group and cancel the hit.”

He laughs, the sound grating my eardrums. “So you can kill me?”

“Your men are all dead, as is your family. That leaves you with two choices. I can kill you slowly until you beg for death, or you can die fast with a bullet through the skull.”

Samson’s features drop, and his face pales. “I’ll call off the hit, but only on the condition that you don’t kill me.”

“Fine.”

“Swear on your life.”

My brow rises. “Are you serious?”

“Swear on your fucking life.”

Sweat beads across my brow. and I clench my jaw. Of all the ridiculous bullshit. But I’ll play along because the Moirai are like a hydra. Cut down one assassin, and two more will spring up to avenge their fallen comrade. They’re relentless, focusing on quantity over quality, not caring about the collateral damage they inflict to guarantee results.

“Alright then,” I rasp.

Spots dance in my vision. I suck in a deep breath and chase them away. “I, Leroi Montesano, swear on my life that I will not put a bullet through Samson Capello’s head. Nor will I keep him alive and give him a lingering death.”

Samson nods, and I release him. He hits the ground with a pained grunt. I reach into the back pocket of his pants and pull out his phone.

“Don’t try anything stupid.” I push the device into his trembling fingers.

“I won’t.”

He dials a number. As it rings, I lean down and put the phone on speaker.

“Moirai?” asks a deep voice.

“This is client number 732,” Samson says, his breath labored. “I’m calling to cancel the contract on the lone gunman.”

The person on the other end of the line hesitates for a moment before asking, “Are you under duress?”

“No,” he grinds out.

“Cancellations at this stage in the process are non-refundable,” the man from Moirai says. “Are you sure you wish to proceed?

“Yes,” Samson growls.

“Very well. Consider it done.”

Snatching the phone off the floor sends a lash of agony through my insides that makes my breath catch. Ignoring it, I hang up and slip it into my pocket.

Samson slumps to the floor with a large exhale. “Now, call me a fucking ambulance.”

Sweat soaks my front as I drag him back toward where I left Seraphine sitting on the operating table. She hops down and moves to a tray holding the surgical equipment and a brand new collar.

“What are you doing?” Samson asks, his voice rising several octaves. “You swore⁠—”

“Not to kill you,” I say and haul him onto the operating table with a grin. The wound in my stomach screams with protest, but the pain is worth the effort. “I made no promises about Seraphine.”

“Let go of me,” Samson yells.

Seraphine returns to my side. “Turn him over,” she says, her voice cold. “We’re going to stick this collar around his neck and then implant a chip.”

Samson struggles, but I use the momentum of his movements to lay him on his front. Sharp pains punctuate each breath as I strap him in, and blood soaks the front of my black shirt and down my pants. At this rate, I won’t stay conscious long enough to enjoy the show.

“Don’t do this, Sera,” Samson says, his voice breaking. “We can work something out. Whatever you want.”

I back away, prop myself against the wall, and text Sal my location.

Seraphine turns around and gives me a dazzling smile, which fades to alarm. “Leroi?”

“I’m alright.” I shake my head. “It’s just a scratch.”

Her gaze falls to the blood pooling at my feet. She drops the collar and rushes to my side. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

She rips open my shirt, revealing the soaked bandage. “I did this,” she cries. “Oh, Leroi. I’m so sorry.”

Of all the violent acts I’ve seen Seraphine commit, she has never once shown a scrap of remorse. Remorse for damaging furniture, making messes, or getting blood on food, but never for the carnage she’s inflicted on another human being.

As the edges of my vision go black, I wonder if this is her way of showing love. If so, I’ll take it.

Much later, I’m lounging on imaginary clouds. Fingertips running up and down my chest pull me out of slumber. I inhale a deep breath and inhale the faint scent of strawberries.

“Seraphine?” I croak.

“Go back to sleep,” she murmurs. “Dr. Sal says you’re not allowed out of bed for a week.”

“Where am I?”

“Roman said we could stay in his cottage.”

I crack open an eye to find Seraphine cuddled up to my side. There’s a lightness in her expression I’ve never seen before. I’m not hopeful enough to believe that I’ve solved all her problems, but the darkness in her eyes has retreated to let in more light.

“Why not one of his spare rooms?”

She raises a shoulder. “He didn’t want to house a Capello.”

My brow furrows, and I wonder how much Seraphine told my cousin about her past.

“Not me,” she says with a bright smile. “Samson.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He’s still alive?”

She gives me an eager nod. “Roman let me bring him back with us. I was saving the best part for you.”

“Seraphine,” I say, my breaths going shallow. “What have you done?”

She lowers her gaze and walks her fingers up my chest, her lips curving with mischief. I let out an exasperated chuckle.

I knew what I was getting into when I allowed myself to kiss Seraphine. She isn’t the kind of woman who would balk at my line of work because her hands are just as steeped in blood as mine. Besides, nothing she could ever do to Samson would compensate for the horrors of her five years in that basement.

“Don’t huff and puff when I prove you wrong,” she says.

“Wrong about what?” I ask.

“See, you’re already getting huffy,” she says, her voice light.

“Seraphine,” I growl.

“Alright.”

She sits up, letting the sheets slide down her body, revealing delicate curves that steal my breath. The wound in my gut throbs, but it’s nothing compared to what she’s doing to my aching cock.

I groan as she stretches, her body arching so beautifully that I lose track of my suspicions. Then she glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes gleaming, a smile playing on those pretty lips. It’s not difficult to see why she’s such a successful killer. Seraphine is a siren and I would let her lure me to a watery death.

“Want to see?” she asks.

“No.” I lean back against the pillows. “Dr. Sal says I should stay in this bed for a week.”

She hops off the mattress. “If you don’t come now, he’ll start to smell.”

“What?”

She giggles, puts on a satin robe, and disappears behind another door. Throwing off the covers, I swing my legs off the edge of the bed. The pain in my gut isn’t as acute as it was the night before, and there are no red patches seeping through the dressings.

“After the doctor fixed your wounds, I made him heal Samson,” she says from beyond the door, seeming to read my mind.

“Why?”

“To keep him alive for this,” she replies.

Curiosity gives me an energy boost. I’ve never seen her so happy or light-hearted. I pad after her in my boxers, still not knowing what to expect.

Samson Capello lies in a bathtub of diluted blood. The handle of a scalpel protrudes from one closed eye, and the other is wide open in a rictus of horror. Deep gouges criss-cross his chest, some of them revealing glimpses of muscle and tendons.

“And before you complain, I didn’t touch his junk directly,” she says. “I used a knife and fork.”

It takes a few moments for my brain to process the lumps of flesh floating in the red water are his testicles and what remained of his half-rotted penis. Gruesome wouldn’t fully encompass the scene. It looks like one of Seraphine’s pictures.

His rasping breaths fill the room, punctuated by the occasional moan. I’m impressed at how she’s managed to keep him alive.

She has outdone herself.

The sound of a hairdryer breaks me out of my thoughts, and I tear my gaze away from Samson’s disembodied genitals to find Seraphine standing over him holding a hairdryer attached to the mains.

My eyes widen. “What are you⁠—”

She drops the appliance into the tub. Samson’s body thrashes, splashing red-tinged water over her pretty robe, and then falls still.

She turns to me, her smile bright. “I told you!”

“Told me what?” I ask.

“You said my story about the man I electrocuted in the bathtub was bullshit,” she says. “Now that you’ve seen the proof, it’s time for you to apologize.”

My gaze darts from the smartphone balancing on the sink, the metal scalpel embedded in his eye, and the empty bags of salt strewn on the floor. She must have searched to find a way to make the water more conductive just to prove her point.

My heart swells with pride at the thought of her researching ways to hone her craft.

“Come here,” I say.

She walks over with her chin raised, looking triumphant.

I pull her into my chest. “You’re perfect just the way you are. Don’t ever change.”

“And?”

“And I’m sorry.”

Seraphine rocks forward on her tiptoes and places a kiss on my lips. “I love you, too.”