Novels by Seraphina St. Claire

I was dragging the bike up the gravel path when I heard a screen door scrape open.“You look like you’re one busted spark plug away from throwing that thing in a ditch,” a woman called out.I turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, cigarette in one hand, steaming mug in the other. Gray hair in a messy bun, a T-shirt that said Hell Ain’t Hot Enough, and a face that could cut through drywall.“Marge,” she said, introducing herself. “I keep the books and remind the boys to wash their hands before eating.”“Joan,” I said. “Just passing through.”“Uh-huh.” She took a drag and blew smoke. “That what you call showing up twice today with a busted bike and a look like someone just set your life on fire?”I stared at her. She sipped her coffee and added, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve seen worse.”She nodded toward the tree line behind the lot. “There’s a rental out back. Cabin. Small bed, leaky faucet, smells like cedar and regret. Last guy skipped town owing rent and a screwdriver set. Yo

Cremation was colder than I expected, not the process, but the silence. The finality of it.I stood in the crematorium chapel, alone in black, arms crossed. No crowd, no eulogies, just the hum of the air conditioner and flickering fluorescent lights.There was no one to invite. My father had no close family. Just me. Always just me.He was well-liked in the community, known for fixing engines and offering discounts to those struggling. But I couldn’t bear the thought of a spectacle. So, it was just me. I signed the papers, held the urn, said goodbye, but it didn’t feel like goodbye, instead it felt more like a pause in a scream.Outside, I saw a motorcycle.Parked at the edge of the lot, chrome gleaming even under the dull sky. It looked like my father’s bike, the one he used to polish every Sunday. I walked toward it without thinking, heart racing. But it wasn’t his, wrong handlebars, different rust pattern. Yet, it tore something open in me.I turned away before anyone could see my

“I can’t,” he said.The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.Everything stopped.“I can’t do this,” he repeated, louder this time. “I thought I could, but I’d be lying.”He turned to me, eyes full of guilt, but no apology.“I’m in love with her, Joan. I tried to move on, but I never stopped loving Vanessa. And now… now she’s carrying my child. I think… I think that’s a sign.”The air left my lungs.Darren stepped back from me like I was something he’d outgrown. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My body was too heavy. My dress felt like it was suffocating me. All I could do was stare as he walked down the aisle toward her.Vanessa stood waiting, arms folded like she knew he’d choose her all along.He pulled out the ring meant for me, and dropped to one knee in front of her.Right there.In front of me.In front of everyone.“Vanessa,” he said, smiling like the world hadn’t just cracked open, “will you marry me?”She laughed, dramatic and delighted.“Yes, of course,” she said. “I thought

PrologueJoan’s POV The first time my phone rang, I didn’t answer.It was past midnight, and I was still wide awake, lying in the dark with my heart trying to slow itself down. I told myself it was just nerves. Tomorrow or today, technically I was getting married. The venue was set. My dress was pressed. My father had kissed my forehead three times before bed and whispered, “You’ve got this.”So when my phone lit up for the second time with the same number I finally picked it up.“Hello?”There was silence on the other end. Muffled noise. A clink of glass. Then his voice came through, thick and slow like honey gone sour.“I just wanted to say... I’m proud of you.”I paused. “Who is this?”He didn’t answer my question. Just kept talking.“You made something real. You built something out of nothing. That’s rare, y’know? You’ve always been rare.”My throat tightened. I knew that voice. I’d memorized it. Slept beside it. Built a life on it.It was Darren.But something about the way he