Chapter 1; Dead Conscience

SERAPHINA

The first time I fucked my sister’s husband, I was still a virgin.

The second time, she was upstairs dying.

Today? Today she’s sleeping off her chemo while I stand in their kitchen doorway, watching him pour scotch at noon, and all I can think about is how his hands felt wrapped around my throat three days ago.

My name is Seraphina, and I am not your heroine.

I’m the villain in this story. The monster. The selfish little bitch who spread her legs for her dying sister’s husband and would do it again without hesitation.

And if you’re still reading, if you haven’t thrown this book across the room in disgust, then congratulations—you’re just as fucked up as I am. We’re going to get along beautifully.

Dominic Ashcroft is forty-three years old. Twenty-two years my senior. Old enough to be my father, though that particular taboo is one I haven’t crossed.

He’s also the most magnificent man I’ve ever seen—all controlled power and devastating authority wrapped in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent. Silver threads through his dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes that assess and command and promise things that would make a good girl blush.

I’m not a good girl.

I stopped being good the moment I realized I wanted him more than I wanted to be a decent human being.

“You’re staring.” His voice cuts through my thoughts, low and rough. He doesn’t turn around, just brings the glass to his lips.

“You’re drinking before lunch,” I counter, pushing off the doorframe. “Seems fair.”

Now he turns, and even exhausted and morally compromised, Dominic Ashcroft takes my breath away. It’s not just his looks—though those help. It’s the way he carries himself. The controlled power in every movement. The intelligence burning behind those assessing eyes.

Eyes that are currently traveling down my body in a way that should make me feel dirty.

It doesn’t.

“Elena’s sleeping,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s a statement or an invitation.

“I know.” I step closer, watching his jaw tighten. “I gave her the medication. She’ll be out for hours.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. He sets down his glass with deliberate precision, the kind of control that tells me he’s barely holding onto it. “You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” I’m close enough now to smell his cologne, that expensive woody scent that clings to his shirts. The same shirts I’ve borrowed to sleep in, breathing him in like some lovesick teenager.

Which I suppose I am. Lovesick. Twenty-one. Completely obsessed with a man I can never actually have.

“You know exactly what.” His voice drops lower, taking on that edge of command that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Looking at me like that. Saying things like that. Being here.”

“This is my sister’s house. Where else would I be?”

“You moved into the guest room.” He takes a step toward me and I refuse to back away. “You dropped out of school. You gave up your apartment.”

“Elena needs help.”

“Elena needs her sister.” Another step. We’re inches apart now. “Not whatever the fuck this is.”

The anger in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it thrills me. Because underneath that anger is something else entirely. Something he won’t name but I can see burning in his eyes every time he looks at me.

Desire. Raw. Desperate. Damning.

“Then tell me to leave,” I whisper, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. “Tell me to go back to school. Tell me you don’t want me here.”

His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to touch me. Instead, his fingers curl into a fist at his side. “You’re twenty-one years old.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? That I’m too young to know what I want?”

“You don’t know what you want.”

“Don’t I?” I reach out, my fingers barely grazing his wrist. He goes absolutely still. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it. About me. Tell me when you close your eyes at night, it’s only Elena you see.”

“Stop.” The word comes out strangled.

“Make me.”

Wrong thing to say. Or perhaps exactly the right thing, depending on your perspective. The control he’s been clinging to fractures. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to send electricity racing up my arm.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is deadly quiet now, the kind of quiet that precedes storms. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

“What am I doing, Dominic?”

He pulls me closer, his other hand coming up to grip my chin, forcing me to hold his gaze. “You’re playing with fire. And you’re going to get burned.”

“Maybe I want to burn.” I pause, watching the war rage in his eyes. “Or maybe I just want you to fuck me again. Like you did the day you took my virginity right here and on this countertop.”

His grip on my chin tightens, the control he’s been clinging to threatening to shatter completely. “Shut up.”

The command in his voice only emboldens me. I lean closer, my breath ghosting across his lips. “Why? You hate hearing it?” I challenge, holding his burning gaze. “Which part exactly do you hate the most? That you were the first man inside me? Or that you kissed her with the same mouth that tasted me?”

“I said shut the fuck up.” The growl that tears from his throat is purely feral. His hand slides from my chin to grip the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “Shut your sinful mouth.”

Then his lips crash down on mine—hungry, desperate, punishing.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s all consuming fire and barely restrained violence, his teeth catching my bottom lip as he claims my mouth like he owns it. Like he owns me. The bulge in his pants presses hard against my stomach, making me moan into his mouth.

I’m already wet. My core throbbing violently, clenching around nothing.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to lift me effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs as he sets me on the counter. The cool granite against my skin is a sharp contrast to the heat of his body as he steps between my legs, caging me in.

“Is this what you want?” His voice is rough, wrecked. His hand slides up my thigh, stopping just before where I’m aching for him. “You want me to lose control? To forget that your sister is upstairs dying while I fuck your pretty little cunt on this kitchen counter?”