All Chapters of ASHES OF HER MERCY : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Unstitching the PastSeraphina Vance’s POVHurt stopped cutting and started harming. It moved deeper, and learned to be quiet. It lived in my bones, rolling through my left shoulder and across my collarbone like a cold, wet tide every time the mountain winds howled against the reinforced glass of the clinic.I lay perfectly still on the narrow leather operating table, staring up at the sterile white ceiling. The air inside the private surgical suite of the Clinique du Lac in Valais smelled of antiseptic, burnt skin, and stale lavender oil."Hold your breath, Mademoiselle," Dr. Laurent muttered. His voice was a flat, clinical rasp behind his surgical mask.I didn't answer. I just tightened my right hand into a fist until my fingernails bit into my palm, drawing tiny crescent moons of blood. I refused to ask for more local anesthesia. I needed the burning. I needed every excruciating pull of the suture needle through my shattered left clavicle to remind me of why I was breathing.The fi

The Blood We Bleed Seraphina’s POVThe air in Lucerne didn't just smell like pine and freezing rain; it tasted like steel, thin and sharp enough to slice the back of my throat with every breath. I pulled my wool coat tighter around my ribs, listening to the relentless drip of water off the slate awning of the cafe.I was running out of places to hide.My fingers trembled around the porcelain rim of a cold espresso cup, the ceramic clinking softly against the saucer, a tiny, betraying tell. For three months, I’d built a fragile existence out of false names, cash payments, and quiet guesthouses perched along the edge of Lake Lucerne. I’d convinced myself that the distance between Switzerland and the wreckage I left behind in London was enough.I was wrong. It’s never enough.The bell above the heavy wooden door chimed. I didn't look up immediately. Looking up made you look expectant. Expectant people made easy targets. Instead, I focused on the reflection in the dark, rain-streaked win

Buried Ashes​Lucian's POV​The damp chill of the private hangar off Terminal 4 clung to the wool of my coat like a shroud. Outside, London rain lashed against the corrugated steel, a low, relentless drumming that sounded too much like water against the hull of a boat.​I didn't take off my gloves. I couldn't. My hands had been cold for six months, ever since the phone call came through in the middle of a board meeting in Manhattan. An offshore explosion. Unrecoverable remains. Deep water.​The official maritime police report sat on the metal folding table in front of me, its edges warped by the damp air. Beside it lay three thick, black binders, my own private forensic team's findings, compiled over five agonizing months of bribing harbor masters, pulling sonar logs, and tearing through Coast Guard telemetry.​I pulled out a cigar, silver cutter snapping in the silence, but I didn't light it. I just held it, staring at the high-resolution photograph clipped to the top page of the pol

Iron and VelvetSeraphina's POVPain is an honest teacher. It doesn't lie, it doesn't make promises it can't keep, and it certainly doesn't hide behind a wedding ring.My bare foot slammed into the heavy leather striking bag, the sharp impact shuddering up my ankle, through my knee, and settling deep in my hips. The sharp crack echoed off the exposed brick walls of the private gym in the basement of the London estate. Sweat dripped off the end of my nose, stinging my eyes, but I didn't stop. I couldn't."Again, Seraphina," Mikhail’s rough, gravelly voice barked from the edge of the mat. He was a former Spetsnaz instructor Harper had hired at absurd expense, a man who didn't care that I had once been Mrs. Lucian Vance. To him, I was just raw, soft material that needed to be hammered into armor. "Your pivot is slow. If a man of Vance’s size pins you against a desk, a weak hips-turn won't save you. Drive through the heel. Break his knee."I sucked in a ragged breath, wiped the sweat from

Venom in the FoundationLucian's POVBetrayal rarely arrives with a roar; it creeps into a home like dry rot, quietly chewing through the supports until the whole structure collapses under its own weight.The air in Chloe’s luxury brownstone on the Upper West Side smelled of white lilies, expensive vanilla candles, and the faint, chemical bite of antiseptic, the perpetual perfume of a woman who had spent five years playing the fragile, dying victim.Outside, the late afternoon sun was drowning in a sea of bruised purple clouds over Central Park. Inside, the silence was deafening.Chloe was at her physical therapy appointment on 72nd Street, escorted by two of my private security details. I was supposed to be at the office finalizing the European logistics transfer. Instead, I stood in the middle of her sunlit dressing room, staring at the bespoke mahogany vanity table I had imported from Paris for her twenty-fifth birthday.My chest felt hollow, a cavern scooped out by six months of c