“I can’t watch her all the time.”
My eyes widen as I stare at him dumbly. “You’ve been watching her?”
Those prickles in my chest are starting to flare, something fiery and wild. A feeling I don’t entertain very often. One I try so hard to ignore.
He smirks at me. “I’ve had concerns for a long time. How on earth did you think I knew she went down to Bordeaux? I knew she left her apartment, I’ll just leave it at that. But I don’t trust people on the outside, and I can’t be everywhere at once. So that’s where you come in.”
“Don’t take offense to this, but I think you have a real problem when it comes to stalking people.”
He just grins, his smile crooked and pleased. “That’s what I do best. You have to play up your strengths, brother. So what do you say? Can you watch her? Report back to me where she goes and what she’s doing?”
“What if I say no?”
He seems to think that over, clasping his hands together and tapping his manicured fingernails against his chin. “Hmmm. I suppose you’re allowed to say no. But I would have to ask . . . why are you saying no? Do you want harm to come to us? Do you want our legacies, our reputations, to be damaged by her wild lies and accusations? You know the moment it becomes public that Seraphine suspects her own family of killing her father that things will end for you. Your life as you know it will end. Do you understand that?”
I am sick and tired of Pascal asking me if I understand. I understand very well.
And I know he does, too, why I’m reluctant to do this. He could ask me to do many things that are creepy or immoral, and I’d do them because I honestly don’t give a fuck about most things. His blood and mine are the same. I am no good.
“Fine,” I say, and I am so very, very tired all of a sudden. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Pascal doesn’t look convinced. “And you know I don’t mean at work. Outside of work. She’s bloodthirsty right now, and I’m depending on you to stop the bleeding before it gets worse. Can you do that?”
Can I stalk my cousin?
I’ve done worse things to her.
CHAPTER FIVE
SERAPHINE
Twelve years ago
Tuscany
“Why are you here?”
I glance over my shoulder as I pull the bag of flour out of the cupboard, careful not to let it spill.
Blaise is standing in the doorway looking at me expectantly. The villa here in Tuscany where we’re staying actually belongs to his side of the family, so I automatically feel like I’m stepping on his turf somehow. His accusatory tone doesn’t help.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” I ask, my eyes going over him. With his jeans slung low, his black T-shirt looking like he might have put it on backward, and his messy dark hair, he looks like he just rolled out of bed even though it’s three in the afternoon. He might have—I haven’t seen him all morning.
“I thought you’d be at the river with everyone else,” he says, ever so casual.
I go about my business with a shrug, setting down the flour beside the bowl of fresh eggs. “It’s Olivier’s birthday, so I’m baking him a cake. It’s a surprise.”
“You know how to bake?”
I give him a wry look before turning my back to him and getting out the measuring cups. “Of course I know how to bake. And cook. Don’t you?”
“Why should I? We have cooks who will make anything for you.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Of course he has all that.
“Don’t you?” he adds defiantly.
“My parents would rather we not become spoiled,” I tell him, knowing just how spoiled Blaise and his brother, Pascal, are. On the surface, anyway.
“Oh, how high and mighty of them,” he says with a yawn.
“Yeah, well, you’re what, seventeen now? I think cooking is a skill you ought to pick up.”
“Not if I get a wife.”
I turn back to look at him and give him a grin. “I wouldn’t count on that. Anyone who gets married to you needs to have her eyes checked. Or his. I don’t judge.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, glowering at me. It’s hard to get a reaction out of Blaise sometimes because nothing seems to bother him, but apparently this does.
I give him an overly sweet smile and then try to concentrate on the cake. Olivier is tough to shop for, so I figured baking a cake might be a nice alternative, and my brother eats like a horse. I practically shooed everyone out of the house to go to the river for a few hours so I could whip it up as a surprise, but I’m pretty sure Olivier will figure it out. I’m usually the first down there, swimming and sunbathing and trying to catch the eyes of the local Italian boys, especially on a sweltering day like today. August in Tuscany is no joke.
But as everyone—meaning my mother, my aunt, my brothers, my cousin Pascal—headed off to the river to cool down, I told them I was going to stay behind.
Of course, I expected some peace and quiet while they were gone. I didn’t expect Blaise to be lurking around.
Which he is still currently doing. I can feel his presence behind me; he hasn’t moved.
I do my best to ignore him, but the longer he stands there at my back, the more flustered I get. I don’t know why he has that ability. Probably because I’m always on my guard when I’m around Blaise or Pascal—or even their parents. I just don’t trust them.
I get so flustered that when I’m trying to crack the egg on the side of the mixing bowl, I hit it too hard and my hand slips and the contents of the bowl go flying in the air, getting me right on the face and in my bangs and down the front of my tank top.
“Fuck!” I cry out, even though I’m not supposed to swear. But I can’t help it. My face immediately goes red from embarrassment as Blaise bursts out laughing behind me.
Ew. Ew. Ew! I’m covered in raw egg, and I want to cry.
I frantically look around for a towel, but I can’t see anything with the eggs running in my face.
“Stop laughing and help me!” I cry out, reaching blindly, but then I nearly slip on the eggs on the kitchen floor. I grab the counter to hold me up, only that’s slippery, too, with egg goo, and I’m starting to go backward.
And then Blaise is behind me, and I’m falling into his arms in the most mortifying way.
“Easy now,” he says to me, his grip tight on my elbows. But his whole body is shaking from laughter.
I don’t know what to say; my cheeks are burning, and I still can’t see. Next thing I know, he’s putting me upright and bringing a paper towel to my face.
At first he’s trying to clean it off in a gentle manner, and the action is so confusing to me that I quickly yank it out of his hands and wipe it over my eyes while mumbling, “Thanks.”
I turn away from him, away from the mess, and finish wiping off my face, my bangs goopy and sticking to my forehead. I sigh loudly, wishing I could just be swallowed up by the floor.
“Hey, it’s not a big deal,” he says to me, gently nudging me on the arm. “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned off, and I’ll clean up down here.”
“Those were the only eggs,” I cry out softly.
“The farm down the street is bound to have some. We’ll go get more. Just . . . go take a shower or something, or else you’re going to stink even more than you already do.”