I can’t be with Seraphine ever again. I probably shouldn’t even talk to her, because Pascal might be watching for any sort of sign—something to fuel his suspicion, if that’s all there is to go on.
I’m going to have to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Or face the consequences.
CHAPTER TEN
SERAPHINE
Nine years ago
Mallorca
I’m in big, big trouble.
I mean, major shit.
One minute I was lost in my thoughts as I headed to my bedroom, the next minute Blaise was blocking the doorway, badgering his way inside.
I should have shut that door on him. Tried harder. Been quicker.
I shouldn’t have let him in my room.
I knew the moment I let him in my room, I’d let him in my heart. For once and for real. And that’s exactly what happened.
He came in with the look in his eyes of a man who has been lost at sea, finally seeing land. I’ve never been looked at that way before. I’ve dreamed about it. I’ve seen that look in movies, I’ve read about it in books, but I never thought it existed in real life. That hunger, that yearning. It was written on Blaise’s face, clear as day.
And his body too. If the thought of feeling his erection scared me at one time, it didn’t then. In that moment, the fear melded into something else. It was a fear of myself. A fear that I might become someone else if I give myself to him, and if I give myself to him, I might never get myself back.
It’s scary to want something so badly.
It’s even scarier when you’re not sure if the other person feels the same.
I mean, I know what Blaise wants from me. It’s always been there, an elephant in the room. Sexual tension that morphed into bickering and insults because that’s the only place for it to go. For God’s sake, we could never act on it.
Or so I thought. It was the one thing that held me in check, even in the days and nights that my thoughts turned to him. When I thought about kissing him again. What it would be like to feel his body. What it would be like to have sex with him, to be naked, to be the object of his primal and lustful affection. My teenage hormones were always kept in line because I knew that we could never be anything more than just cousins.
But Blaise is braver than I am. Or perhaps he’s just stupider. I always thought he was the one so carefully composed and in control, and I expected nothing but that strength around me. That facade that we both weren’t feeling anything for each other. To see him weakened . . .
I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t turned me on. How fucked up is that? Not just to want your own damn cousin but to want his walls down so that he’s vulnerable around you and only you.
Now it’s eight o’clock the night after, and I’m sitting with my mother on the large terrace overlooking the beach. Thankfully the spot where Blaise wants to meet me is far out of reach, and I have another hour.
“Are you all right?” my mother asks.
I notice I’m tapping my fingers against the arms of the rattan chair. It’s hard to act normal when all I can think about is him. I don’t even know what to expect tonight. Are we going to talk? Make out? Will I end up sleeping with him? I’m pretty sure he knows I’m a virgin, even if he’s tried to hint otherwise.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, reaching for my glass of wine and having a large sip.
“Careful,” she says, eyeing the glass. “You’re only seventeen.”
“Mother, it’s France,” I say, giving her a dry look. “You can’t pretend that this isn’t part of the culture.”
“Be that as it may, you’ve been drinking like a fish while you’ve been here. I know we’re here to celebrate and everything, but I think it’s worth having a sharp and clear head.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “Tensions are a little high, if you haven’t noticed.”
No fucking kidding they are. Oh, but she’s talking about everyone else. The drama last night over my drunken aunt, which has made everyone cagey and hungover today.
I should care about that. I should be more in tune to the fact that something is going on, something I know nothing about. But family drama is prevalent every time we get together. Over Christmas, Pascal and Renaud got in a fistfight, and Uncle Gautier had the nerve to call the cops, trying to get Renaud put away even though Pascal started it. Other times my aunt will get my mother drunk and then pick a fight with her over something in the past. It’s always something.
“I’ll be careful,” I tell her. I need the wine for my nerves. I didn’t even eat dinner; I just picked at my food and did my best to ignore Blaise, who was sitting across from me.
He did the same. In fact, he did it a little too well. The times that I did look up at him, lost in the beauty of his handsome face, an attraction that I’ve denied myself for too long, he didn’t even give me a glance. It’s like I didn’t exist at all.
That’s another reason why I’m nervous. Because I’m trusting him, someone I’ve always told myself I couldn’t trust. One of them.
God, I hope I’m making the right decision. My heart right now feels so precarious, like it’s balancing on the edge, and if I lean just an inch, one way or the other, I will fall. One side and I’ll fall forever. The other side and I’ll hurt forever.
You should have slept with Emil. Or Armand. Or anyone else. You shouldn’t be a virgin for Blaise. If this goes wrong, if he screws you over . . .
It’s like it’s on autoplay in my head.
And my mother, well, I suppose she’s trying her best to ignore everyone and whatever sort of drama there is floating around this vacation house, and she’s talking my ear off about this and that. I keep checking my phone for the time, wondering how I’m going to excuse myself. Thankfully, at about ten to nine, she gets up and says she’s heading to bed.
I hug her good night, catching a glimpse of frailty in her face, suddenly struck by the realization that my mother is on the older side (especially compared to my aunt Camille, who is considerably younger than my uncle), and that I love her so much and I’ve only known her for eight years. It reminds me of what I lost as a child. I know it’s better late than never, but I should have had my mother from the very moment I was born.
“I love you,” I tell her. I feel like I need to tell her more often.
From the surprised look on her face, I know I need to. She’s not used to it. I used to say it all the time as a child, when I was first adopted and learning what love is. Then the last few years, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been the stereotypical bitchy teenager, subconsciously pushing her away.
“I love you, too, sweetheart,” she says to me with soft eyes, patting me on the cheek. “But try not to drink so much, okay?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not drunk. I mean it.”
She gives me a gentle smile. “Good.”
I watch as she walks into the house. The lights are on in the lounge, and I see my father and Olivier sitting around talking, my mother stopping by them briefly before continuing on her way upstairs.
I exhale loudly and shake out my arms, turning my attention back to the beach. I need to get down there before anyone sees me out here and notices me leaving in the opposite direction.