Seraphine stared at the now-closed front door and prayed she could melt into her hardwood floors. Or rewind time. Or spontaneously combust.
Any option worked, really.
She faceplanted into her couch with a groan, bags of takeout forgotten on the counter, muffled by pillow and pure shame.
"I looked like roadkill from Victoria's Secret."
She peeked at her reflection in the dark TV screen. Hair a mess. Thighs out. Lip still a little swollen from that totally accidental bite.
"Ughhhhhh."
---
Zaire
I stood there like a grinning idiot, trying to stifle my laughter. It had been a while since I smiled—let alone laughed.
The chrome "26C" on her apartment door caught my attention. A sparkle on the inside curve of the "C" caught the light.
A tiny yellow duck sticker.
Cute? That was a word I never used. But I guess with her… I was discovering new things about myself.
My musings were interrupted by a shrill, muffled shriek from behind the door.
Thanks to my shifter gene, I knew damn well I wasn't the only one who heard her calling herself—
"Roadkill," I muttered.
Kaiden chuckled behind me.
"If that's roadkill, I hope I get hit by the same truck."
Even Theodore had joined us in front of her door.
My lips twitched into a reluctant smirk.
"I thought you couldn't handle round two of seeing her."
"We could stand to not see her," Kaiden replied, but his grin betrayed him.
"I brought cookies," Theodore said. "We can give them to her. You know, 'Were your new neighbours' and all."
"I'm surprised you didn't eat them out of hunger," Kaiden said, reaching for one.
Only to get smacked by a massive paw-like of a hand.
"Watch it," Theodore growled. "They're for her consumption."
"I wish she'd consume me," Kaiden muttered.
Now my thoughts were filled with very explicit images of her lips wrapped around my—
Thud.
I gave up and banged my forehead on the door three times in frustration.
That shut them up.
---
Seraphine
The penthouse suddenly felt way too small.
Seraphine pressed her face deeper into the couch pillow and groaned again.
A few minutes of reliving that trainwreck of an encounter passed before her phone buzzed.
Another alert.
From Mary, her secretary.
"Personal request from an elite client to plan their wedding… Just a few days before your long-planned vacation."
She groaned again and typed back:
Mary, I don't do weddings. Why'd you even entertain this client?
"Sorry ma'am. The offer was just too good to ignore. They sent the budget and client names..."
I don't do this for money, Mary.
"Yes, ma'am. But check the names."
Right above the signature line sat the names:
Jack Smallcock and Jill Warrens.
The exact people responsible for her needing a vacation in the first place.
"I thought this might stop the bad press and slander," Mary said hesitantly over the phone.
"You know this is obviously a trap. She'll sabotage it and blame me again."
Mary went quiet.
"they threatened you..didn't they" I said through the quiet line
But Seraphine heard the quiver in her breathing.
She was crying.
"I'll do it," Seraphine said firmly.
"Ma'am, I'll hand in my resignation after. I'm so sorry—"
"Don't. You didn't do anything wrong."
"But—"
"No buts. I'll take care of it."
"Thank you, ma'am..."
"Take your medication, Mary." Seraphine softened. "And get some sleep."
"Yes ma'am. Good night."
Seraphine ended the call, fury bubbling under her skin.
She could take slander. Could take scandal. But targeting her people?
No. That crossed a line.
---
At that moment, that all-too-familiar heat hit her like a high-speed truck. Stronger than it was in the shower.
It was hunger, but deeper. Like having a knife twist through your gut while your whole body begged for... release. Not food. Not drink. But something else.
Man. Woman. Didn't matter. Her body didn't discriminate.
And she was starving in more ways than one.
She staggered toward the side table and grabbed the bottle labeled:
Suc-a-Bust: Suppress those urges with just a pill!
Bright yellow warning label: Not for long-term use. Take one pill every six hours.
She ignored it.
Tipped the bottle.
Swallowed a handful.
Tears slid down her cheeks as she waited for the burn to dull. For the ache to fade.
It didn't.
She wept out of sheer frustration.
I hate that I met him.
I hate that I fell for a human.
I hate that I believed him when he said I was ruled by lust.
I hate that I listened.
I hate that I loved him.
I hate that now I have to drug myself just to feel sane.
He was supposed to feed her with love and vitality.
Instead, he gave scraps.
Now her company—a passion project turned empire—was in jeopardy.
She moved to her minibar. A collection of rare, gifted bottles from people who loved her.
One in particular always caught her eye: a crystal skull bottle.
"Pretty," she muttered, entranced like a crow drawn to something shiny.
She grabbed it.
Took a long swig.
Stars danced behind her eyes.
"Yup. Shouldn't have done that on an empty stomach."
She squinted at the label.
Crystal Head. Canadian Vodka.
Fuuuuck, she thought. Even my internal voice is drunk.
Thud.
She blinked.
Another thud at the door.
Or was that... knocking?
She stood.
Correction: She swayed.
Trying to decide if she'd ordered more food or if there was a murderer bashing a skull on her door.
"Uhhh…" a deep voice came through, muffled.
She staggered forward like Jack Sparrow after a tequila crawl.
Peeked through the peephole—
And saw three drop-dead gorgeous men.
Her succubus instincts howled.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Three strangers. Hot. Tall. Armed. Probably trained to kill.
Her stomach growled.
"Why do hot men keep showing up when I look like roadkill?" she muttered.
"If you are, roadkill never looked so good," said a teasing voice.
She inhaled deeply—big mistake. Bile rose to her throat.
A gurgled "urghhh" escaped her lips.
Then—clarity.
Fuck it.
If they were strippers?
Free show.
If they were serial killers?
At least she'd die hot and buzzed.
If they were neighbors?
…She preferred the serial killer option.
She flung the door open.
Skull bottle in hand like a makeshift weapon-slash-vase.
Silence.
Then the one in leather murmured,
"We've got to stop meeting like this."
"Who are you supposed to be—the Village People?" she slurred.
"Uh—we—uh—" the man in front stammered, chiseled and buttoned-up like he walked out of GQ.
"Christian Grey? Fifty Shades?"
The leather-clad one lost it. Dropped to the floor, laughing.
GQ turned to him.
"At least I'm not singing YMCA anytime soon."
"If my audience looked like her, I'd sing it on repeat," leather said.
Seraphine ignored them and turned to the giant.
He made the hallway look tiny.
"OH MY GOD. I ALWAYS WANTED A LIFE-SIZED TEDDY BEAR!"
The other two went silent. Jealousy written all over their faces.
A sultry sigh slipped from her lips as she leaned in the doorway in blue sheer lace and feathers.
"So… hic… what can I do for these lost strippers?"
As if on cue—
All their stomachs growled.
---