Page 14 of Vows in Sin

R eign

I glance down at my phone for the forty-first time today. No call. No text. This girl has me acting like a damn teenager. If I had a landline, I’d pick it up and listen for the dial tone to ensure the phone was working.

The girl’s too young to even know what a phone like that looks like.

Bloody hell.

I shove my cell back into my pocket and focus on what I need to do: find the damn Morettis’ hiding spot.

I miss that sass. That spunk. And yes, the way she moans when I touch her.

And now, I know her name.

Sweet, sweet, Seraphina.

Most of all, I miss kissing my nameless tormentor—the hot desire as our mouths press together, the taste of sweet temptation, and the feel of her in my arms.

I knew she needed me, but I never stopped to ask why.

Not seeing or hearing from her now worries me. I could keep tabs on her—hell, one call to the team, and I’d know what she had for dinner. But I made myself a promise: I won’t seek her out.

I owe Tabitha that much. I’m much older and know better than to give in to desire, than to chase her knowing full well she’s young and impressionable, innocent and naive.

She shouldn’t call me.

It's for the best.

So why am I wishing she’d call?

I stand at the edge of the field, looking out over the village. Running a hand over my beard, I chuckle. I have to laugh at myself. I’m not this damn wound up about the Morrettis. They should be my sole focus, now.

They will be.

I need to speak with someone first. Dame. I’ve been putting it off like I’ve been putting off telling Tabitha. I’m waiting to see if Seraphina calls me. I’ll allow myself one last sin.

Then, I’ll come clean.

Sacrifice myself at the altar.

Pay my penance.

But Dame? I’ve no idea how he’ll react. I’ve not broken any codes. But I’ve walked the line.

Finally, I force myself to seek him out. “I may have gotten involved with a girl who was looking for you.”

“What does she look like?” he asks.

Perfection. Heaven. Soft beauty laced with arsenic. “Brown curls that spring out everywhere. Impish grin. Huge brown eyes,” I say. “And her name is Seraphina.”

“We’re friends,” he says. “Nothing more. Nice girl.” He pats me on the back as he goes to walk away. “She just wasn’t my type.”

Not his type.

Right.

Not the kind of girl who sits quietly, waiting to be chosen. Not polished, shellacked, or airbrushed enough. Too loud, too many opinions. She talks with her hands and laughs with her whole body. She's sunshine with curls.

Maybe she’s no one’s type.

To me?

She’s everything.

She’s the kind of girl you write poems about and then burn the page in embarrassment because your words couldn’t come close to doing her justice.

Dame couldn’t see it. Maybe he’s too young to see it.

But I do.

And that’s going to be a problem.

I’m falling hard and I’m falling fast. I have to claw my way back up. Or let her keep using me, and down I fall.

Her name plays in my mind as I walk to the Village. Back at home, I microwave a slice of whatever casserole the well-meaning Beauties have left me. They think bachelorhood is a surefire way to starve. Kicking off my boots, I sink into my favorite leather chair and snap on a footie match from home.

The one Tabs and I recorded earlier to watch together tonight.

I can feel her call before the phone rings. I swallow back a bite of spicy sausage with a sip of beer. “Tabby Cat. What’s the meow?”

She skips the hellos, diving straight to the meat of things. “Tell me, Dad, are they giving up entirely or just incredibly disorganized tonight?”

“All I know is that there better be some massive changes made at the half.”

“Like coach kicking some sense into the aresholes. Their playing is shite!”

I chuckle. She tends to adopt a bit of my Northern England roughness when it comes to the footie matches.

Between plays, she fills me in. “I’m choking down a salad.”

“God, thought you were scared of veggies.”

“I smothered it in ranch and bacon.”

“Good girl.”

We move on to her week. Little stuff. Drinks with the girls. A meeting with her boss. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m just not feeling the job…”

“Tell me more, love.” She’s come to me with her problems—my chest wells with a warm pride.

“It pays well and all. I’m grateful to have it. I have fun at work, which I know most people can’t say, so I can’t complain.” She sighs. “I don’t know. I feel…”

“Unfulfilled.” Same as I felt before I found my current life’s work.

“Yeah. Like, I’m helping people, but as a stylist? Come on.”

“Stylist to some pretty powerful women, don’t forget.”

“I love my clients, I do. But what do I offer them? Sure, I can move your wardrobe around, add a few pieces, give you an hourglass figure when you’re a rectangle, but what am I adding to the world?”

“Confidence,” I say. “You’re giving young women the gift of confidence.”

“Confidence?” she asks.

“Yes. And God knows, in this city, they need it. A girl would get eaten alive trying to rule the men in these skyscrapers without it.”

“Woman, Dad. Not girl. And I didn’t take you for a poet,” she jokes. “But that’s nice. Thanks.”

After we hang up, I’m left worrying. A father’s love is never-ending, but they don’t tell you that the anxiety is just as non-stop.

I’m worried about Seraphina, too. She said she’d made a huge mistake at work. Is that why she came to see me? To cleanse her of her humiliation?

To make her forget?

I want to know.

I have to see her.

I’m going to do something stupid.

Finally, I make the call to security I’ve been putting off. I get Seraphina’s information. All of it.

Taking the Harley, I ride the streets, too fast, buildings blurring as I pass. Finally, I’m nearing her building. I cut the growl of the engine. Grip my handlebars and stare up at her window.

No curtains. Of course.

A surge of protection washes over me. She shouldn’t be exposed to the entire city. I watch her stand from her sofa. Her curls are pinned up on top of her head. She moves like she talks, full of energy and the promise of trouble.

Protection wells up in me, making way for possession.

I hate the notion that any other man holds this view.

I want to preserve this vision—the essence of her—and trap it gently inside a snow globe, making it so that I am the only one who can see her, holding her beauty close in a fragile, shimmering world.

Mine.

Do I go up? Knock on her door, uninvited? What would I even say?

Why am I even here? I stare down at the toe of my boots, laughing at myself. I’m an old man, parked outside the apartment of a young girl who is merely using me for a stress release.

I’ve seen her. She’s fine. She’s safe.

And I don’t belong here.

I allow myself one last look at her. Then I dig in, my fingernails tearing into the rock, skin ripping, pain and blood and sweat and almost tears as I drag myself back up over the cliff. Revving the engine back to life, I gun it, spraying street dirt as I go.

Leaving her behind.

A fitful night of sleep follows.

Again, I dream.

Seraphina, rising from the lake.

Naked. Bared.

This time, she’s not wearing the shoes.