Page 8 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)
S erafina
I shift awkwardly in front of the mirror, trying to tug the bodice of the dusky pink dress a little higher without making it obvious. My phone is propped against a bottle of perfume on the vanity, and my sister’s face fills the screen—grinning, radiant, and eager as ever.
“Turn around! I want to see the back!” she says in a sing-song voice, clapping her hands together.
I roll my eyes but oblige her, turning slowly, my arms stiff at my sides. “Are you sure you want me to wear this one? I’m really not sure I have the right figure for it. Maybe Tess or Bambi would be better—they’re both slim.”
“Oh, stop. You are slim. You just have a little shape, that’s all. It hugs your curves in all the right places.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I mutter, glancing at my rounded hips. “I feel like I should be on the cover of Bridesmaid Monthly: The Body Issue. ”
She laughs with a lightness that only seems to have emerged since she met Cristiano. “Well, the groomsmen will love it.”
I narrow my eyes at the screen. “Is that some twisted matchmaking attempt? You know I am not interested in becoming a mafia wife. No offense.”
Her face falls. In recent weeks it’s become a bit taboo in our family to use the word ‘mafia.’ No one mentions it anymore. It’s been reframed as ‘business.’ I guess that’s what comes of joining the ‘firm.’
No one says anything about how Trilby’s fiancé’s last name comes up in newspapers more often than weather reports. But she’s happy. The kind of happy that makes her cheeks glow and her eyes flash like she’s found the sun and has decided to marry it, even if it scorches her a little.
I turn back to the screen and strike a pose, hand on hip, eyebrow arched. “You owe me so many pastries for this.”
“Done,” she says, beaming. “Now, go try it with the heels. I need to know if you can walk without taking down a centerpiece.”
I end the FaceTime call then toss my phone onto the bed and step out of the offending dress.
My skin still tingles from the caress of satin and insecurity.
I pad toward the closet, half-ready to disappear into an old sweatshirt and reclaim my dignity, when there’s a knock at the door—three slow, deliberate raps.
Pulling on a robe, I open the door a crack, then all the way.
I’m surprised to see Andrew Stone on the other side.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with that shadowy presence that makes him appear just shy of dangerous—which, if I’m completely honest, is half the appeal, despite my aversion to actual dangerous people, a.k.a. mafia men.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften when he sees me, sweeping over my hair, my flushed face, and the satin robe clutched tight around me.
“Hi,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m half-dressed and only wearing one slipper.
He holds up a bouquet—wildflowers. Not the kind you buy out of obligation, but the kind you actually choose . Muted violets and yellow sprigs tucked between eucalyptus.
“These are for you,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while.
I blink. “For me?”
He hands me the flowers. “For calculating my birth chart,” he says. “It was uncannily accurate.”
The words land heavy and I search his face, looking for sarcasm, amusement—something I can make light of. But he’s serious and watchful, as if my reaction matters.
I look down at the flowers, touched. “Thank you. I—this is really sweet. ”
He nods again. His mouth curves, barely, like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite know how. “You’re welcome.”
I toy with the ribbon around the stems. I know he’s going to be checking out of the hotel in a few days.
“So... do you think you’ll be coming back here again soon?”
His eyes are steady but unreadable. He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Disappointment uncurls in my chest. What was I thinking?
He’s just doing a nice thing, thanking me for the chart I did for him.
I’m stupid to think this would be anything more.
He’s just a hotel guest at the end of the day.
Okay, so he looks at me like he’s reading my soul, he’s the only human ever to have held me in his arms without spraining something, and he’s also the only person to entertain a conversation with me about astrology.
But, I shouldn’t allow myself to read into it. “Oh. Okay.”
He hesitates, then takes a step toward me. His voice drops even lower.
“But I’d like to see you again before I leave.”
I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. I just watch the way his expression softens around the edges, his dark eyes holding mine like they’re waiting for permission.
I smile, trying not to betray the fact butterflies are having an actual rave inside my stomach. “Yeah. I’d like that too.”
His lips twitch as though he’s fighting a smile of his own, then he turns to leave. I don’t move for several minutes after he’s turned the corridor and left the building. The only thing convincing me the whole interaction actually happened is the bunch of flowers I’m clutching to my chest.