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Israel was everything she could have wanted in a son. Strong, beyond capable, insanely smart, unbreakable. Beautiful. And the way he loved… So fiercely. So all-encompassing. Reggie was the ideal partner for him, the perfect balance. Even before she’d realized they were more than friends, she’d understood they were one, a unit. Loyal only to each other in a way that made her envious. In all her years being grown, she’d never had that. Never had someone love her the way Reggie so obviously loved her son. She would nevernotworry about Israel, but his heart being broken or him being alone wasn’t on that list.
Her blood journeyed through his veins and her eyes stared back at her from his stoic face. She would hug him if only he’d allow it. She would tell him she loved him if only he’d listen and believe it. She would start wars and burn bridges for him if only he’d recognize it.
Toro stood at her back. Seraphina felt his presence, deeper than a touch, his gaze on her nape hotter than a flame. She strode farther into the room, with both Israel and Reggie watching her like hawks. She stopped at a chair, sliding a trembling hand over the back of it as she held her son’s gaze.
“They said I had the devil in me,” she spoke softly, continuously stroking the chair. “Your grandparents. My mother and father.” Her lips curved. “I’m a PK, can you believe that? Me, a preacher’s kid. When I got pregnant as a teenager and left to be with Christopher Cook—because he promised me the world and everything in it—they said I had the devil in me. They were right.”
Silence fell, heavy and claustrophobic, until Reggie asked, “What do you want?”
Israel only stared at her.
“I want my son to ask the questions I see in his eyes.” Seraphina shrugged. “I have no secrets.”
Israel shook his head slightly. “You’re never going to give up, are you?”
He should know better by now. “I gave up once. You ended up being raised by a woman who scarred you for life, beautiful boy.”
Israel lifted an eyebrow. “And you want to finish the job?”
“What I want is to tell you a story.” She rounded the chair, still holding his gaze, and sat. “My story.” She crossed her legs. “You don’t know me, you only think you do, and I want to fix that.”
“You took Reggie’s parents. Why?”
Oh, they were playing dumb now? “You’re here, aren’t you?” She inclined her chin.
“I’m here because your man came to me.” Israel nodded over her shoulder.
Her man. Toro must have told him about Reggie’s parents because those people certainly didn’t. “Like I said, you’re here. Aren’t you?” She’d deal with Toro later, deal with the disappointment that chilled her when she thought about what he’d done. Why didn’t he bring the information to her instead of inserting himself into a place that didn’t fit him, where he didn’t belong?
“You’re playing a dangerous game.” Reggie scowled at her.
“I don’t play games. That’s for children. I set a goal then I employ strategy. I make moves that are designed to achieve them.”
“I’m a goal to you?”
She smiled indulgently at Israel’s question. “You are everything to me.” As if he didn’t know. “You see me as a crazy woman who can’t take no for an answer.” She dipped her chin. “I get that. I understand it. But the truth is, what I am is a woman who had her child ripped from her arms. Let me tell you something—” Seraphina leaned forward. “—that is not a wound that heals. It is not a hole that closes.”
Israel sat then. He pulled up a chair opposite her and sank into it. Reggie shifted closer to him, always instinctively protecting him, but he didn’t sit.
It took work to be able to sit still and not reach for the man opposite her. To not touch his face or trace his features with her fingertips. Her heart broke every time she set eyes on him because she remembered the pain of losing him. She remembered the promises she’d whispered in his tiny ear as Christoper attempted to pry him from her grip.
“Mommy loves you so much, Colin.”
“I will find you. I will always find you.”
It took way too many years to deliver on that promise. But she would give everything, pay any price—again—to have him here, in her home.
“You’ve got a story to tell.” Israel’s voice rumbled, filling her with the warmest glow.
She pressed her lips together. “Yes.” And she began, from the beginning. Her life growing up with her parents—she told him that. Her life as wife to Christopher Cook and the suffering she endured with that man. The story of Israel’s conception and birth. Getting rid of Christopher then life after him.
She shared her loathing for Mark Dulles too, Israel’s father, and why she’d taken out that loathing on his son, Donovan Cintron.
She held nothing back.
“My hands were tied for a long time when it came to finding and contacting you, by the machinations of a worthless man who held on to my power until I had to wrest it from his dying grip.”
Israel’s gaze latched on to hers and stayed, bringing up the memory of his tiny fingers gripping hers when he’d first been put into her arms. As if he’d recognized her as his and refused to let go. Her eyes burned and by the time she finished her voice was shredded and it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
