Page 112 of Ghost Hunted

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“Hmm.”

Damien blinks from my computer screen. Seraphina gave birth a few weeks ago, and now they’re both back in their home in upstate New York. He takes occasional pauses, between taking care of the newborn and boning Seraphina, to call in and deal with business. Everest sits on the other side of me, pretending to pay attention while scrolling on Instagram, and Vincent sits up straight in his chair, ready to fall back into his role of fetching me another cup of coffee the minute I ask for it.

Business these days seems to revolve around the Puicin Gang. They’ve been meddling, and the CEOs of companies we’re trying to acquire or partner with keep turning up with chopped-off feet.

“We have only ourselves to blame,” groans Damien. “Cornering all our old enemies until they had no choice but to join another gang. And now, it seems, their one intention is to give me a permanent migraine. Fuck me.”

I take a long swig of my coffee, trying hard not to show how little I care. I’d happily give up all of Devil if it meant keeping Lia safe. I guess Damien should understand, since he used to feel the same way about Seraphina. But his dislike for Lia has really brought out the hypocrite side of his nature.

“Disgusting.” Everest randomly joins the conversation after having been tuned out the whole meeting. “My Instagram algorithm is all fucked. I don’t know if my phone has somehow turned into a sentient being, because I’ve definitely never googled feet before, but somehow that’s all I see these days. Mostly porn models, luckily—not that I give a shit about that, guys, you know I’m asexual, so wipe those smirks off your face. I meant luckily as in, at least they’re not bloody, chopped-off feet. Unlike these. Take a look. Makes me want to puke.”

He flips the phone toward us, and I nearly gag when I see the photo. God knows I’m used to dead bodies, but there’s something about seeing just a pair of… feet.

“Blegh,” says Damien.

“Seriously, I swear my phone listens in on us,” grumbles Everest. “You guys talk about the Puicin Gang, Instagram shows me pictures of feet. Anyway, on that note, I have to go to my hairdresser and then get my teeth whitened… Mrs. Everton’s gala is in just one week now. You guys should be getting ready too.”

“No fucking way am I going to that shit,” I grunt. “I won’t leave Lia for anything less than an emergency, and a gala definitely doesn’t qualify.”

“Well, I was thinking you could bring her along.”

I scowl at him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“What?” He shrugs, his eyes dropping back to his Instagram feed, before he closes it quickly. “Ugh. More feet. No, I’m not out of my fucking mind, Logan. I can tell she wants more freedom, and…”

“Oh, yeah? How can you tell?”

“Well, you did ask me to keep an eye on the cameras whenever you can’t. Obviously, I don’t watch when she’s naked or anything like that,” he adds quickly, “I timecode that shit for you, just like we said. But I do see her walking around in circles, trying to open the windows, banging her head on the walls…”

“Banging her head,” I echo. “But she’s wearing a neck brace. That must hurt like hell.”

He grimaces. “Yeah, I think that’s kind of the point. I think the whole locking her up in your apartment thing is getting to her.”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” drawls Damien from the computer screen.

If anything could convince me it won’t be fine, it’s the guy who did just that to Seraphina for months. “Okay,” I relent at last. “I’ll take her to the gala.”

36

Lia

“Agala,” I echo, staring first at Logan, then at the long red dress he’s holding out to me, then again at him. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No, Lia. I’m not fucking with you. And watch that dirty mouth of yours.”

I don’t even roll my eyes at his paternalistic tone, instead gaping as he eats up the distance between us, holding out the dress. It’s a beautiful one, with a plunging neckline and just a few scattered rhinestones that make it shimmer in the light.

But instead of admiring it out loud, I mutter, “It’s very tight. And, as you so often like to remind me, I’ve got a fat ass. It’s going to highlight every one of my rolls. You could’ve let me choose my own dress.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t. So come here, and let me get a look at that fat ass of yours.”

I don’t budge, but I don’t try to move away either as he hooks his hands around my waist and pulls me to him. Lately, I haven’t even bothered to get dressed, because what’s the point? It’s not like I’ll be able to go out. I can’t remember the last time I was outside. I don’t even get any fresh air unless Logan’s around: the rest of the time, he locks all the windows and the doors.

“You stink, baby,” he says, burying his face against my neck, before rolling up my shirt so he can access my arms, which he promptly lifts up. And then, he takes a whiff at my objectively smelly armpit.

“Okay, then, stop smelling me. If you let me go out every so often, I’d—what the fuck, Logan? What are you doing?”