Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

“Saint,” Veronica purrs from the head of the dining table. It might just be the largest dining table I have ever seen. With the simplicity of timber legs but the elegance of a marble top, it fits the decor of this mansion well. “Take a seat here.” She kicks out the chair beside her and pats a perfectly manicured hand over said elegance.

My feet refuse to move because my eyes are stuck on the man beside her. His shoulders are broad. They may match the same broadness as Brantley, but what they lack is the confidence and power that he carries on his. His eyes are blue. The kind of blue you can almost call basic because it’s the common color you always find. He reminds me of a football player. Maybe young. Maybe my age. His face is strong and thick—if that even makes sense—and his skin is covered in tattoos.

Veronica obviously catches me staring. “Saint, this is Samael. Samael, Saint, though I’m sure he recognizes you, I’m sure you do not him.”

I finally bring my eyes to hers, confused. “What?”

She slides a perfect round grape between the swell of her lips. “Samael was at The Hunt.” That’s when recognition washes over me and I finally make my way to the chair, pulling it out and taking a seat.

I haven’t finished spooning toasted granola into my bowl when I catch him watching me. He studies me closely. A little too closely. It’s as though he has read the cheat sheet of my soul. “Nice to see you again, Samael.” I pluck exactly three grapes from the bundle and scatter them onto my granola before spooning a dollop of yogurt on top. The clinking of my spoon hitting the ceramic edges of my bowl somehow sounds loud.

“Mor—” He’s about to answer me when he’s interrupted. I don’t bother to turn around. I already know the scowl that will be displayed across Frankie’s face. She never makes an effort to hide it.

“Did I miss something?”

I run the tip of my tongue over the soft inner skin of my lip before sinking my teeth in.

“Good to see you again, Saint.” Samael shocks me, and instantly I don’t care about Frankie’s obvious and tiresome hostility.

I spoon-feed myself—stress does not suppress my appetite—if anything, it incites it. There are two other men beside him. Both on the leaner side and neither very attractive. Though the way Alessi is giggling as one of them is leaned into her ear would prove she would say otherwise.

“You still hungry?” he asks, his voice toneless. Bland, yet I want to talk with him. Maybe it’ll be easy to.

“You can tell?” I joke, though my face remains frozen. I know exactly what I look like right now. Like a dead zombie that has shed too many tears for her cheeks to handle.

He leans forward and I hold my breath. He slides my plate to the side and places his in front of me. It’s filled with—

“What is this?”

Samael leans back in his chair, an easy smile on his mouth. “It’s a pancake.”

“Hmmm,” I murmur, picking up my fork and poking at the surface. It wiggles like jelly after every nudge. “Seems a little bit too thick to be a pancake?”

“It’s a Japanese pancake. Try it.” He crosses his large arms in front of himself as I poke at it again. Maple syrup has already been poured over the melted butter pat on the top. I sink my knife into it and cut a tiny triangle, bringing it to my mouth. It dissolves in a cloud-like texture, leaving a sweet and subtle savory taste behind.

A small moan slips from me as my shoulders sag and my cheeks heat. “Oh my God.” I cut another piece. Eat. Moan. My neck heats. Another. Eat. Moan. I feel the color washing back over my face. Food. Food mends a broken heart. “This is the best thing I have ever tasted.” I swipe the residue of syrup off my lips and lean back in my chair.

Veronica giggles. “Good. You’re both getting on. That’s very good.” She brings her mug to her lips and blows into it. “Very good. Saint, why don’t you take Sam for a walk through the garden? I’m sure he would love that.”

Sam’s eyes flick to Veronica. “Ah, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” I say, standing from my chair. “I owe you after that.”

Sam looks between Veronica and me before finally standing and coming to stand next to me.

“Don’t say a word, Frankie.” Veronica smiles up at us both sweetly. “If you still want your teeth.”

Frankie stomps around the table and takes the spot where Sam was, dumping her plate onto it. She listens to Veronica, though. She doesn’t say another word.

Saint

“So, this garden?” Sam says, his fingertip grazing the sharp edge of a stray leaf from a Devil’s Ivy. “Is there something special about it?”