Stroke of Midnight(8)

And there was another, more selfish reason she had finally conceded to come.

Several hundred thousand reasons. The amount of her trust fund, which her father had agreed to release to her early. She would have it all at the end of the week—after her handfast with Jehan Mafakhir was over.

Sera needed that money.

As much as her father loved her, he knew she wouldn’t be able to turn away from what he had offered. Not when there was so much she could do with that kind of gift.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

Nor did it mean she had to like Jehan Mafakhir.

In fact, she was determined to avoid him as much as possible for the duration of their confinement together. If she was lucky, maybe they wouldn’t even need to speak to each other.

Miserable with the whole idea, she exhaled a slow, defeated sigh. “It’s only for eight nights, right?”

Leila nodded, then her eyes went wide at the sound of measured footsteps and deep voices in the hallway. Putting a finger to her lips, she cracked open the door and peered out. She reported to Sera in a hushed whisper. “Jehan just walked into the salon with his father and Marcel. You can’t leave him waiting. We have to get out of here right now!”

The bubble of anxiety Sera had been fighting suddenly spiked into hot panic. “So soon? I thought I’d have a few more minutes before—”

“Now, Sera! Let’s go!” Grabbing her by the arm, Leila opened the door and ushered her outside. As they moved toward the salon, Leila leaned in close to whisper next to Sera’s ear. “And I was right, by the way. He’s beyond handsome.”





CHAPTER 4



Jehan wasn’t sure what had presented the most convincing argument for his consenting to take part in the handfasting: his brother’s earnest persuasion on the ride to the Darkhaven, or his father’s stoic greeting and his resulting obvious, if unspoken, expectation that his eldest son would shirk his obligation to the family.

If he’d been met with furious demands that he must pick up the mantle of responsibility concerning the pact with the Sanhajas, it would have been the easiest thing for Jehan to pivot on his heels and hoof his way back to Casablanca to catch the earliest flight back to Rome.

But his father hadn’t blown up or slammed his fists into his desk when Jehan arrived in his study a few minutes ago to explain that he wanted no part in the duty waiting for him in the salon. Rahim Mafakhir had listened in thoughtful silence. Then he’d simply stood up and walked toward the door of his study without a word.

Not that he’d needed to speak. His lack of reaction spoke volumes.

He’d been anticipating Jehan’s refusal.

He’d been fully prepared for his prodigal son to let him and the rest of the family down.

And as much as Jehan had wanted to pretend he was okay with that, the fact was, it had stung.

It had been at that precise moment—his father’s strong hand wrapped around the doorknob, his stern face grim with disappointment—that Jehan had blurted out words he was certain he’d live to regret.

“I’ll do it,” he’d said. “Eight nights with the Sanhaja female, as the pact requires. Nothing more. Then, after the handfast is over and my duty is fulfilled, I’ll go back to Rome and the pact can move on to the next of our kin in line to heed the call.”

Now, as Jehan entered the salon with his father and Marcel, he felt a small spark of hope.

She wasn’t there. Only his mother and an anxious-looking couple he assumed was Omar and Amina Sanhaja. No sign of the unmated Breedmate he was supposed to formally meet tonight.

Holy shit. Dare he hope the Sanhajas’ daughter had called a stop to this farce?

“Here we are!” An exuberant voice sounded brightly from behind him, killing his hope before it had a chance to fully catch fire.

The voice belonged to a leggy blonde with a megawatt smile and pretty, pale green eyes. Attractive. Certainly cheerful and energetic. As far as temporary housemates went, Marcel was right—there were worse sentences he could endure.

The blonde paused to glance behind her, and that was when Jehan realized his error.

“Come on, Seraphina!” She grabbed the hand of a tall, curvy brunette who’d hesitated momentarily just outside the threshold. “Don’t be shy. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

The blonde was lovely, as Marcel had assured him. But her reserved, darker-haired sister was something far more than that.

Blessed with the figure of a goddess and the face of an angel, when she appeared in the doorway, Jehan could barely keep from gaping. He glanced briefly to his brother and met Marcel’s I-told-you-so grin.

Damn.

Seraphina Sanhaja was, in a word, extraordinary.