“Thank you,” Iwhisper.
Trey nods, solemn. “You helped me. Let me return the favour.”
Just like that, he stands, brushing ash from his knees. His shadow stretches long across the stone floor as he backs away from the altar. Hands in his jacket pockets. Eyes still on mine like he wants to say more—but knows better.
The candles crackle. The church groans. My heart ticks too loudly in my chest.
“I should go,” he says, voice rough. “It’s late. Or early. One of those.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t forget the address.”
I lift the folded paper in my hand. “I won’t.”
He lingers for a second longer, then nods—slow, like sealing a silent promise—and turns toward the heavy doors. Boots scuff against stone. The echo feels too loud in the hollow stillness. At the threshold, moonlight spills across his face. He looks otherworldly in it. Half-etched between sinner and saint—beautiful in a way that aches.
His hand touches the door. “Be safe, Seraphina.”
The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. Then he’s gone. Swallowed by the shadows. I stay kneeling, the scent of Frankincense thick in the air, the faint warmth of his touch lingering on my skin. The door groans shut behind him, and silence settles again. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks. I close my fingers around the paper, slip it into the folds of my dress, and walk away from the altar with the ghost of his touch burned into memory. I shouldn’t trust him. I know better. But for one quiet second… I did. I think that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Chapter three
Trey
OWN MY MIND – Måneskin
The bass hits me square in the chest before I even make it through the club doors. It’s not just music—it’s a pulse, slamming into my ribs, vibrating through my skin, rattling my bones.
Neon strobes slice through the dark in violent bursts—acid green, blood red, searing blue—painting the room like a fever dream. The air tastes like tequila and perfume, sour beer and sweat. Smoke coils up from someone’s jacket, mixing with the fog machines until the whole dance floor looks like a battlefield of bodies grinding together.
It’s chaos. Pure, beautiful chaos.
Exactly what I need.
Chace and Sam flank me like we’re knights back from some fucked-up crusade. Okay, maybe not that epic—but when you’re in a band, people look at you like you’re carved out of myth.
Or maybe that’s just the leather jacket, ripped jeans, and ink doing the heavy lifting.
Chace is all golden hair and sharp grins, his black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up like he’s ready to play drumsorstrip poker, depending on who asks first. Sam’s a wall of muscle in a fitted tee, his bald head catching the light like polished stone. Both have that easy confidence I’ve never been able to fake—like the world could burn, and they’d just order another round.
Me? I’m pulling at my collar, heat crawling under my tattoos, restlessness burning up my skin. My boots stick to the floor, and my pulse won’t slow down. I tell myself I’m here to unwind—God knows I could use it—but one flash of red-light cuts across the crowd, and all I can see isher.A stranger who I’d met a few months back.
We head straight for our booth—a velvet semi-circle tucked behind smoked glass. From here, we can see everything, but no one gets close unless we want them to. A table in front of us glitters with ice buckets, bottles sweating under the strobes.
Sam grabs the Grey Goose like its oxygen. “I need this more than therapy,” he mutters, pouring.
Chace tips his chin toward the dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd like a hunter choosing prey. His hair glows gold under the lights, his grin pure sin. Bastard knows exactly how good he looks.
I sink into the velvet, drink in hand.
“Trey,” Chace says, “you wanted to come out, my guy. Lose the woeful expression.”
“Fuck, is it that obvious?” I mutter, taking a sip.
It doesn’t take long for the girls to appear. It never does. Chace snaps his fingers and suddenly it’s raining perfume, glitter, and lip gloss. A brunette in a silver dress slides onto his lap. Another girl drapes herself over Sam’s shoulders like a cat claiming territory. A blonde in sequins lands squarely on my thighs, her perfume sharp enough to burn the back of my throat. Her nails trace the ink on my arm, teasing up toward my neck.
Usually, this is where my cock wakes up—ready for some poor-life decisions and hotel-room athleticism. But tonight?
Nothing.
My drink stalls halfway to my mouth. My stomach twists.
