“You know,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, almost dangerous in its quiet, “I used to think peace wasn’t meant for people like me.”
I lift my eyes to his, and I see the tempest behind them—the chaos he’s always carried. Yet, right now, it’s contained in me, in us.
“I thought I was built for noise. For destruction,” he continues, his chest brushing mine as he leans closer. “But thenyou…you came in…and I don’t crave the noise anymore. I crave this. You.”
His hands slide from my back to my hips, holding me closer, molding me to him like we’re two halves that somehow fit. My pulse races, breath quickens, every nerve alive.
“You make me want to stay still, Seraphina,” he whispers, lips brushing my temple. “You make mefeeleverything I thought I couldn’t.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tangling in the hem of his t-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Trey… I—”
He silences me with a brush of his lips against mine, soft, tender, anddangerousin all the right ways. His mouth moves like he’s memorizing me, tracing me, claiming me without words. I gasp against him, leaning into every touch, every feather-light brush of his hand on my spine, my face, the back of my neck.
“Shh,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine, eyes dark pools of longing. “You don’t have to say anything. I feel it…here,” he says, pressing his palm over my heart. “Every damn second. You exist, and it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re all I want.”
My chest aches—not from fear, not from uncertainty—but from the gravity of him. From the weight of knowing he’s mine, in all the ways that matter. I reach up, brushing my lips over his jaw, the warmth of his skin, and I think,Yes. Yes, I want this. All of it.
He kisses me again, slow, deep, and this time there’s no holding back. There’s no caution, no restraint—just us, caught inthe heat of a world we’re making our own, bound to each other in a way that no words could ever fully capture.
Chapter thirty-five
Trey
All of Me – John Legend
The kitchen’s wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only exists before the world wakes up. Pale morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling glass, cutting across the marble counters in streaks of gold and gray. Outside, the ocean glints on the horizon, still half-asleep beneath the haze.
I sit at the island, mug cradled in my hands, letting the heat bleed into my palms. Steam curls upward, drifting into the sunlight like ghosts of dreams I can’t quite hold onto. The faint hum of the fridge and the distant crash of waves are the only sounds.
It’s peaceful. But it’s a peace I don’t trust yet.
The last few weeks have been quiet, yeah—but I can’t drop my guard. It feels like the calm before the storm. I don’t have any details on the fuckers who busted in. No crimes beyond trespassing, so they’re already ghosts in the wind. No weapons were found, apparently. Still, it sets my teeth on edge.
“Mornin’,” I say, my voice rough with sleep as I lean against the counter, nursing my coffee. Steam curls up between us, but it’s her I’m burning on. My eyes drag slowly, shamelessly, over the curve of her hips in those black yoga pants, the soft rise of her chest beneath the sports bra.
Dear lord, thank you for the divine inspiration behind yoga pants… not even the blatant wedgie ones either… just... thank you.
Amen.
Sera glances up, catching me looking, and that smile—God, that soft little knowing smile—kills me every time.
There’s something about her like this—barefaced, bending to loop that final lace—that hits me harder than any spotlight ever could.
You wanna fuck like monkeys?
“You want a coffee?”
I ask, because if I don’t say something normal, I might say everything I’m actually fucking thinking.
She stands, slow, crossing the kitchen with that quiet confidence that’s bloomed more each day. The dog’s pad behind her—Artemis and Klause, loyal as shadows. They never take their eyes off her. Neither do I.
Sera leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. It’s brief but it lingers.
“No,” she murmurs against my mouth, “maybe when I get back.”
My eyes follow her as she walks to the door, the dogs falling into line behind her. It’s become their ritual—hers and theirs. Every morning, before the rest of the house wakes, she runs the grounds. I watch her through the glass sometimes, the way herhair flies out behind her, the way the dogs flank her like twin sentinels.
