Mac leans against the counter, watching us with that mix of affection and quiet steel that only she has.
“We’ve got her, Trey,” she says, firm but kind.
I nod, trusting her, because I have to. Then I look back at Seraphina—really look. Her eyes, wide and shining. The faint shimmer of nerves beneath her calm. The cross I bought for her glints in the light—diamonds scattered like captured stars. She refused to wear it for weeks. But tonight, she’s wearing it for me.
I brush my thumb along her lower lip, memorizing the softness, the way her pulse flutters beneath my touch.
“Stay where I can find you,” I murmur.
Her breath catches.
“Okay.”
It takes everything in me to let go.
As I turn toward the door, my chest tightens, my heart dragging behind me like an anchor. I glance back one last time. She’s standing between Mac and the security team. She’s not the frightened girl I found in that church.
She’s fire now.
God help anyone who tries to extinguish her.
Chapter thirty-eight
Seraphina
Bleeding Love – Leona Lewis
The walls tremble with sound.
Every beat vibrates through the soles of my boots, crawling up my spine until it settles somewhere behind my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Mac stands beside me, a steadying hand at my back. Two members of the security team flank us, scanning the crowd, their earpieces alive with quiet static. The glow of the stage spills across the wings, flashing red and gold.
“Ready to watch you man break a million hearts?” Mac whispers, teasing me with a reassuring smile.
I nod, though my stomach is a maelstrom. The roar of the crowd is deafening. Thousands of voices blending into one as the lights dim. The air thickens with electricity. Then, through the smoke and the heat, a single spotlight bursts alive on stage.
Logan steps up to the mic, his grin wide enough to split the night in half.
“What’s up, L.A.?”
The crowd answers in a collective scream that rattles the walls.
Mac laughs beside me.
“Never gets old.”
I’m barely listening. Because now, he’s there.
Trey.
He moves into the light like he was born from it. The black shirt clings to him, open enough to show the ink that winds across his chest and down his arms. His hair’s a dark, disheveled mess, his eyes—God, those eyes—scan the crowd until they find me.
When they do, everything stops.
The noise. The lights. The chaos.
It’s just him.
