He spins me gently, pushing me up against a wall, our bodies are perfectly aligned, and I feel him grin against my shoulder.
“God, you’re intoxicating,” he breathes, lips grazing mine before capturing them in a quick, searing kiss. It’s soft, but filled with the kind of heat that leaves me dizzy and breathless.
“Careful,” I whisper, tugging at his shirt, “or we won’t survive the night.”
Trey chuckles low, teeth brushing my earlobe. “If anyone’s not surviving, baby, it’s me.”
Another kiss. Short, but passionate as his tongue strokes mine. His fingers curl through my hair as his thumbs brush over my jawline, and I melt against him. He’s completely, maddeningly aware of me, every line, every curve, every shiver.
We drift backstage, finding a corner away from the lights and cameras. He presses me against a quieter wall, forehead to forehead, eyes locking onto mine.
“I don’t want to let you go,” he murmurs, voice rough with need and something softer underneath. “Not now, not ever.”
I can feel his hands everywhere, careful yet claiming, and I laugh softly into his chest. “Even with all the cameras?”
He grins, one side of his mouth lifting, that damn spark in his eyes.
“Especially with the cameras. You’re mine in every universe, Seraphina.”
Another kiss, slower this time, lingering, teasing, and I feel all the tension of the night—the adrenaline, the stage, the cameras—meltaway. His hands roam along my back, over my waist, pressing me closer, and my hands tangle in his shirt, needing the feel of him.
I could stay here forever. Just him and me, hidden in a corner of the world.
But then he pulls back slightly, just enough to glance at the chaos around us.
“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “Press interviews. I have to do them, baby.”
I pout.
“And leave me?”
He groans, leaning his forehead against mine, nipping my pouting lip.
“I wish I could stay. With you. But I can’t. Not yet. Just…don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be right back. Fucking junket shit”
I nod, my heart still hammering, tracing his tattooed chest with my fingertips.
“I’ll wait.”
He kisses me one last time, urgent, heated, and then slips into the crowd, leaving me standing here, trembling from desire and the ache of wanting him close. But I know—he’ll be back.
He always comes back.
Chapter thirty-nine
Trey
I Will Not Bow – Breaking Benjamin
I’m in the side room, flipping through the same questions I’ve answered a hundred times already. The guys are scattered. Logan in one room dealing with a camera crew, Chace off with a radio interview, Sam pacing in a corner with a podcast host, Mac juggling a photographer and some impromptu fan requests. The space around me feels off, makeshift—peeling paint, exposed wires, a single flickering light overhead, the hum of the building vibrating through the floor. Not my usual setup for press. Not even close. The interviewer sits across from me, slick black hair combed back, dark eyes sharp and assessing. He’s in his fifties, voice smooth, practiced…but the edge in it cuts cold. His questions don’t probe music or art—they prod, pry. Every pause feels measured, loaded.
“So, Mr. Baker,” he leans forward, fingers steepled. “How far would you go to protect what’s yours?” My chest tightens, hairs on my neck prickling. The words aren’t aggressive, not yet,but the undercurrent…there’s a threat wrapped inside that calm delivery. I shift in my chair, jaw tight.
“We’ve gone over this already. The album—” A soft click, the door swinging open. Relief hits me like a wave.
“Sir, I brought the wife,” the escort announces, stepping back, closing the door gently behind him.
Wait…I appreciate it, but, why?I straighten instantly, heart lifting. Sera. Every step she takes, every subtle sway of her body, hits me like gravity. My chest loosens, tension sloughing off, and I push forward to pull her into me. But then…her face.
