Chapter eight
Seraphina
Running with the Wolves – AURORA
The church is dark when I slip out of my room. A single candle flickers on the bedside table, guttering like it’s struggling to stay alive. Shadows stretch across the walls, folding me into their corners, making me feel like part of the gloom. Father is asleep. I creep down the hallway, each step measured, silent, my breath held tight in my chest. I edge closer to his door and lean just enough to see inside. He’s sprawled in his chair, Bible slack in one hand, belt discarded on the floor. His snoring is low, even. Wine lingers on the air, sharp, bitter. I do not cry. I do not shake. I do not falter. The monster sleeps, and I feel… nothing. That is the scariest part.
I press Trey’s paper to my chest. My lifeline. My single shard of hope. I fold it carefully, slip it into the pocket of my cardigan. I move. The floorboards protest under my feet—each creak lands like a gunshot in the hollow quiet—and still I keep going. Night wraps around me. Nothing good belongs here, not even memories, except one that won’t let me be. Thesoaked-to-the-bone man in jeans, ink and metal braided across his skin and fingers, should have driven me away the moment I saw him. Instead, his face lingers, and the scrap of paper folded in my pocket feels like wings. I hope one day I can tell him thank you—for the courage to leave, for a promise that somewhere else might exist. The side door waits. My fingers fumble with the lock. Cold metal bites my palms. Outside, the air is sharp. It smacks against my face, my arms, my slipper clad feet. I shiver, and for the first time in my life, I feel alive. The night stretches before me—immense, dangerous, and breathtakingly free.
The streets of Portland are unfamiliar, a maze of alleys, puddles, flickering lamplight, and shadows that could hide anything. A dog barks somewhere close. I press myself against the side of a building, heart thundering. A car passes. Headlights slice the darkness. I flatten against a hedge, wet leaves pressing cold into my back. Every sound is a threat. Every shadow a memory of chains and punishment.
I clutch the paper tighter. Trey’s address. A beacon, a promise, a door I’ve never dared dream could open. I repeat it like a mantra.Memories claw at me—Gideon’s voice, smooth, sinister.
I look forward to breaking your body, right before I brutally rip away the innocence you cling to.
Father’s sermon.
Blessed is the man who tames the wild woman into obedience.I swallow bile. I will not let them claim me. I will not let them claim my body, my mind, my life.
Cobblestones slip beneath my feet. My thinning slipper soles sting. I stumble, but I do not stop. Each step carries me furtherfrom the chains, further from the wine-scented threats, further from the men who would state they own me. I pass shuttered windows, locked doors, dead streets. My chest rises and falls so violently I am certain someone can hear it. The night smells like wet asphalt and freedom. I remember the quiet mornings when I hid my sketches under floorboards, the fear in my chest, the knowledge that no one would ever care. And now… some man cared. Trey. He searched for me. He saw me. I swallow a sob and push it down. I step into an alley, the shadows swallowing me, and feel the city breathing around me. I pause to let the moment soak in—the taste of rain on my tongue, the ache in my muscles, the wild, terrifying beauty of the night. I am alone. I am free. I am real. Each step brings the address closer.
“I am not theirs,” I whisper into the wind. “I am my own.”
The cold puddles soak through to my bones, sharp as knives, but I don’t stop. I won’t slow down. Movement is the only thing that warms me now, and whatever pain I carry—I’ve survived worse. I will not be broken. I will not be tamed. The first faint outline of the house emerges. Warm light spills into the dark. I breathe it in. A life beyond punishment, beyond fear, beyond control. I am trembling, soaked, exhausted—but I am alive. I take a deep breath. One more step. My hand tightens around the paper. Every face I have ever been—obedient child, punished daughter, girl who never belonged—melts away. And I see the girl I am becoming—the one who walks toward life, who claims it, who chooses it despite fear, despite scars, despite the voices that say I am not allowed. The world is terrifying. Yet it offers safe harbor.
Chapter nine
Trey
Demons – Imagine Dragons
The city’s still half-asleep when I slip out of Chace’s apartment. Vancouver at dawn has its own kind of quiet. Fog curls low over the water, the Seawall is slick with last night’s rain. My breath clouds the air, joining the mist that hugs the shoreline.
Security keeps pace a few steps behind. Always close. Different guys today.
I have no idea what their names are.
Shit. That’s a little fucked.
I should probably ask… but then I’ll look like an asshole who never bothered to learn their names.
Fuck—did Chace even introduce them?
Hands buried in the pocket of my hoodie, I keep my head down. Hood up. Jeans clinging damp where the air bites at them. My boots crunch against the grit on the path.
There’s a coffee cart set up near the marina—steam rising off the machine like it’s working harder than the guy pouring it. Ihand over a crumpled bill, fingers stiff with cold, and the paper cup nearly burns through my skin when I wrap both hands around it. November chill cuts sharper near the water.
The Seawall curves out ahead of me, ocean lapping against stone. Gulls stalk the shoreline, white wings flashing when they take off. Somewhere out there, a horn sounds from a freighter moving through the fog. The whole city feels like it’s holding its breath.
I sit down on a bench, wood damp beneath me. Sip the coffee. It’s bitter, too hot, but it keeps my hands from going numb. I stare out at the harbor, at the ghost-shapes of boats rocking against their ropes, and all I can see is the inside of my head.
My father’s voice. The belt. The taste of blood when I bit my tongue to stay quiet. All the shit I’ve inked into my skin but never scrubbed out of my bones.
My chest tightens, breath catching in my throat. Doesn’t matter how many years pass—I can still feel the walls closing in like I’m that kid again, cornered, waiting for it.
Footsteps crunch soft behind me. Not the heavy rhythm of security. Lighter. Familiar.
I don’t need to look. I know.
