I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back and a small gym bag that feels lighter than it should. Everything else—noise—people—is a blur. The terminal hums around me, all fluorescent light and recycled air, announcements cutting through the buzz in clipped voices I barely register. My head’s not right. Not since her call.
Chace handled the ticket, got me on the first flight, he could find. I didn’t even ask where it connects. I just move when they tell me to, half-awake, half-lost. I thought about driving south down the I-5, but I don’t trust myself behind a wheel right now. The jet crossed my mind too, but getting it prepped would take too long, and I’m not in the mood to have my manager breathing down my neck.
Too many thoughts.
Too much static.
By the time I’m strapped into the narrow seat, Vancouver glows gold beneath the wing, tiny lights in a city that suddenly feels too far behind me. My hands won’t stop shaking. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to stay in the present, but every second stretches thin.
Everything takes so fucking long.
Don’t you think you’re being a bit rash?
Her voice lingers, soft, exhausted, the kind of fragile that cuts right through you. She didn’t know where else to go.
Christ, I know that feeling.
That bone deep panic when the world caves in and all you can do is run, even if you don’t know where you’ll land. I press my head back against the seat, eyes closed, the low hum of the engines vibrating through my bones. Someone coughs three rows up. The air smells stale.
I start to draw parallels between us I shouldn’t—old scars, old escapes, but this isn’t about me. Not now.
The plane lifts, and so does my pulse. There’s no turning back now. She called—and I’m already gone.
Chapter twelve
Seraphina
Never Be the Same – Camila Cabello
Isink into the wooden chair at the kitchen table, the crochet blanket wrapped around me like a thin shield against the chill still clinging to my bones. It smells faintly of wool and sun-bleached cotton, the kind of scent that makes me want to curl tighter and disappear, yet somehow, it feels safe. My thin cotton dress clings to me, wet from the drizzle outside, and the scarf I had wound around my hair rests in my lap, heavy, soaked through, almost like it’s weighted with everything I’ve run from. My red curls spill down my back in tight spirals, damp and cold against my skin. Dean offers me a towel, thick and warm, and when I take it, the heat feels alien—like sunlight touching skin that hasn’t known it in years. I stiffen, hyper-aware of every creak of the floorboards, the hum of the radiator, the soft murmur of wind against the old windows.
Clay hobbles around the kitchen, the motion slow but deliberate, making cocoa that smells like chocolate and caramel, sweet enough to make my stomach ache in the best way. Hehums softly, a tune I don’t recognize, the kind of sound that makes me want to close my eyes even as I stay alert. Dean leans in the doorway, arms crossed, sharp and protective, his gaze steady, calm, like a lighthouse watching over me. I want to trust them. I need to trust them. But my chest constricts. Every kind gesture, every small warmth feels like it could be ripped away in a heartbeat. I’m not used to safe hands. I’m not used to someone offering warmth without demanding obedience.
I tuck my hands under the blanket, letting the wool brush against my palms, and my mind races, spiraling as it always does. What if Gideon or my father finds me here? What if they’ve followed me? What if this kindness is just another trap? I want to ask them to lock the door, to prove that I’m really safe, but the words die in my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek and force my hands to still, focusing on the thin line of steam rising from the mug Clay sets gently in front of me.
“So,” he says, voice casual but deliberate, “how did you meet Trey?” His words aren’t a demand. They’re an offering of space, a small island of normality I almost can’t believe exists.
“Church,” I murmur, almost a whisper. My throat is dry, raw, and every syllable tastes like ash on my tongue. The word is harmless, meaningless in the warmth of this kitchen, yet I feel exposed speaking it.
Dean shifts slightly in the doorway.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says, calm and steady. “Trey trusts us. And if he sent you here, you’re safe.” His words settle like a gentle weight on my chest, enough to remind me I can breathe, but not enough to quiet the trembling under my skin.
I clutch Trey’s scrap of paper, the note damp from the rain, pressing it to my palm. It’s the only talisman I have, the only proof that the world hasn’t entirely abandoned me. “I didn’t think I’d make it here,” I whisper, and the sound surprises me with its honesty. Clay’s eyes soften, and his voice is quiet, warm, unthreatening.
“You’re safe. I’ll sit with you until he gets here.”
Clay glances at the faint bruise on my neck, the ghost of fingerprints still visible beneath my skin, from where my father held my neck, forcing me to the floor for his lashings just last week. He leans slightly closer, voice gentle.
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he says, nodding toward the mark. “If you need anything…” I lift my hand and drop it again, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“I’m okay,” I murmur.
He doesn’t press, just moves on, humming softly as he returns to the counter, talking quietly about small things, trivial things—how Mackayla once showed up at The Rosewood lost, scared, unsure of herself. How she found her footing. He says she’s Trey’s best friend, that she’s alive and well. A spark ignites in me. Maybe broken girls can be pieced back together. Maybe I’m not beyond repair. Maybe I deserve warmth after all.
Dean heads toward the stove, frying bacon and eggs, the sizzle punctuating the room in a way that steadies me. He sets a plate in front of me, gently pushing it closer.
“Eat. Even a bite,” he urges. My hands tremble violently, almost betraying me as I lift the fork. But I do it. I need to feel something tangible. I need to ground myself before my mind starts spinning back into the storm I’ve fled. The heatof the food seeps into me, a fire against the ice that has taken permanent residence in my chest.
