Who the fuck are they?
I tuck a damp curl behind her ear and inhale—rain and fresh soap. I hold her closer until the tremor slows, until her breath matches mine.
Clay and Dean hang back, giving us space. Their murmurs fade into the background. The clink of plates, the hiss of the coffee machine, someone laughing from the living area. It’s domestic and ordinary and for a second almost cruel in its normality.
I memorize everything—the way her shoulders shake, when she tries not to, how her fingers curl white at the blanket’s edge, the tiny lift of her lip as she swallows a thought. Each detailetches into me like a brand. She exhales against my chest, a soft, empty sound.
Who the fuck could be after her?
Who did this to her?
Who made her run?
I tighten my grip.
I let my gaze drift without moving my head—windows, back door, the street beyond, the shadowed trees. My mind starts its list automatically. Exits, cars, who can hear us.
Worst-case routes unfold in my head, and I tear each one apart, rebuilding them into contingencies like a field general. Get her out. Cover her trail. Find the names. The faces. Hunt them down.
She presses her face harder into my chest, and for a single breath, I let myself believe the lie—that this is enough to fix the rest.
It isn’t. Not even fucking close.
But it’s a start.
Chapter fourteen
Seraphina
Mockingbird – Dutch Melrose
Icling to Trey’s hand, tight enough that my fingers ache, afraid that if I let go—even for a second—he’ll vanish. Disappear like smoke, and when I open my eyes, I’ll be back in my room. Back in the chapel. I don’t want to sleep. My body, traitorous as ever, is trying to drag me under. So, I squeeze his hand again. Lightly. Then firmer.
He’s still here.
He didn’t disappear.
He’s real.
Even with my pulse thundering in my ears, even with the echo of Gideon’s voice still slicing through my mind, I can feel the thread of safety tethering me to him.
I glance up slowly—it takes effort. His hair is dark, a little messy, a few strands falling into his eyes. Those impossible green eyes, sharp and observant. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing strong, inked forearms. There’s a cordlessphone in his free hand, thumb tapping across it, his expression unreadable—focused.
Before I can stop myself, the words break free, cracked and raw.
“Today… I was supposed to be married.”
Trey freezes.
There’s a small click—the sound of the phone being set down. Then all his attention swings to me, and suddenly the air feels heavier.
“I-It was supposed to end my freedom,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Gideon…and my father…they were going to—”
My voice closes around the rest.
“They were going towhat, Seraphina?”
Trey’s free hand balls into a fist on the table, the tendons shifting under tattooed skin. There’s a faint creak, maybe from the wood, maybe from his knuckles. I don’t know. Everything feels tight. Blurred.
