“What are you doing?” I interrupt, half laughing.
“Super important stuff.” He stands, mock serious. “Picking out a pet name for my wife-to-be.”
“Seraphina—or Sera—is fine.”
“Nah. We can do better.” His lips twitch. “You got a favorite birdy?”
I blink, not sureif he’s serious or just being Trey. But somehow in this moment—the way he’s looking at me, the ridiculousness of it all—it makes something in my chest lift.
“I think…doves are cute,” I whisper.
“Doves?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Dove it is then. My Dove.”The way he says it makes my breath stutter.My dove.There’s a hint of sin in his smile, a dangerous glint in his eyes that makes my pulse stumble. I feel bare beneath that look.
“So,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower. “Last chance, Dove. You sure about this?”
My chest tightens. “Yes,” I whisper.
I exhale, a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. But Trey’s mind doesn’t stop; I can see it flickering behind his eyes. He’s thinking about logistics, about people, about how to make this happen safely, properly.
“I need to get my band down here,” he mutters almost to himself. “And Mac. I can’t do this alone. We’re…we’re a family. They’ll help.”
I flinch, nervous. “What…what if they don’t like me? What if they…what if they don’t want this for you?” My fingers clutch his shirt again, voice small.
Trey’s jaw quirks, a corner of his lips twitching faintly. “They’ll understand,” he says, firm, protective. “They know what it means. I trust them. And they’ll trust you…eventually.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “But right now, you just have to trust me.”
I nod, tiny, careful, letting my forehead rest against his chest. I can feel the steady beat of his heart. The intoxicating smell of his cologne.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbs flying across the screen. “Mac,” he says, clipped but urgent. “Get the jet ready. Everyone. Portland. Now. We’ve got…a situation. You’ll want to be here.”
I watch him, half in awe, half terrified. The way he moves, commanding, protective, thinking ten steps ahead. And I realize…I’m not alone anymore. Not now.
He lowers the phone, voice softer now, eyes sweeping over me. “I’ve got you, Dove. We do this together. All or nothing.”
I nod, trembling, heart hammering. “Together,” I whisper.
“We’ll get you ready. I want you to feel like… like this is really yours. Like you’re safe. We’ll make it official, but first… you need to know it’s really over. Everyone needs to see that you’re mine. My wife,”
I press my hands to his chest, breathing ragged, feeling the solid warmth, the steady pulse. “I…I trust you,” I whisper.
Trey nods once, decisively. He straightens, voice sharp but not harsh, eyes never leaving mine.
In this moment, I know the world outside could rage, could try to claw me back—but here, in this room, in his hands, I am safe.
Dean steps forward, voice quiet but firm. “Rooms. How many do you want?”
I hesitate, heart hammering. “One…I…I can’t be alone yet.”
Trey nods, understanding. “One room. That’s fine.” He takes my hand, guiding me toward the stairs. “We’ll keep youclose, make sure you’re safe. You’ll have space when you’re ready.”
I follow, clinging to him like gravity itself is slipping through my fingers. My chest races, mind spinning with every possible danger, every memory, every shadow of Gideon’s reach—but he’s not here. He’s nowhere near.
Trey leads me up the narrow staircase, the boards creaking under our weight. The higher we go, the quieter the house becomes. The noise of Dean and Clay fades until it’s only the echo of our footsteps and my heart pounding so hard I swear he must hear it.
He doesn’t look back, but his hand stays loose at his side, close enough that if I reached out, my fingers could brush his knuckles. He walks like he owns the space—shoulders squared, head slightly tilted, scanning the hallway even though we’re alone. Protector. Shield.
We reach the top floor, and he pushes open a door at the end of the hall. The room beyond is dim but warm. The air smells faintly of cedar and fresh linen. There’s a king-size bed against the far wall, its headboard dark wood carved with swirls. A window to the left overlooks the city, streetlights flickering against November rain. I step inside and close the door behind me, my fingers trembling around the knob.
Trey drops his bag by the side of the bed with a muted thud. He straightens, running a hand through his hair. It falls messilyback into his eyes—dark brown, almost black under the low light. His jaw is sharp, a hint of stubble shadowing his cheekbones. His lips are full, the kind of mouth that looks like it was made for sin but carries secrets instead. His green eyes, bright and electric, flick over me like he’s reading my thoughts.
