My dad doesn’t get her. Gideon doesn’t get her. No one will.
Seraphina belongs to me. My wife, my blood, my heart beating outside my chest. Every nerve screams it. Every thought burns it.
I’ll follow their instructions, take their measured steps—but only until I can move on my own terms. Once I do, no chains, no orders, no man alive will keep me from her.
I will find her. I will take her. I will make certain every hand that reaches for her regrets it.
She is mine. Mine alone.
Chapter Three
Seraphina
die first – Nessa Barrett
It has been thirteen days since everything shattered.
Thirteen days without Trey’s voice, without the brush of his fingers against my skin, without the solid warmth of his body at my back when sleep finally claimed us. Thirteen days since the last time I knew—truly knew—that the man I love was breathing.
Johnathon never allows me to stay still.
Every day brings a new location, new walls closing in around me, new beds that never smell like him and never offer comfort.We never remain anywhere longer than eight hours, as if lingering invites danger, as if the ground itself might betray us if we pause too long.
Until now.
Road signs blur past the window, town names meaningless in the darkness, blending together into nothing. But this place feels different. The men riding with us shift uneasily, their bodies tense, hands never far from their weapons, eyes constantly scanning.
Then the glowing sign rises out of the night like a beacon.
Las Vegas.
The city sprawls beneath the sky, alive with movement and sound, neon bleeding violently into the darkness in reds, blues, purples, and golds so bright they almost hurt to look at. Endless streams of cars crawl through the streets, headlights glinting like rivers of fire. People flood the sidewalks, laughing, shouting, stumbling in drunken excitement or desperate thrill, the air humming with energy that feels reckless and wild.
I picture Trey in the middle of it all, weaving through the crowds with that crooked smile, laughing freely, flirting shamelessly, alive in a way only he can be. The image twists painfully in my chest.
We pull up in front of a massive building with a glass façade that gleams under the lights, signs flashing promises of pleasure and escape. The vehicle sweeps into a parking structure where men in red waistcoats nod us through without question. A radio crackles somewhere overhead, and large metal shutters slowly wind up, revealing a dark void beyond.
We slide into a bay and come to a stop.
Johnathon exits first, then gestures for me to follow. His hand settles at the small of my back—a silent command to behave.
Artemis and Klause immediately flank me, bodies low, alert, ready. Two of his men fall in behind us with practicedprecision, weapons concealed but close. Before we even cross the threshold, two more familiar faces are already positioned inside, watching, waiting.
The elevator jolts as we step in, shuddering upward before stopping once to collect more of his detail. When the doors finally open again, sound crashes over me in a physical wave—bells chiming, plastic chips clattering, bursts of laughter, shouts of excitement, music thumping deep and heavy through the floor.
Klause nudges closer, pressing his head against my hand, and I scratch between his eyes, unsure whether I’m calming him or myself. Artemis coils tighter beside me, her focus narrowing, muscles taut.
“Fucking hate this place,” Johnathon mutters.
Then he moves, and everyone follows.
The casino swallows us whole.
Light pours down from massive chandeliers, reflecting off polished marble floors until everything gleams too brightly, too clean, too false. The air smells thick with money and indulgence—layers of perfume over smoke, liquor, sweat, and desperation masked as luxury. Slot machines sing and cry endlessly, a thousand small losses disguised as hope.
The chaos feels overwhelming.
It reminds me of Trey.
