“I love you, bro, but you’re fucking nuts.” Rapid-fire texts, a sigh, and he settles on me.
“There’s really no talking you out of this, is there?”
I shake my head, wincing at the tug in my ribs. “You really love her, huh?”
“Honestly, Chace…she scares me. Watching her is like experiencing everything again for the first time…I don’t know what I mean to her, but to me…” My chest tightens until it feels like it might crack. “She’s why I breathe. My peace and my war all at once, the only person that’s ever truly owned my heart. I woke up after ten days in darkness and the first thought in my head was simple. I’ll survive it again. I’ll survive anything if it means I get back to her.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, the truth of it settling deep in my bones.
“Because a world where Seraphina doesn’t exist isn’t one I’m willing to live in.”
My hands curl into fists. “I promised I’d never leave her,” I say, slower now, letting every word carve through me. “And I did. I fucking did leave her. I failed her when she needed me most.” Truth tastes like blood.
“Trey, you didn’t, and you fucking know that.”
I shake my head. “No…I mean, sure, I was a piñata, manhandled and stabbed, but I have a promise to keep. I’ll handle my dad. I’ll handle Gideon. Anyone who stands between me and her.” I pause, long enough for the weight of it to land. “But only after I know she’s safe.”
Because nothing…nothing comes before that. Not my life. Not revenge. Nothing matters more than her.
Chapter Five
Seraphina
Falling Like The Stars – James Arthur
Las Vegas burns beneath the sinking sun, the city stretched out in veins of neon and fire. Reds. Golds. Electric blues. The Strip pulses beneath me—cars crawling, people spilling onto the sidewalks, laughter drifting upward toward a sky scorched by man-made light.
I wonder about them. Are they happy down there? Do they know how fragile it all is, how easily a life can be taken, rerouted, owned?
My palm rests against the cold glass. I am so far above it all, like I’ve stepped outside the world instead of into it, trapped in luxury.
Behind me, Johnathon sits at the table with two armed men, jackets open just enough to reveal the black outlines of guns at their hips. A map lies spread between them, weighted down by glasses and folded paper. They speak quietly. Their words aren’t meant for me, so I don’t listen.
My mind is elsewhere, tethered to images Jonathan showed me days ago, news that had lifted my spirits and kept me breathing inside this glamorous cell. I think of my husband. I think of Trey.
What is he doing right now? Is he awake? Is he in pain? Does he resent me for what happened? Is he trying to move on?I can’t blame him. I couldn’t. What Trey did for me… I doubt anyone else would have. Marrying a stranger. Offering me a home. Protection. Freedom. A voice.
Does he feel me the way I feel him?
The ache hits sudden and deep, stealing my breath. Thirteen days without his voice, his touch, the certainty of him beside me.
A chair scrapes softly across the floor. One of Johnathon’s men drops into it, boredom etched across his face as he grabs the remote and flicks on the television. The sudden glow cuts through the dim room, and sound rushes in—voices overlapping, camera static, the hum of a crowd too large to be contained. Then the image sharpens.
A hospital. Lights blazing against the night. Thousands packed into the streets outside. Candles dot the darkness like stars fallen to earth, trembling in hands pressed shoulder to shoulder. Some are crying, some praying, some holding up phones, signs, pictures.
Burnt Ashes.
Trey.
My breath leaves me in a broken gasp. The reporter’s voice cuts through the murmur of the crowd.
“—fans gathered in the thousands outside Cedars-Sinai Medical Center over the weekend, holding vigil for Burnt Ashes lead guitarist, Trey Baker, who remains hospitalized following the violent attack earlier this month—”
The camera pans over tear-streaked faces, hands clasped in prayer, candles lifted high like offerings. My chest tightens painfully. Then his face fills the screen. Bruised. Pale. But unmistakably alive.
He’s alive.A fresh sob tears from my throat before I can stop it. The room falls silent. Even Johnathon’s men freeze. The reporter continues, but I barely hear her as the footage shifts to a still image. It’s us. Our wedding day. Trey dips me low, one arm firm at my lower back, the other hand spread across my thigh, holding me like a man in love—as if everything between us had always been real. His smile is wide, reckless, his joy so pure it nearly hurts to look at. I remember the moment—the dizzying whirl of it all, his eyes laughing at some private thought, the way my chest had ached from being in his arms. I remember his voice, low and sure, commanding me so effortlessly, as though he had always known how to pull the invisible threads of me into his hands.
Just look at me, Dove.
