I fell into his eyes as easily as breathing, as naturally as if I had been made to do nothing else, and even now I wish I could live inside that moment forever. Word for word, second by second. Tears pour down my face, hot and fast, blurring everything. I press a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to stop the sob clawing from my chest. Every set of eyes in the room locks on the screen. The talking dies completely. Then the screen shifts again. A video starts. Trey on stage. Christmas lights glow behind him,soft and golden, wrapping the crowd in warmth. He grips the mic, eyes shining, voice thick with emotion.
“She came into my life when I didn’t know what peace was…”My heart splinters.
“She reminded me that love doesn’t have to save you—it can change you.”Tears blur him further.
“It makes you want to fight for it. It makes you want to be a better person.”His voice roughens.
“So, this one’s for her. For the girl who taught me how to breathe again.”The music swells, his voice echoing rich and alive through the silent venue, wrapping around me as if his arms are still here, as if I can feel his warmth. For a moment, I am not trapped. I am not running. I am back in his arms, breathing him in, safe. Loved. My knees weaken, and I sink slowly into the chair beside the table, clutching my chest as if I can hold it together. He loves me. So fiercely. So openly. The whole world knows. The world is praying for him. For us. And I am here. Stolen. Hidden. But not forgotten. The pain is unbearable—sharp, crushing, deep enough to steal my breath—but beneath it, something stronger rises. If Trey can fight his way back from death, if he can stand on a stage and pour his heart into loving me… then I can endure. How could I doubt him? Lose faith? No. I know better. I know him. He isn’t letting go, and neither am I. I wipe my face slowly, breathing through the ache, letting the sorrow harden into resolve. They can move me. Threaten me. Hide me away. But they cannot break what binds us.
“Of course, this isn’t the first time Burnt Ashes has been in the news lately,” the reporter drones on, her voice light over the flickering screen, but I barely hear the rest. “With lead vocalist— Logan Dale—suffering a near life-changing injury, following the tragic passing of their former band mate, Braden—” I flinch. My fingers tighten against the edge of the chair, but I can’t look awayas images turn to Logan, then Braden’s funeral. The words blur into noise. My mind is only on him. My husband. Alive. I don’t hear Johnathon move until the air shifts behind me.
“Come, Seraphina,” he says evenly. “Let’s take the dogs down. I’m sure they’d like some air.” A pause. “Maybe you would, too.”
I turn.
His face gives nothing away—no warmth, no threat. But something coils beneath the calm.
I nod once.
Artemis and Klause rise immediately, sleek and alert as I call them to my side. Johnathon places his hand at my lower back as he ushers us toward the door, his touch light, deliberate. Control disguised as courtesy.
The elevator doors slide shut.
He presses the button for the basement.
No security follows.
Not that he needs them. He could overpower me easily if he chose. And I would never risk my dogs.
The doors open to concrete and shadow.
The air is cooler here—damp, heavy, clinging to my skin. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, sparse and unforgiving, leaving wide pockets of darkness between them. Our footsteps echo as we move through the side exit and into the parking structure, the sound swallowed and returned in distorted waves.
The dogs surge ahead, restless.
I step into an open space and stop, keeping them both in sight. Johnathon leans against a concrete pillar, arms folded, posture easy. Waiting. His eyes never leave me.
“Let’s talk about my son,” he says quietly. “And what you would do to keep him safe.”
I meet his gaze.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do,” I say evenly. “Your son gave his life for mine.”
My chest tightens, but I hold his stare.
“Just ask what you really want, Johnathon. I’m tired.” My voice stays steady even as something inside me strains. “I’m tired of men using me like my voice doesn’t matter.” I draw a slow breath. “Your son taught me it does. He gave me strength. He gave me love. He gave me purpose.”
I swallow.
“You say love is a weakness,” I continue softly. “But love bears all things.”
A sound breaks the quiet.
Music.
Loud. Bass-heavy. It rolls in from the far end of the parking structure, deep in the shadows where the lights are dead and the concrete swallows detail. The melody is bright—wrong for this place.
A car engine idles beneath it.
