Chapter Seven
Seraphina
I will Follow You Into the Dark – Jasmine Thompson
The elevator doors slide open onto the twelfth floor, and I recognize the narrow hallway instantly—the muted lighting casting long shadows across the carpet, the hush so complete it feels disconnected from the chaos below.
At the end, the linen closet waits where it always has.
But this time, the question presses against my lips before I can stop it.
“There’s no thirteen,” I murmur, glancing back at the elevator panel.
Jonathan’s hand settles at my lower back. “Because the thirteenth floor doesn’t exist.”
I glance at him as we start down the corridor, unable to stop myself.“But the elevator numbers go higher?”
He snorts, fingers tightening slightly, voice dropping. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”
We stop in front of the closet. The shelves are stacked with folded towels and bottles of cleaner—so mundane they’re meant to be ignored. A perfect disguise.
He reaches past the linen and presses against the wall.
A soft hiss follows.
The hidden panel slides open, revealing darkness that yawns beyond.
“Comes in handy,” he says quietly, eyes cutting to mine, “having a place that doesn’t exist on records.”
I frown as I lift my gaze, meeting his cold green eyes—eyes I once mistook for my husband’s. But the illusion is gone now. There is no light in them. No feeling. Nothing that breathes. His sons, though…They blaze with it. Every emotion laid bare, his soul shining so fiercely it feels like it’s calling to mine from somewhere deep. “Keeps what we want… secure.”
Cold slides through me.
I step inside as the door seals behind us, cutting off the world—and the faint buzz of fluorescent light above. The concealed corridor slopes downward again, thick carpeting swallowing our footsteps. Dim lights line the floor, casting just enough glow to guide the way.
The air is cooler here. Almost sterile.
We move in silence until we reach the room I’ve come to know.
Jonathan scans it first, always careful, before guiding me inside. My dogs move ahead of me like shadows, alert.
The door closes behind us with a decisive thud.
“You should go to bed,” he says, voice controlled but tight. “You need rest. I need to confirm how long our stay is.”
The suite is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the tall windows—neon and gold washing over polished surfaces.
I take a few steps inside.
Then something in me slows.
A man sits at the table.
His back rests against the armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle hooked over the other. He isn’t visibly armed, yet something about him makes the hairs on my arms rise.
A cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air.
With a quiet exhale, he drops it to the floor and crushes it beneath his shoe before straightening slightly.
