Not gentle. Not forgiving. But absolute.
A force that doesn’t ask for repentance—only consequence.
Fire and reckoning. A man shaped by survival and sharpened into judgment.
Trey doesn’t need permission. He doesn’t ask for approval.
He simply decides.
For the first time since all of this began, I understand with aching clarity that the men who hunted me were not prepared for what they awakened.
They thought him broken. A boy playing at being a man. A rockstar. A distraction. A husband on paper only.
They were wrong.
He is more. He will always be more.
My own fear—my hesitation, my dread—feels cast away in his presence.
I watch him turn back toward me, his gaze softening just enough to remind me that I am the reason for all of this. And in that moment, I know with absolute certainty, that whatever comes next, Trey will meet it head-on.
And I will stand beside him when he does.
Chace slips out quietly, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should.
Once Trey is dressed, his attention returns fully to me.
His gaze moves slowly, deliberately, tracking every inch of me as I pull the sheet down from my chest, heat rising beneath his stare.
His eyes land on the oversized black T-shirt I’m wearing.
His expression tightens instantly.
“Whose clothes are you wearing?” he asks, voice low.
“I don’t know,” I admit softly. “I just wore what was there for me.”
He stares.
“I think your dad left some things in the drawer,” I add carefully. “I don’t know whose shirt this is.”
His jaw tightens so sharply I see the muscle jump.
Before I can react, he steps forward.
His hands close around my wrists—not harsh, but firm—and he lifts my arms. The shirt comes off in seconds, discarded without ceremony.
The air feels colder without it.
He doesn’t look away as he moves to the dresser, opening the drawer and pulling out the clothes inside. He lays them neatly across the bed, as if order alone might steady something in him.
“For now, Dove,” he says, quieter now. “Put something on. I’ll have clothes organized for you.”
I nod, my hands trembling slightly as I reach for a white camisole and slip it over my head, then pull on the black sweatpants.
His eyes follow every movement.
When I’m dressed, he steps back in front of me and takes my hand.
