FUCK VAL, BRO.
Valets approach, but our driver never fully relinquishes the wheel.
Good man. Grip it tight. Put your foot down and keep moving.
I want to call out to Chace—to object—but my throat constricts. The memory hits…waking with tubes down my throat, pissing pipes out like a cyborg.
The hair rises on the back of my neck.
I feel queasy.
Was that Casper throat-fucking me just then?
“Trey, what’s wrong? You look pale.”
Sera… my dove, my fucking angel from above… grounds me instantly.
“We look good. Let’s move. And yeah, brother, what’s wrong?” Chace adds.
“This place is Fontainebleau, right?”
“It certainly is. Finished a few years back. Tallest hotel in Vegas. Height of luxury. Family owned. Why do you ask?”
“It’s, uh…” I struggle, refusing to look like a bitch in front of Sera. “This place was abandoned. Reports of hauntings, right?”
“What? No. It was called a ghost hotel because it was vacant for almost twenty years.”
“Oh.”
Relief floods through me.
Thank fuck for that.
I was about to ask to stay in the fucking car.
Pussy.
Fuck off—you’re me. Your asshole is puckered too.
We start to unload from the vehicle. I step out, offering my hand to Sera.
Chace leans in beside me and whispers, “Besides, if you really think about it—every hotel has deaths. Which means every place is haunted. Way more than those little tunnels that fucked you up.”
“Eat shit, motherfucker… I fucking hate you sometimes.”
“Love you too, bro.”
I push the negativity away, take a steadying breath, and focus on the woman beside me.
My hand firms at Sera’s waist as her feet meet smooth stone.
The hotel lights catch in her hair, and for a moment the world narrows again to the simple fact that she is here.
Inside, the lobby gleams—light fixtures inset in concentric circles, modern wealth whispered through marble and glass. Floors like carved stone, black swirls and patterns I don’t havethe patience to interpret. Displays of gaudy jewelry, oversized gold fixtures overflowing with red roses.
We bypass the main desk. Niko has already handled everything.
“The penthouse-level suite is secured,” he says as we move toward the private elevators. “Valentino and I are next door. Two men on the hallway. Two in the lobby. Additional rotation downstairs. With the amount spent on CCTV… there is no safer place.”
