It too much, I don’t want to disturb anything. A person shouldn’t have this much excess, it feels like a sin to simply be here, yet my stomach is filled with nervous fluttering, his hand drawing me further in.
The walls are paneled in pale ivory silk, framed with gold so subtle it feels expensive rather than showy, and the ceiling rises high above us, crowned with a crystal chandelier that scatters warm light like falling diamonds. The bed sits at the center of it all, layered in the finest white linens and a charcoal cashmere throw folded with impossible precision at the foot. A marble fireplace stretches along the opposite wall, flames dancing behind glass, and beyond it, the entire Las Vegas Strip glows through endless floor-to-ceiling windows, the city alive beneath our feet like something offered up in tribute.
Everything glistens.
Everything whispers wealth.
Something about the height leaves you disconnected from the rest of the world. The people out there walking around making merry. Me up here surrounded by signs of wealth that I have zero familiarity with. Yet with Trey by my side, and his lazy ease he welcomes me in, makes promises I should find alarming, yet find endearing. None of the glitz or the glamour hold a candle to him though, to Trey. None of it holds my attention the way he does.
His hand stays wrapped around mine, firm and warm, like letting go isn’t something he’s capable of anymore. When the door shuts behind us, the quiet settles deep, wrapping around us, isolating us from everything that tried to tear us apart.
I turn to face him.
He’s already watching me.
There is no distance in his gaze. No walls. No masks. Only something raw and exposed.
His fingers lift slowly to the hem of my camisole, hesitating there, his eyes searching mine.
I nod before he can ask.
The fabric rises beneath his hands, his touch unhurried, careful in a way that makes my chest ache. He doesn’t rush to uncover me. He takes his time, like this moment matters. Like I matter. And, God, do I want to believe him. The cotton slides over my ribs, over my heart, over my shoulders, and when he pulls it free, his hands linger at my waist.
His eyes follow the path the fabric leaves behind.
His knuckles graze down my arm, featherlight, like he needs proof they didn’t break what belongs to him.
What belongswithhim.
His breathing grows heavier the more of me he reveals, his jaw tight, his throat working like he’s holding something back.
His fingertips trace the curve of my collarbone.
“My heart stopped,” he says quietly.
The words land between us.
His eyes lift to mine, shining with something that makes my own burn.
“And when everything started fading… when it felt like the world was slipping out from under me…” His voice roughens, his thumb pressing gently over the frantic beat of my pulse. “I wasn’t thinking about the pain. I wasn’t thinking about dying.”
He leans closer.
Close enough that I feel his breath against my lips.
“I was thinking about you. About falling short of protecting you. About the way your skin feels under my hands. About the sound of your voice. About how I never got to touch you one last time. And I swear to God, Seraphina… I fought my way back because loving you was the only thing I was never ready to lose.”
The tears come before I can stop them.
He came back from the dead, he is spared, chosen, raised. He is my Lazarus. Only he wasn’t told to rise, it was his own will.
His hand rises instantly, catching one as it falls, his thumb brushing it away with infinite care.
His forehead rests against mine, his body surrounding me, shielding me, worshipping me in the only way he knows how.
He doesn’t touch me like a man who wants.
He touches me like a man who almost lost.
