Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Seraphina
Keep Your Eyes Open – NEEDTObrEATHE
Dawn seeps softly through the thin curtains, the pale light brushing over the room like a secret.
Trey lies beside me, still lost to sleep.
He’s on his stomach, one arm folded under the pillow, the other stretched across the mattress, fingers relaxed.
The duvet has slipped low on his hips, revealing a map of black ink winding over skin that moves with every slow rise and fall of his breath.
In the quiet, I study him the way I would a piece of art.
My mind starts breaking him down into shapes, the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, the sharp edges that give way to soft lines.
I could build him out of clay if I tried—learn him line by line.
Just above the waistband of his boxers, the tattoo trails across the small of his back, following the curve like it was drawn to be worshipped.
His hair’s a dark, tangled mess against the white sheets, his lashes too long for someone who looks like sin and salvation stitched together.
His lip ring catches the light—one flicker of silver—and it’s unfair how easily he wears both angel and villain at once.
I don’t know him. How could I?
And yet…we shared a bed.
His warmth lingers on my skin, a quiet hum beneath the chill of morning.
It feels like those winter nights when the old storage heater would actually work, and I’d sit close to it, sketching until my fingers went numb.
The ache in my hands feels the same now—a soft, familiar ache—but the longing behind it is new.
I’d sit here forever, just sketching him if I could. His face softened in sleep, all the chaos gone. The boy beneath the bravado. The calm beneath the noise.
My fingers twitch with the urge to touch him. To trace the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
I want to capture him like this.
Unarmored. Unaware. Vulnerable.
The tattoos across his back pull my gaze like gravity.
They’re all black, no color—each piece merging into the next with impossible precision.
Skulls and roses. A dagger entwined with thorns.
A scorpion coiled near his ribs. Angel wings stretch down one arm, feathers fading into the curve of muscle, the ink softening where it meets his skin.
A spider hides near his shoulder blade, its legs lost in the shadows of a cross.
But it’s his neck that keeps me still.
The tattoo there is a barbed-wire crown, bold and raw against his throat.
Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers trembling as they hover above the ink.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
The pad of my finger traces a single line of barbed wire, feather-light, careful not to wake him. The warmth of his skin hums beneath my touch. He stirs slightly, a faint sound escaping his throat, and I freeze, breath caught in my chest.
He doesn’t wake.
My hand falls away, curling into the sheets instead.
My pulse won’t settle. I look at him and feel a pang of something sharp, bitter—an ache I can’t name.
I’ve already asked too much of him. This stranger who took me in, who led me to safety, now burdened with the madness of my plea.
I asked him to marry me. To bind himself to my ruin.
Surely it was fever that gave me the courage to ask that—surely it was delirium that made him say yes?
Why, after already asking so much, do I find myself wanting more?
My whole life, I’ve been pious. Obedient.
A vessel for faith, never for desire. I lived beneath the shadow of my father’s sermons, Gideon’s promises, and the endless noise of sin and salvation.
And yet now, after one night of rebellion—one night where I fled everything I knew—why does this sleeping man unravel me so completely?
My chest tightens, a sob rising before I can swallow it back. I whisper the thought I shouldn’t dare think. Touch me.
My soul trembles like it already knows his hands.
He’s dangerous in every way I was taught to fear—and yet, lying here beside him, I feel safe.
Cocooned in the hush of morning, the soft rhythm of his breath threading through the silence.
Everything happens for a reason…doesn’t it?
And maybe this, this beautiful, broken man, agreeing to stand beside me—even in name only—is some kind of divine mercy.
A blessing sent to keep me from the fire.
Today, I marry him.
In name only, yes. That’s what he said. That’s what I must remember.
But my stomach flutters anyway, strange and unsteady, like a thousand restless wings beating against my ribs. It’s not the soft flutter of butterflies—no, it’s wilder than that. The kind of panic that comes when a trapped bird finds itself inside, beating against the rafters, desperate for sky.
He shifts in his sleep, a quiet sigh leaving his lips, and my heart answers with a foolish, painful thud.
I don’t look away. I can’t. My breath stutters shallowly, afraid that if I exhale too loudly, I’ll break the fragile peace between us.
For once, the world feels still.
I’m allowed to just…look.
To admire him.
To fall into the deepness of his beauty without punishment, without guilt, without God’s shadow watching from the corner of the room.
Time blurs. The morning light grows warmer, crawling across his back, gilding the ink and scars that tell his story. When I finally blink myself back into reality, the ache in my body reminds me of the simplest truth of all—
Today, I become someone’s wife.
I ease toward the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him. The sheet whispers as I shift, his warmth still clinging to the space beside me. My feet touch the carpet and I’m just starting to rise when fingers close gently around my wrist.
I freeze.
“Are you running out on me already?”
The words are low, roughened by sleep—his voice gravel and silk all at once.
He doesn’t open his eyes at first. His thumb moves absently against my skin, the motion slow, like he’s half dreaming. My pulse trips, traitorous, quick beneath his touch.
Then his lashes lift.
Green. Bright and clear, cutting through the dim light like sunrise through smoke. His gaze locks on me, and it’s like the air leaves my body all at once. He doesn’t smile. He just looks, and the quiet between us grows heavy with something I can’t name.
I can barely find my voice.
“No,” I whisper. His hand lingers another heartbeat, thumb brushing once more over the inside of my wrist before he lets go. His hand falls away, and the spell breaks—softly, but I feel it.
The room feels bigger suddenly, colder where his warmth doesn’t reach.
Slipping from the bed, I pad quietly across the room toward the bathroom. My reflection catches in the mirror as I pass—a girl who barely recognizes herself, hair wild, cheeks flushed, gray eyes still glassy from sleep. A girl who, in just a few hours, will no longer belong to herself.
Today, I’m marrying this man.
Trey Baker.
I do not know him—not really—and yet he’s shown me a kindness I’ve never known before.
The sort of consideration that feels foreign to someone like me.
My father always said men like him didn’t exist—that kindness from sinners was just temptation in disguise.
But standing here now, with the morning light creeping across his skin, I don’t believe that.
The sound of movement pulls me from my thoughts. Sheets rustle. A quiet groan breaks the silence.
His voice is low, roughened by sleep. “Mornin’. You sleep okay?”
He’s still on his stomach, hair a chaotic halo against the pillow, lashes thick against his cheek.
His lips tilt just slightly, the silver glint of his ring catching in the morning light.
There’s no arrogance there, no expectation—just that easy calm that unsettles me more than his wildness ever could.
I nod before I can trust my voice. “Yeah. I did. Thank you.”
He studies me for a heartbeat, maybe two. I can feel the weight of his gaze, steady and searching, as though he’s trying to decide what I need him to be. Then, quietly, he asks,
“You still want to go through with it? The wedding?”
My stomach twists. Of course. Of course he would ask.
For a moment, my heart drops like a stone. I knew it was too much to ask of him—to tie himself to a stranger, to my shame, to the storm that follows me. I’d taken his mercy and then asked for more.
I look down, fingers knotting together, throat tight. The words come in a whisper, half prayer, half apology.
“I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It was…
desperation. I didn’t think. You don’t have to—” The words tangle, fall apart.
Shame burns hot under my skin. I can’t even meet his eyes.
Because deep down, a part of me wants him to say yes.
A part of me wants this stranger to stay.
I look down at my hands, twisting my fingers together.
The truth is heavy, but it’s steady. I look up.
“Yes.” Something flickers behind his eyes—respect, maybe, or understanding—and then he throws back the covers and stands.
The duvet pools at his feet, and suddenly there’s just..
.Trey. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, ink and skin and confidence wrapped up in nothing but black boxers.
The sunlight catches the lines of his body, the tattoos dark against tan skin.
My gaze betrays me, tracing the curve of his hip before I can stop it.
He smirks, because of course he does. “Mac got you two dresses,” he says, voice lazy and amused. “I didn’t know if you’d want lace or satin, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
My throat tightens. “You...you got me a dress?”
“Baby,” he says, grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I got you everything. You’re about to become Mrs. Baker. But don’t thank me—thank Mac. She’s probably wiped out my entire bank account by now.”