Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Seraphina
Black Betty – Spiderbait
The other side of the bed is cold. I blink against the pale morning light, my fingers searching for warmth that isn’t there. Only the soft impression of where Trey had been remains—a dip in the mattress, a trace of him in the sheets, and a note on my pillow.
Come find me in the studio, baby.
— T
My heart squeezes—a stupid, hopeless ache that ties itself to the memory of last night.
Marital…activities. It’s a dull throb, deep and lingering, but I don’t mind it.
It’s proof it was real. Proof he was real, with me, in that moment.
What happened between us actually happened.
It wasn’t just a one-time thing. He didn’t vanish with the sunrise.
He’s still here. I can still feel him when I move—the soreness, the warmth he left behind.
The air still smells faintly like him, caught in the sheets, on my skin.
Every shift, every breath, reminds me he was here. That we were here.
I press the note to my chest for a heartbeat before slipping out of bed. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I pad into the bathroom. My reflection stares back at me. Wild curls, sleepy eyes, the faintest flush still clinging to my cheeks.
I don’t look any different.
But I feel it.
I brush my teeth, drag a comb through my tangled hair, and catch my gaze in the mirror. My lips curve, unbidden. Maybe my eyes look a little lighter today. Maybe that’s what it looks like—freedom.
Then it hits me—the memory, sharp and breathless.
His voice, low and rough against my ear.
Such a good girl, baby. You should see how well you’re taking my cock.
My breath stutters. Heat blooms down my neck, and I grip the edge of the counter, the ghost of his touch skating over my skin. All my life, sin was something to fear. Something to repent for, to bury beneath hymns and apologies.
But with Trey...
If this is sin, then let me be a sinner.
The way he touched me—like he was learning every curve of my body. The way he held me after, like I was someone worthy, and he’d die before breaking me.
If this is sin, then I’ll burn for him.
I don’t want to muddy my thoughts with memories, with words that slice through me—whispers that I’m vile, a beast in my father’s eyes. Not now. Not when, for the first time, I finally know what it feels like to be wanted. Not used. Not punished.
Worshipped.
Maybe it’s blasphemy—loving this, loving him. But I can’t help the stupid smile that keeps spreading across my face.
I smile at my reflection—soft, secret, full of him—and whisper to the girl staring back at me,
“Guess we’re both a little damned now.”
I step out of the bathroom and cross to the walk-in wardrobe.
The scent of him lingers even here—clean soap, leather, his signature cologne that makes my knees weak, and something darker that’s purely Trey.
My fingers trail along the rail of clothes, some he’d picked out for me.
Soft fabrics, neutral tones, things that fit me, not the shapeless modesty my father demanded.
I flick through hangers until my fingers stop on a cream knit sweater, the kind that slips off one shoulder, and a pair of faded blue jeans.
L.A. might be November, but the sun still bites during the day.
I slide the jeans up my thighs, the material not what I’ve been used to.
I’ve never worn denim. But the jeans are soft and cling to my legs, giving me a shape I’ve never seen before. A shape that feels…like a new me.
I smooth my palms over the fabric, catching sight of myself in the mirror—a girl learning her own edges for the first time.
My gaze drifts to the jewelry on the dresser, delicate gold chains and tiny diamond studs that sparkle against the morning light. I reach out, then hesitate. They’re beautiful, but expensive looking. I pull my hand back, shaking my head. I’m not ready for that yet.
The sweater comes next—light and soft against my skin, slipping off one shoulder just enough to make me blush.
He’s waiting for me in the studio.
And God help me, I can’t get there fast enough.
The floor feels cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way down the hall. The morning air carries a faint hum—distant, low, almost melodic. By the time I reach the steps, I realize it’s music. His music.
The soft strum of a guitar drifts through the house, weaving around the quiet, tender and raw all at once.
I pause halfway down, just to listen. Trey plays like he feels—nothing restrained, everything bleeding through his fingertips.
The memory of his hands on me, steady and certain, tangles with the sound, and my chest tightens.
When I reach the studio door, it’s open just a crack.
Sunlight spills through the window inside, dust dancing in the beam like a snow flurry in winter.
Trey sits on a chair, back turned, a cigarette resting in the ashtray beside him, guitar balanced on his thigh.
His hair’s a mess, still damp at the ends, and there’s an ink smudge near his wrist where he’s been jotting something down.
He looks so alive in his element—like this is where he belongs, where he breathes best.
I linger in the doorway, watching him. The way his shoulders move with each chord, the soft tilt of his head as he hums something low under his breath. It’s rough and unfinished, but it’s beautiful.
Then, as if he senses me there, he glances over his shoulder. Those green eyes find mine, and the world narrows to that single look—slow, knowing, pulling me right back under.
A slow smile curves his lips.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Baker.”
The words hit low in my stomach, heat curling through me all over again.
I step inside, barefoot, heartbeat steady and wild all at once. “Morning,” I whisper, because anything louder might break the moment.
He sets the guitar down and leans back in his chair, that sinful smile growing wider.
“Took you long enough.”
“I had to look good for my husband,” I tease, brushing a curl behind my ear. He hums, eyes dragging over me like a caress. He rises from the stool as I step closer, the faint rasp of fabric the only sound between us. He looks me up and down.
“Forgot socks?” He queries. Trey is in grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, a backwards cap pulled over messy hair, still damp from his shower.
He’s shirtless—the morning light spilling through the window, painting gold across the ink on his chest and the hard lines of his stomach.
He shouldn’t look real like this. Barefoot, half-awake, dangerous and soft all at once.
“So have you.” I smile. He hooks a finger through one of my belt loops and tugs me gently closer. My heart races.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, voice rough. I laugh softly, brushing my fingertips over the stubble on his jaw. “You said that yesterday.”
He grins, a lazy curve that makes my pulse stumble. “Then I’ll say it every day until you believe it.”
The warmth in his words seeps through me. His hand finds my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that send little sparks skittering up my spine.
“Have you been up long?” I ask, glancing toward the notebook on the stand beside the amp.
“Couple hours.” His voice drops low. “Couldn’t sleep. Had something in my head I needed to get out before it disappeared.”
My gaze flicks to the guitar.
“A song?”
He nods once, looking at me from under his lashes, that sinful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You could say that.” I step closer until our bodies almost touch.
“Play it for me?”
He tilts his head, eyes sliding down my body and back up again.
“You sure you wanna hear it, baby? It’s…kinda about you.”
“Then definitely.”
That earns me a smile—the kind that could ruin me with just one look. He reaches for the guitar, sliding the strap over his shoulder. The motion makes the muscles in his back shift beneath his skin, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
“Not finished,” he says quietly, fingers brushing the strings.
“I don’t care,” I whisper. “I just want to hear you.”
He sits back on the stool, spreading his knees, and nods for me to come closer.
“Then sit with me, baby.”
I move between his legs, his hand catching mine and guiding me onto his lap.
The warmth of him seeps through me instantly.
His free hand slips to my thigh, the rough pad of his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles through the denim.
Then he moves his hands and starts to play.
The melody is low, unguarded—a confession set to chords.
Every note feels like it’s meant for me.
His voice joins softly, husky, rough at the edges.
“They said desire was a sin,
but I’m craving every piece of it.
If falling’s wrong, then let me drown,
in the fire you bring around.
Heaven never felt this near,
hell could take me, I don’t care.
You’re the prayer I shouldn’t say,
but, baby, I’ll say it anyway.”
My throat tightens. I can’t look away from him—from the way his lashes lower, the way his mouth shapes every word. When the last note fades, I whisper,
“It’s beautiful, Trey.”
He looks at me then, eyes burning.
“That’s because of you,” he murmurs. His thumb drags lazily up the inside of my thigh. “You’re my muse, Sera. Every note, every word.”
The words sink into me, deep and slow, leaving warmth in their wake. I don’t know whether to cry or kiss him, so I just breathe, my heart echoing the rhythm he’s left in the air.
His words hang between us.
My muse.
The way he says it—like I’ve been the spark behind every chord, every note—makes my chest ache in a way I didn’t know was possible.
I shift slightly on his lap, trying to hide the flutter in my stomach.
My fingers rest lightly against his thigh, but I don’t pull away.
Can’t. His gaze pins me in place, sharp and soft all at once.
“You know,” I murmur, voice almost too quiet, “I’ve never…I’ve never had someone…see me like you do.”