Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Seraphina
I Was Made For Lovin’ You – YUNGBLUD
The room feels too small. The air too thick. My stomach twists and my throat burns as another wave hits. I grip the edge of the toilet, trembling, tears spilling before I even realize I’m crying. My chest heaves, my heart hammering like it’s trying to escape.
Then he’s there. Trey.
His warmth hits before his words do—his hand sliding gently up my back, slow and steady, grounding me. “Hey, hey… it’s okay, baby. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
His voice is rough, steady, protective. I want to believe him, but fear is rocking me with its tumultuous grip.
The words barely register before I break completely, turning into him. My body moves on instinct, collapsing into his lap, arms clinging around his neck. The sobs come fast, ugly, shaking through every part of me, and he just—holds me. No hesitation, no questions. Just warmth and strength.
He rocks me gently on the cold bathroom floor, whispering things I can’t catch, his breath against my hair, his chest solid and steady under my palms.
“I’ve got you, Dove,” he murmurs, voice a soft rasp against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
Mac’s voice drifts from the doorway, quiet and kind. “If you need me for anything, come and get me, okay?”
I barely manage a nod as she leaves us, the sound of the closing door echoing softly.
Trey shifts, wrapping the dressing gown tighter around my shoulders, his thumb tracing the back of my hand. His eyes search mine, full of something raw and unguarded.
“Tell me what you need from me,” he says quietly. “I’ll be whatever you need, Sera. Just say it.”
I shake my head, tears fresh again.
“Just—don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” His voice is a vow, low and fierce.
He pulls me tighter, one arm around my back, the other cradling my head against his chest. His heartbeat is wild at first—then it slows, steady and strong. I focus on that sound. That rhythm.
Trey stands first, his movements slow, deliberate—like he’s afraid I’ll break if he moves too fast. His hand slides down my arm, fingers threading through mine as he helps me to my feet.
My knees still feel weak, my body trembling, but he steadies me, one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine as he leads us back to our bedroom and to our en-suite.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, voice tight with worry.
I shake my head, reaching for my toothbrush. “I just need…a minute.” The bristles scrape softly as I brush, trying to wash away the taste of weakness. His reflection stays behind mine in the mirror—bare chest, tense jaw, eyes fixed on me like he’s counting every breath I take.
When I finish, I turn, swallowing hard.
“Can we just…go to bed?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
The lights dim as he leads me back to bed, the sheets cool against my skin when he pulls me close. His arms wrap around me like armor, his breath warm against my hair. I listen to his heartbeat, steady, strong, and little by little, the tremors fade. My breathing slows, syncing with his.
After a long silence, I whisper,
“Do you know who it was? Why they were here?”
He exhales, his chest rising beneath my cheek.
“No, but I do know that our new murder pooches cornered them before anyone could get close.” A small, crooked grin touches his lips. “They were fucking magnificent.”
I can’t stay in bed. I can’t rest. Not yet.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my arms, the cold still clinging to my skin. Trey slides out of bed without a word, crossing the room to the closet. He grabs one of his shirts—soft, worn, smelling like him—and pulls it gently over my head, his fingers brushing my collarbone as he straightens the hem.
“Better,” he says softly. I nod, my voice small.
“Can I draw? It…it helps me calm down.”
He doesn’t question it. Just turns, pulling a wooden box from the closet shelf and bringing it to me. “Here.”
I take it, setting it on the bed. My fingers work automatically, sorting through pencils and paper, the familiar ritual soothing. He watches me quietly.
“Can I watch you?” he asks after a moment. “Or would you rather I do something else?”
I glance up at him, his face lit by the soft bedside glow.
“Stay,” I whisper, patting the bed beside me.
He climbs back in, pulling the blanket over us both, his shoulder pressed against mine. The room feels warmer now, quieter. I sketch the curve of a line, the shadows under his jaw.
The paper blooms with shadows and light, his form taking shape beneath my fingertips.
I draw him the way I saw him on the balcony before everything fractured—bare chest catching the moonlight, his throat exposed, his head tilted to the sky.
The quiet curve of his mouth caught between peace and pain.
It isn’t just him I’m sketching—it’s how he made me feel.
I shade the line of his collarbone, the dip of muscle beneath his ribs, soft graphite smudging against my skin. Every movement slows the ache inside me until it’s almost bearable.
Truthfully? As I am tucked beneath the blanket while I draw, the world fades.
It’s a space I can disappear into. But sharing this quiet with Trey makes my heart thrum in a way I can’t ignore.
Trey doesn’t speak. He just watches, his presence warm beside me, his gaze tracing the path of my pencil as if the act itself is sacred.
I can feel him studying every stroke, every breath, but it doesn’t make me nervous. If anything, it comforts me.
When I finish, I lean back, my fingers streaked with charcoal. My heart beats faster as I glance up at him. He looks at the drawing like he’s seeing something he doesn’t quite recognize.
“This is how I saw you,” I whisper. “Outside on the balcony, with the sky looking back at you. You were…beautiful.”
Something flickers in his expression—wonder, disbelief.
“You make me look like someone worth saving.”
My chest tightens, my pulse fluttering in my throat.
“You are,” I tell him quietly.
The silence that follows hums between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. He shifts closer, his knee brushing mine under the blanket. The contact sends warmth spiraling through me.
I look down at the drawing again—his face turned toward the stars, raw and unguarded—and realize I’ve captured something rare. Not just him, but the stillness he carries when he forgets to be anyone else. The man behind the mask.
I exhale, my voice barely a whisper.
“It helps,” I admit, setting the pencil aside. “When I draw. It makes the noise stop.”
Trey nods, his eyes steady on me.
“Then keep drawing, baby,” he murmurs, his voice like a promise. “I’ll be right here.”
Trey stays—quiet, unmoving—as I let my hands move again, sketching light into the darkness until my breathing slows, and the night finally feels safe.
Every few seconds, I feel his gaze flicker from the paper to my face, and I know he’s studying more than the drawing.
The peaceful atmosphere a balm on the burning of my shame. He had only been away for minutes, but I had become undone thinking of whoever was coming. My fear not just for me, but for his safety.
I set the pencils down one by one, careful not to smudge the lines still drying on the page. The sketch lies open on the bedside table—Trey beneath the night sky, his soul somehow caught in graphite and shadow. I close the box, sliding it gently beneath the table before turning back to him.
The room feels softer now, quieter. The chaos from earlier is a distant echo. His eyes find mine in the dim light, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
“I know I don’t deserve to be seen,” I whisper, voice trembling. “But you see me, Trey. You really see me. I’ll forever cherish that—and everything else you’ve done for me. Thank you.”
He shakes his head, like the words physically wound him. Then he reaches out, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw.
“Don’t thank me,” he says, his voice low and rough, every word sinking into me like a vow. “I’d give you the world if you’d just let me hold it with you.”
My throat tightens. The air between us fragile, like a broken pane of glass, shards sparkle in the night, edges threatening to draw blood from one another, but we accept it. We accept one another.
I nod, too full of feeling to speak, and he pulls me into him.
His chest is warm beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady under my palm.
The blanket shifts as his arm wraps around me, strong and sure, as if he can shield me from everything that came before and everything that waits beyond these walls.
“Sleep, Dove,” he murmurs against my hair. “You’re safe now.”
The words melt through me like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. My eyes flutter closed, the weight of the day dissolving as I breathe him in
Before sleep claims me, I whisper the truth into the space between us. “You have already given me the world, Trey. You just don’t see it.”
The days blur after that night—quiet hours stitched together with too many thoughts and not enough sleep. By the time I look up from the haze, three weeks have passed since the intruders.
The police showed me pictures, asked if I recognized any of them. I didn’t. Their faces meant nothing to me—just more shadows trying to take away the light I’ve finally found. We never heard who they were there for, if they were burglars, fans, or something nefarious.
The house is active with quiet routine—Trey’s house staff is something else.
Beatrice, the head of the house, is a motherly matron in her late forties.
Margarite, the housekeeper, has come by a couple of times.
And then there’s the chef—Trey calls him Steak—tattoos almost rivaling Trey’s own.
He comes in on request, whips up a storm for a day or two, and leaves us with perfectly sealed Tupperware portions.
They’re funny, kind, and Trey moves around them like he’s completely at ease.
Trey’s laughter echoes somewhere down the hall, the soft strum of a guitar seeping beneath doors, the scent of coffee and oil paint. Everything feels natural with him. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this forever.
It kind of scares me a little.
Because I know what this is now.
I know I’m in love with him.
But love—real love—means giving that last piece of myself away, the part that’s still locked away, behind fear and shame. The part that remembers what it costs to trust.
I sit in the corner of his studio, legs folded beneath me, sketchbook on my lap.
Trey is across the room, lost in his own rhythm—his fingers moving over the strings like he was born knowing how to make them sing.
His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, carrying through the space in a way that makes my heart ache.
When it’s just us, he’s docile.
No cameras. No chaos. No eyes on him but mine.
He glances up between chords, a lazy smile tugging at his lips—the kind that tells me he knows I’m watching him, and that he doesn’t mind.
That look alone is enough to melt something deep inside me.
“Come here,” he murmurs, setting the guitar aside. His voice carries low, the kind of quiet that vibrates more than it sounds. I move on impulse, setting my art supplies to the side and moving before I realize.
I cross the room, barefoot on the wood floor, the faint echo of each step drowned by heady anticipation. He reaches out when I’m close enough, his fingers sliding over my wrist, then higher, until his palm finds the curve of my neck.
“You always watch me like that,” he says, thumb brushing over my jaw. “Like you’re seeing something no one else can.”
“I do.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “What do you see, Dove?”
I swallow, unsure how to explain it. The way his edges fade when he’s here, stripped of fame and expectation. The way his heart sounds when I’m close enough to hear it.
“Peace, skill, beauty.” I whisper. “I see how content you are.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he pulls me in until my forehead rests against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. His hands find my waist, gentle but certain, holding me there.
“It’s hard not to be content with you at hand, Dove.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss into my hair.
I close my eyes, breathing him in—his cologne, the faint trace of smoke and cedar.
I could stay like this forever.
His thumb drags in lazy circles at the small of my back, and I swear I feel the world shrink to the space between us.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, almost dangerous in its quiet, “I used to think peace wasn’t meant for people like me.”
I lift my eyes to his, and I see the tempest behind them—the chaos he’s always carried. Yet, right now, it’s contained in me, in us.
“I thought I was built for noise. For destruction,” he continues, his chest brushing mine as he leans closer. “But then you…you came in…and I don’t crave the noise anymore. I crave this. You.”
His hands slide from my back to my hips, holding me closer, molding me to him like we’re two halves that somehow fit. My pulse races, breath quickens, every nerve alive.
“You make me want to stay still, Seraphina,” he whispers, lips brushing my temple. “You make me feel everything I thought I couldn’t.”
I swallow hard, my fingers tangling in the hem of his t-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Trey… I—”
He silences me with a brush of his lips against mine, soft, tender, and dangerous in all the right ways.
His mouth moves like he’s memorizing me, tracing me, claiming me without words.
I gasp against him, leaning into every touch, every feather-light brush of his hand on my spine, my face, the back of my neck.
“Shh,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine, eyes dark pools of longing. “You don’t have to say anything. I feel it…here,” he says, pressing his palm over my heart. “Every damn second. You exist, and it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re all I want.”
My chest aches—not from fear, not from uncertainty—but from the gravity of him. From the weight of knowing he’s mine, in all the ways that matter. I reach up, brushing my lips over his jaw, the warmth of his skin, and I think, Yes. Yes, I want this. All of it.
He kisses me again, slow, deep, and this time there’s no holding back. There’s no caution, no restraint—just us, caught in the heat of a world we’re making our own, bound to each other in a way that no words could ever fully capture.