Chapter 37 #2
Diamond earrings—simple, elegant, drops that catch the light like captured stars. Resting beside them, a cross. Not small. Not subtle. Four inches of sculpted gold, every inch set with tiny diamonds that shimmer like frost beneath sunlight.
Her breath catches.
“Trey…”
“I bought them for you,” I say quietly. “You keep them tucked away like they’re meant for someone else.”
Her eyes drop to the floor, guilt or humility—maybe both—softening her features.
“They’re too much,” she whispers. “I don’t need—”
“They’re not about needing.” I step closer, the box cradled in my palm. “They’re about you deserving to be seen. To shine, Dove.”
She doesn’t speak. Her chest rises and falls, slow, unsure.
“Tonight,” I say gently, lifting the earrings free, “wear them for me.”
Her lip’s part—silent, trembling—and she nods.
I brush her hair aside and fasten the diamonds, one by one, watching the way they move against her neck, catching the light with every heartbeat. Then I lift the cross, the weight of it solid, symbolic, and drape it around her throat.
When it settles against her chest, sparkling over the soft sheen of her top, I swear the air stills.
“There,” I murmur, fingers lingering over the chain. “Now you look exactly how I see you.”
She blinks up at me, eyes glassy with something I can’t quite name.
“You make me feel like I’m worthy of you,” she whispers.
I smile faintly, leaning down until my lips hover by her ear.
“You are.”
The sound of the others filters faintly down the hall—footsteps, laughter, Logan’s voice echoing for the third time that they’re going to be late. But in this moment, it’s just us. Her heartbeat. My breath. The cross glinting like starlight between us.
Then she takes my hand, twining our fingers together.
“Okay,” she breathes, eyes shining. “Let’s go make some music.”
She’s insatiable…I love her.
Outside, the noise swells again—Sam calling for his boots, Chace testing his mic pack, Mac shouting something about lipstick. Sera laughs, shaking her head. “You guys are a mess.”
Shit. She meant actual music. Fuck.
“Yeah,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist and stealing one last kiss before we get swept up,
“But we clean up nice.”
The ride to the studio is loud—laughter, teasing, the thrum of music that vibrates through the SUV’s floor. Mac’s talking about Christmas playlists. Sam is pretending he hates them. Chace has got his head tipped back, drumming invisible beats against his thigh.
Sera sits beside me, fingers laced through mine, diamonds flashing when the city lights sweep over us. She’s quiet, calm—the kind of calm that looks like peace and feels like power.
But that peace dies the second we pull up.
The SUV slows to a crawl. The crowd parts just enough for me to see him. Standing on a crate outside the studio gates, Bible in hand, eyes wild with conviction, spit flying with every furious word.
Sera’s father.
“Trey Baker stole my daughter!” His words slice through the air, caught and magnified by the mics and cameras swarming around him. “She was promised to another in the eyes of GOD! This man—this sinner—has corrupted her soul!”
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The sky strobes white with paparazzi. Shouting reporters, cell phones raised, microphones shoved forward. The chaos swells, building until it’s deafening.
Father, father can fuck off.
Sera stiffens beside me, her breath faltering. Her father’s voice rolls over the noise like thunder.
“She is bound by blood and by heaven! You cannot erase God’s claim with lust and sin!”
How about a gallon of cum, you piece of shit.
That is very graphic. I am quite happy this is an inside thought.
I feel her flinch, and I am immediately pulled from my thoughts.
“Hey,” I murmur, tightening my grip around her hand. “Look at me, baby.”
Her eyes lift—steady, brave, shimmering beneath the flashing lights.
“You don’t owe him a damn thing,” I tell her, low enough for only her to hear. “You walk in there with your head high. I’ve got you.”
She nods once. Her spine straightens. Shoulders back. Chin high.
Then I push the door open.
I grip her hand so tight I’m afraid I’ll hurt her, but she doesn’t flinch.
Security pushes us forward, parting the crowd as the others close in—Logan, Sam, Chace, Mac.
My family. Her shield.
Inside, the studio doors slam shut, muting the chaos to a distant thunder.
Seraphina’s still holding her head high, but I see it—the flicker behind her eyes. The tremor she hides.
I snap.
The rage hits like gasoline to a match. My pulse slams in my ears.
That man—the one who dared to touch her, to preach purity while living in rot—stood out there and spat poisoned rhetoric like he had any right.
I want to go back out there.
I want to drag him off that crate and make him choke on his twisted holy fucking words.
I take a step toward the door—but Logan’s already there.
He plants a hand on my chest, eyes sharp.
“Don’t.”
“Get out of my way,” I growl, low enough that only he hears.
He shakes his head.
“Whatever you do to him will come back on her. You know it. The press will spin it.”
My fists clench. Every muscle in me trembles, begging for an outlet.
Logan steps closer, his voice calm but firm.
“You have her. She’s safe. She’s happy. She’s free. Let it go, brother.”
For a second, I can’t breathe.
The image of her father’s face burns behind my eyes. The self-righteous sneer. The words.
But then I hear her laugh—somewhere down the hall, soft and nervous—and I force myself to look away from the door.
Logan’s right.
She’s mine to protect, not destroy.
I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight.
“He talks about God like he knows him. But there’s nothing holy about the way he fucking hates.”
Logan gives a small nod, voice quiet.
“Then love her louder.”
The words hit deep.
I glance toward the hall, where she stands surrounded by Mac and the others, trying to shake off the tremor.
She’s radiant, untouchable, everything he’ll never understand.
I breathe out slow.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That, I can do. Also, bro, new song title?” Logan scoffs, and nods.
The dressing room hums with noise—voices, footsteps, the muffled thud of bass notes bleeding through the walls as the crew runs sound checks down the hall.
But none of it reaches me.
All I see is her.
Seraphina stands by the mirror, framed in the soft glow of vanity lights.
The chaos bends around her, diffused, as if the world itself has learned to move gently in her presence.
She looks calm on the surface—composed, serene—but I see the tension in the small things.
The way her fingers twist the edge of her sleeve.
The shallow rise and fall of her chest. The silent tremor in her breath when she thinks I’m not looking.
I cross the room, my hand finding her waist, pulling her into me. I lower my mouth to her temple, my voice rough against her skin.
“You okay, love?”
She nods, her voice quiet, almost lost to the hum of backstage.
“Yeah. Just…didn’t expect that.”
Neither did I and I’ll never fucking forget it.
Her father’s words still echo in my skull—each one sharp enough to cut. Every syllable he spat about her, about us, is branded behind my eyes. I can still see his face, twisted with judgment and hate. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so fucking much in my life.
Logan calls my name from the doorway, a reminder that time’s up. The show’s about to start.
I pull back just enough to tilt her chin, forcing her gaze to meet mine. “Mac’s staying with you. Security has been doubled. No one comes near you, not even close. Understand?”
“Trey—” she starts, soft and uncertain.
“I mean it,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intend. I exhale, steadying myself, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I want to know. Wish, Artemis and Klause were here, would have opened the door and let them sick him.”
Mac leans against the counter, watching us with that mix of affection and quiet steel that only she has.
“We’ve got her, Trey,” she says, firm but kind.
I nod, trusting her, because I have to. Then I look back at Seraphina—really look.
Her eyes, wide and shining. The faint shimmer of nerves beneath her calm.
The cross I bought for her glints in the light—diamonds scattered like captured stars.
She refused to wear it for weeks. But tonight, she’s wearing it for me.
I brush my thumb along her lower lip, memorizing the softness, the way her pulse flutters beneath my touch.
“Stay where I can find you,” I murmur.
Her breath catches.
“Okay.”
It takes everything in me to let go.
As I turn toward the door, my chest tightens, my heart dragging behind me like an anchor. I glance back one last time. She’s standing between Mac and the security team. She’s not the frightened girl I found in that church.
She’s fire now.
God help anyone who tries to extinguish her.