Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Seraphina
Bleeding Love – Leona Lewis
The walls tremble with sound.
Every beat vibrates through the soles of my boots, crawling up my spine until it settles somewhere behind my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Mac stands beside me, a steadying hand at my back. Two members of the security team flank us, scanning the crowd, their earpieces alive with quiet static. The glow of the stage spills across the wings, flashing red and gold.
“Ready to watch you man break a million hearts?” Mac whispers, teasing me with a reassuring smile.
I nod, though my stomach is a maelstrom. The roar of the crowd is deafening. Thousands of voices blending into one as the lights dim. The air thickens with electricity. Then, through the smoke and the heat, a single spotlight bursts alive on stage.
Logan steps up to the mic, his grin wide enough to split the night in half.
“What’s up, L.A.?”
The crowd answers in a collective scream that rattles the walls.
Mac laughs beside me.
“Never gets old.”
I’m barely listening. Because now, he’s there.
Trey.
He moves into the light like he was born from it. The black shirt clings to him, open enough to show the ink that winds across his chest and down his arms. His hair’s a dark, disheveled mess, his eyes—God, those eyes—scan the crowd until they find me.
When they do, everything stops.
The noise. The lights. The chaos.
It’s just him.
And me.
He steps up to the mic, the stage lights burning gold across his skin. “Before we start,” his voice rumbles low, raw, “I wanna dedicate this song to my wife.”
My heart stutters.
Wife.
The crowd erupts—cheers, screams, flashes of light—but all I can do is stand there, hand pressed to my chest, feeling everything all at once.
Trey’s gaze stays locked on mine, his voice steady but thick with emotion.
“She came into my life when I didn’t know what peace was,” he says softly, every word wrapping around me. “She reminded me that love doesn’t have to save you—it can change you. It makes you want to fight for it. It makes you want to be a better person.”
He pauses, running a hand through his hair, smiling faintly. “So, this one’s for her. For the girl who taught me how to breathe again.”
The band slides into the opening chords, the sound swelling and shattering through the space between us. Trey turns slightly toward the mic, his voice cutting through the noise—raspy, beautiful, completely his.
I close my eyes and let it all wash over me.
Because this—this moment—is everything.
The first notes ripple through the crowd, soft and haunting, like the whisper of a prayer.
The lights dim until it feels like the whole world has narrowed down to one voice, one man standing in the glow of gold and silver.
Trey’s voice cuts through the air—low and raw, like he’s bleeding every word straight from his soul.
I was hollow before you,
just noise and smoke and flame,
but then you whispered my name,
and suddenly, I burned for something real.
All I can think as he sings is how much I love him.
How every note is a heartbeat, every lyric a piece of the life we’ve built from ashes and faith.
The crowd is wild—phones raised, flashes like falling stars across the dark. But to me, it feels intimate. Private. Like every word is for me and me alone.
Mac squeezes my hand, whispering something—but I don’t hear her. I can’t.
Because I can’t look away.
He sings like he’s confessing, like the music itself might tear him apart if he holds back. His veins stand out along his neck, his lashes low, his lips brushing against the mic like its heresy to let the words go.
I feel it.
Every note, every ache, every heartbeat.
You pulled me from the fire,
showed me there was more than pain,
now every breath I take, every song I make,
is just in your name.
Tears prick at my eyes before I even realize they’re there. My vision blurs, the lights melting into a hazy shimmer. I can feel his voice under my skin, a vibration that settles deep inside the hollow places that used to belong to fear.
This—this is love too.
Not soft or easy.
But wild. Fierce. Unapologetic.
The bridge hits, drums crashing like thunder, and Trey steps away from the mic, letting the guitar strap slide over his shoulder. His fingers fly over the strings, every movement sure and fluid. His body sways with the rhythm, his head thrown back as he loses himself in it.
The crowd loses its mind.
Mac’s cheering beside me, clapping and shouting his name, but I can’t join her. I’m too full. Too overwhelmed by the beauty of him—of this moment.
When he finally steps back up to the mic for the last verse, his gaze finds mine again, and the world stops moving.
So here I am, still learning how to breathe,
loving you the only way I know — completely.
Your eyes are something I fall in.
So, baby, you should know that I’m already all in.
Silence falls for a heartbeat.
Then the arena explodes.
Applause. Screams. Whistles.
Trey stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes still on me.
He doesn’t smile.
He just looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
It’s in this moment, I know.
Whatever comes next, whatever waits outside these walls…
he’s mine.
And I’m his.
The last chords of the final song linger in the air, shimmering like snowflakes caught in the spotlight.
The crowd roars, cheering and clapping, and I can feel every ounce of energy from Trey vibrating through the studio floor.
They’ve been killing it for sixty minutes—each song sharper, fiercer, more alive than the last. My chest is tight, my heart hammering as I watch him command the stage like he owns the universe, but every glance, every movement seems to echo back to me.
Then, it’s over. The announcer’s voice blares over the PA, congratulating Burnt Ashes for an unforgettable set and wishing them a Happy Holiday. But I don’t hear any of it. I barely hear the crowd.
Because my eyes are locked on him.
He steps off the stage, hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging in all the right places, and he doesn’t glance at anyone else. Not Mac, not the cameras, not the crowd. He’s coming straight for me.
My stomach tightens, breath catching. The studio seems to shrink until it’s just us, his strides closing the distance, his eyes blazing with something I can’t name but feel deep in my bones.
When he reaches me, he pulls me close, hips pressed together, chest to chest, and I can feel his every heartbeat against mine. His hands slide up my sides, lingering at my ribs before tracing the curve of my back, sending shivers down my spine.
“You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” he mutters against my temple, lips brushing my hair. “It’s dangerous. Makes me wanna drag you to a backroom.”
I smirk, but my pulse is wild, and my fingers find his forearm, leaning into the warmth of him. He leans in further, nipping at the side of my neck, and my breath hitches. Every move feels stolen, secretive, as though the world is still watching, yet we’re the only two in it.
He spins me gently, pushing me up against a wall, our bodies are perfectly aligned, and I feel him grin against my shoulder.
“God, you’re intoxicating,” he breathes, lips grazing mine before capturing them in a quick, searing kiss. It’s soft, but filled with the kind of heat that leaves me dizzy and breathless.
“Careful,” I whisper, tugging at his shirt, “or we won’t survive the night.”
Trey chuckles low, teeth brushing my earlobe. “If anyone’s not surviving, baby, it’s me.”
Another kiss. Short, but passionate as his tongue strokes mine. His fingers curl through my hair as his thumbs brush over my jawline, and I melt against him. He’s completely, maddeningly aware of me, every line, every curve, every shiver.
We drift backstage, finding a corner away from the lights and cameras. He presses me against a quieter wall, forehead to forehead, eyes locking onto mine.
“I don’t want to let you go,” he murmurs, voice rough with need and something softer underneath. “Not now, not ever.”
I can feel his hands everywhere, careful yet claiming, and I laugh softly into his chest. “Even with all the cameras?”
He grins, one side of his mouth lifting, that damn spark in his eyes.
“Especially with the cameras. You’re mine in every universe, Seraphina.”
Another kiss, slower this time, lingering, teasing, and I feel all the tension of the night—the adrenaline, the stage, the cameras—melt away. His hands roam along my back, over my waist, pressing me closer, and my hands tangle in his shirt, needing the feel of him.
I could stay here forever. Just him and me, hidden in a corner of the world.
But then he pulls back slightly, just enough to glance at the chaos around us.
“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “Press interviews. I have to do them, baby.”
I pout.
“And leave me?”
He groans, leaning his forehead against mine, nipping my pouting lip.
“I wish I could stay. With you. But I can’t. Not yet. Just…don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be right back. Fucking junket shit”
I nod, my heart still hammering, tracing his tattooed chest with my fingertips.
“I’ll wait.”
He kisses me one last time, urgent, heated, and then slips into the crowd, leaving me standing here, trembling from desire and the ache of wanting him close. But I know—he’ll be back.
He always comes back.