Chapter 7
Seraphina
I move like I belong here. Because I do.
Blackdawn protocol requires obscurity—plain clothes, unmarked vehicles, nonverbal confirmations. But I’ve never been one for coloring inside lines.
I wear fitted black slacks, heeled boots, a deep olive trench, and underneath it all, a shoulder-holstered pulse gun I checked twice before leaving the penthouse.
The air tastes like rust and burned rubber as I cut through the warehouse district on foot, one hand tucked in my coat pocket where a tracker syncs silently with my backup relay.
Facility E.
At least, what’s left of it. On paper, it’s a decommissioned logistics hub. Off paper? It smells like something deeper. Worse.
I spotted a name—Kellen Raye—on a corrupted rotation log three months before it was wiped. I shouldn’t even have it. But I do.
And I plan to use it .
My boots crunch over broken concrete as I step behind a shuttered freight office. A blacked-out transport van idles twenty feet ahead. Right on time.
Kellen Raye.
I don’t know what I expected, but this? A cold shoulder handshake? A veiled threat? Answers?
I won’t get any of it. Because I never make it that far.
A hand wraps around my waist. A second clamps over my mouth. I don’t scream. I don’t freeze. I fight .
My elbow slams backward. Nothing. I twist. Kick. He dodges. I bite the hand covering my mouth, hard. He grunts. Doesn’t let go.
I’m lifted—body folded over a shoulder like I weigh nothing. My fists beat his back. My legs thrash, kicking at air.
“Put me down , you bastard!” I hiss. “I will break your fu—”
CRACK.
His hand lands on my ass. Hard . Sharp heat jolts through my body.
I go still. Not because I submit. Because I’m stunned .
Who the hell does that?
“You finished throwin’ your tantrum, or do I need to leave a fuckin’ handprint next time?”
The voice is rough. Low. Irish. And I hate that it makes something flutter low in my stomach.
He shifts me in his arms, setting me upright but gripping my wrist so tightly I can’t get away. I look up into deep brown eyes that burn with something darker than fury.
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” I growl.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting like he’s amused I haven’t put a blade through his throat yet.
“I’m the man who’s savin’ you from makin’ the worst fuckin’ decision of your life.” He leans closer, breath brushing my cheek. “And don’t think for a second it’s out of duty.”
My pulse stutters. His hand still grips my arm. The same one that slapped my ass like I was his to correct.
Then he says it. Voice husky. Accent thick. Words made to be remembered.
“You think Kellen Raye’s dangerous, sweetheart?” “Wait ‘til you find out what I’d do to you.”
My breath catches.
He turns and starts walking away like he didn’t just detonate a landmine .
Hell. No.
“Get back here!” I storm after him. “You don’t get to manhandle me and walk away like that.”
He doesn’t even turn around as he heads toward my car—my car, parked around the corner.
“I’m driving,” he says without glancing back.
“The hell you are.”
But I barely finish the sentence before he opens the passenger door, grabs me by the waist again, and plants me in the seat. He buckles me in like I’m a child, then slams the door shut before I can stop him.
By the time I recover, he’s in the driver’s seat, engine already humming.
“You’ve got five seconds to explain who you are before I electrocute your balls,” I snap.
“You can try,” he says, eyes on the road. “But I’d rather not have this conversation in a warzone.”
He drives fast. Too smooth to be civilian-trained. My pulse keeps pace with the miles.
“I know what you were about to do,” he says quietly.
I glare at him. “And you think I need a man to come save me?”
“I think you need someone who’s not walkin’ straight into the lion’s fuckin’ mouth without a plan.”
“I have a plan.”
“No, lass,” he says, glancing at me. “You had an ide a . And a death wish.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you expect in return if I did let you help me?”
That earns a chuckle. Rich. Deep. Unsettling.
“I won’t have to beg or ask you for anything,” he says, voice dipping to a low growl. “Eventually... you’ll give it to me.”
My whole body tightens.
He’s dangerous.
But it’s not Kellen Raye I’m afraid of anymore. It’s the man with the steady hands and brutal mouth who looks at me like I already belong to him.
And worse? A part of me is starting to wonder... If I do.
He doesn’t speak as he drives.
I don’t either—not at first. I’m too busy trying not to launch myself across the seat and throttle him. Or kiss him. Which pisses me off even more.
His hand rests on the gearshift—tattooed fingers drumming against the leather like he’s keeping time to some silent, violent rhythm.
I glance, unwillingly, at the ink that wraps his arms, the elegant sweep of black and grey work crawling all the way up to the neck of his shirt and disappearing beneath the collar.
Even his hands are covered—well-done pieces, not the kind done in prison or under a neon OPEN sign. These are layered, intentional.
Controlled chaos. Like him .
My gaze flicks back to the window, jaw clenched. “You don’t get to interfere,” I grit out. “Who the hell even are you?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts gears like I didn’t speak. His muscles tense with the movement. Jesus, even his forearm is corded with power.
“Y’know,” he says finally, voice low, accent laced through every word, “most people would say thank you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—thank you for kidnapping me? For throwing me over your shoulder and spanking me like some cartoon caveman?”
That smirk again. I want to slap it off his face.
“I kept ya from makin’ a mistake, Seraphina.”
My name sounds dangerous on his tongue. Too familiar. Too intimate.
“I don’t need help,” I bite out.
“No,” he agrees, “ya need a fuckin’ miracle if you think walkin’ into Raye’s world on your own was gonna end anythin’ but bloody.”
I stare at him, lip curled. “What is it you’re planning to ask for in return, then? What’s the price tag for your unsolicited protection?”
This time, his chuckle is quieter. No dark promises. No suggestive smoke curling between us.
Just one word, low and sure: “Nothin’.”
That makes me pause. He glances at me, then back to the road.
“I’m not here for what you think I am, lass. But if ya want to dig into Facility E, I can keep ya from gettin’ yourself killed in the process.”
My fingers twitch in my lap. “How do you know about Facility E?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he turns the corner and the cityscape shifts. My brows pull together.
No. No, no.
He pulls into the secure drive and parks my car—my car—right where I always park it beneath my building. The code-protected garage that only I and the security system should have access to.
I stare at the dashboard, then at him. My pulse thunders behind my eyes.
He leans forward slightly to kill the engine, inked knuckles brushing the key.
“How—” I start, but my voice comes out tighter than I intend. “How the fuck do you know where I live?”
He finally looks at me.
And this time, there’s no smirk.
Only brutal honesty.
“I’ve been watchin’ ya for a while, Seraphina. ”
It shouldn’t have felt good. It shouldn’t have made my breath catch or my thighs clench or my heart race like that.
But it did.
One sharp smack—his palm, my skin, a sting that should’ve pissed me off—and I nearly moaned. Not because I liked being dominated. Not because I wanted to be controlled.
But because for one split second, I didn’t feel numb.
I felt alive .
And that terrified me almost as much as the man who did it .