Chapter 9
Seraphina
The silence stretches like tension wire between us. I stare at the chip in my hand like it might bite, like it might scream and crack the world wide open.
And maybe it already has.
Facility E. A portal, he said. Not the endgame—just the doorway.
My head is a fucking hurricane.
I glance up at him. He’s in my kitchen now, like he belongs there, like he didn’t just casually drop intel that people have died over. He’s opening cabinets like he knows exactly where the mugs are.
Like he’s been here before.
And then I remember—he has . Not physically. But in a way that matters more.
He’s been watching me.
Tracking me.
Cataloguing my life like I’m a goddamn case file.
And he said it so casually. Like he was telling me what he ate for breakfast.
Who does that ?
I watch him, every move smooth and precise, like his body doesn’t know how to waste motion. His arms flex as he sets a mug on the counter—corded muscle, veined hands, tattoos curling along the backs of his fingers and disappearing under the sleeves of that fitted black shirt.
Every inch of him screams danger . But not the kind that runs wild and reckless. No, Callum is the kind that waits in the shadows and ends things quietly. Permanently.
I feel the heat rise in my face and shut it down. Focus.
“Alright, Irish,” I snap, folding my arms, “you’ve told me more than most people ever get to hear without ending up in a body bag.”
He arches a brow, amused.
“But you’ve somehow not managed to tell me your name.”
That smug look doesn't falter.
I step toward him, chip still in hand. “Don’t give me some fake alias. Don’t feed me a code name or initials. If you’re going to sit here in my space and act like we’re partners in crime, you’re going to tell me who the hell you really are.”
He sets the mug down gently. Turns toward me.
Leans a little closer, enough for his voice to drop to that velvety pitch again, with that delicious, frustrating lilt that makes my spine straighten and my stomach twist.
“Callum Devlin,” he says with a half-grin. “But I prefer hearin’ it from your lips, love. Say it once for me, will you?”
My face flushes. Instantly.
Shit.
He sees it. I know he does. That grin deepens for half a second before he steps away like he didn’t just flip a switch I didn’t even know I had.
I clear my throat. “Right. Callum.” I say it flatly, like I’m stabbing the syllables into the air between us. “Cute delivery. Did you rehearse that in the mirror?”
He chuckles—low and unbothered. Bastard.
I pace a few steps, then stop and turn to face him again.
“You’ve been watching me.”
“Aye.” No shame. No apology.
“For how long?”
“Few weeks,” he says, casually sipping from my mug like he owns my entire life now. “Long enough to know you weren’t the monster they claimed. Long enough to know you were diggin’ too close to somethin’ deadly, and too clever to stop.”
“You were sent for me.”
“Aye.”
“But you didn’t do what they asked.”
He shakes his head slowly. “They don’t know I’ve flipped the board. Not yet.”
Jesus.
This isn’t just about one facility. Or one secret. This is something bigger. Older. Systemic.
“You expect me to trust you after all this?” I ask, gesturing between us.
“No.” He meets my gaze. “But I expect you to survive. With or without me. You’ve got teeth, Seraphina. I’m just givin’ you sharper ones.”
I sit, hard, on the arm of the couch. “So what now?”
“That depends,” he says, slow and deliberate. “Do you want to live long enough to finish what you started?”
I stare at him. At the lines of ink that run up his forearms like armor. At the controlled stillness in his stance. At the haunted glint in his eyes he tries to bury under charm and muscle.
I should throw him out.
I should wipe the chip, smash it to hell, change my locks and bury my life deep underground.
But I won’t.
Because underneath the smooth delivery and the tactical precision and the flirting that’s just a little too effective…
I see it.
The truth.
He knows .
Things I haven’t been able to find. Files I haven’t cracked. Secrets I haven’t even scratched the surface of.
And whether I trust him or not—he’s my best shot.
I lift my chin. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
He grins when I shut him down, like I’ve just challenged him to a game he knows he’ll win eventually.
“Not askin’, love,” he murmurs again, like it’s a promise and not a flirtation. “But you’ll come to see I’m not the worst thing lurkin’ in your shadow.”
I don’t reply. I don’t need to. My fingers tighten around the chip, and without another word, I cross the room to my laptop, pull it from its hiding spot beneath the floorboard, and boot it up.
He follows, but keeps his distance, leaning against the doorframe like he’s trying to look casual and not lethal as hell in my space. I don’t ask if the chip’s trapped—already ran a scan when I built this system. If he wanted to fry my hard drive, he’d have done it with the kettle.
The second I decrypt the shell, it hits me.
My stomach clenches.
Even before the first file opens, I feel it. Like static under my skin. Like something wrong pressing in from all sides.
I load the visuals first. Easier to stomach than text—until they aren’t.
Facility E isn’t a research site. It’s a breeding ground.
Children.
Taken young. Conditioned. Weaponized.
I see the same boy in three different files, younger each time.
At eight, he’s crying in a cell. At ten, he’s bloody and bruised, hands bound behind his back, standing in front of a row of silent men in lab coats.
By twelve, he’s no longer crying—just staring through the camera like he doesn’t have a soul left to burn.
My fingers tremble on the keys, but I keep going. Keep clicking.
Sterilization reports. Controlled breeding programs. Women listed by numbers, not names.
There’s footage too. Short, fragmented. Enough to give context, not enough to dull the blade.
In one, a woman screams until her voice gives out—then she just… lies there. Motionless.
Another clip shows children lined up, drugged, tested, dragged away one by one.
Project tags flash across the screen in bright red: Sovereign Directive , Blank Protocol , Marionette Class .
And one file near the bottom marked “Blackdawn Integration.”
I click it.
My throat goes dry.
This isn’t just Facility E. This is everywhere . Branches. Seed programs. Experimental controls. The things I’ve uncovered under Blackdawn? They were just proof of concept.
Facility E is where they perfect it.
And then sell it .
People. Children. Bodies reprogrammed and leased out to whoever can pay.
Mercenaries. Assassins. Spies. Servants.
Test cases sold to allies. Enemies. Political figures. Celebrities.
Like cattle. Like inventory.
And beneath every single file, in cold grayscale headers, one name returns like rot:
The Warden Initiative.
I don’t say anything. I just sit there, breathing hard. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.
It’s one thing to suspect it. Another to see it this raw. This detailed.
To feel it under your skin like a second pulse.
I close the screen. Slowly.
Turn toward him.
Callum hasn’t moved. He’s still against the wall, arms crossed, gaze dark and unreadable.
I can feel it—the storm behind his eyes. He’s seen it. All of it. Probably worse.
And now I have too.
There’s no turning back from this.
I nod. Just once. Quiet. Steady .
His jaw ticks, and for the first time since stepping into my penthouse, Callum Devlin doesn’t smile.
“Good girl,” he says quietly. The accent softens, just a touch. “Now we burn the whole bastard world down together.”