Chapter 24
Seraphina
I wake tangled in warmth and skin and the dizzying remnants of last night.
My lungs feel fuller somehow, like I’ve been breathing in fragments of him while I slept—smoke, salt, the wild scent of pine and fire that is Callum through and through.
The sheets are a twisted mess around our legs, one of his arms is wrapped possessively around my waist, and his hand is still curved over my ribcage like he’s claiming every part of me—even in sleep.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in what feels like years, I don’t feel like prey. I feel… chosen.
Not just touched. Not just taken.
Claimed.
My muscles ache in the best way. My lips feel swollen. There are bruises blooming on my hips and thighs, each one a whispered vow, a mark of everything we said without words last night.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, and try to sneak out of bed for some water. But before my foot can touch the floor, his arm tightens around my waist.
“Where’re ya goin’, little siren?” His voice is gravel, barely more than a growl, but it drips heat all the same.
I glance back at him and smile, soft and crooked. “Thirsty. ”
He makes a sound that’s half complaint, half amusement, and pulls me back into his chest. His mouth presses to the curve of my shoulder, rough lips dragging lazily across my skin. “You leave this bed before I say so, and we’re gonna have a problem.”
I laugh into the pillow. “You planning to keep me here all day?”
“Thinkin’ about it,” he murmurs, curling a hand around my stomach, anchoring me to him. “World outside can wait.”
For a while, we don’t talk. There’s just breathing. Gentle touches. That easy silence you only earn after the storm.
Eventually, I ask the question that’s been ticking like a slow fuse in the back of my mind.
“When are you going to do it?”
His eyes open slowly, locking onto mine with a focus that slices through the morning haze. “Tonight,” he says. “I won’t let him breathe another day with his lips rememberin’ your skin.”
A tremor runs through me—not fear, exactly. Just a shift. Like something deep in my bones rearranging itself. I nod, pressing my hand to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat.
“I want to be ready,” I whisper. “In case there’s blowback. I don’t want to freeze when it counts.”
His thumb brushes the underside of my jaw, tilting my face toward him. “That’s what today’s for,” he says, eyes sharp and sure. “Gonna teach ya a few things. How to handle a blade. A gun. Not just for defense—but to own any room you walk into.”
The words settle in me like armor. Not heavy. Just right.
The safehouse has a back room I hadn’t noticed before. Callum leads me through it after breakfast—if you can call black coffee and shared silence breakfast—and opens the door to a space that feels like another world.
A punching bag hangs in the corner. There’s a weapons cabinet along the wall—locked, but not hidden. A padded mat takes up most of the floor, and a faint scent of sweat and leather clings to the air.
“This where you train?” I ask, stepping in slowly.
He nods. “Where I bleed before I make others do it.”
There’s no bravado in his tone. Just fact.
He walks to the cabinet, opens it with a key from his pocket, and pulls out a small handgun. Matte black. Compact. Sleek.
My heart stutters.
“We’ll start slow,” he says, handing it to me gently, like I’m not breakable, but the moment is sacred. “Feel the weight. Get used to how it sits in yer palm.”
I do as he says. My grip’s clumsy at first. Too tight. Then too loose. But he’s patient. Guides my fingers, adjusts my stance.
“Feet shoulder-width apart. Don’t lock your elbows. And breathe, Sera.”
His hands settle on my hips—strong, sure—and he presses in close behind me, his voice low at my ear. “Breathe through the fear. Let it sharpen you.”
I close my eyes and inhale slowly .
Exhale.
When I lift the gun again, my hands are steadier.
We go over how to load and unload, how to click off the safety, how to aim. He gives me a paper target, and I miss the first few shots.
Frustration bubbles up fast. I huff and lower the gun.
“What if I’m not built for this?” I mutter.
Callum doesn’t let that slide.
He steps in, takes my face in both hands, and tips my chin until I’m looking straight into the gold-ringed heat of his eyes.
“Ye were forged in fire, Sera,” he says. “Ye don’t just survive the heat—ye become it.”
My throat goes tight.
But something inside me unlocks.
The next time I raise the gun, I don’t miss.
By late afternoon, we’re sitting on the mat, backs to the wall, sweaty and exhausted. I’m down to a sports bra and leggings, and he’s stripped to just his jeans, hair damp with sweat and curling at the ends.
Callum leans his head back and lets out a slow exhale. “Alright,” he says. “Time for the plan.”
I sit up straighter .
“Tonight, Damon dies,” he says, voice stripped bare of anything but steel. “Clean. Surgical. Irreversible.”
He lays it out for me piece by piece: fake a hit from an old rival gang. Use burner phones to drop false leads. Plant evidence that leads away from us and straight to someone Dominic already mistrusts.
“We feed Dominic a whisper,” he says, “just enough to steer the narrative. He’ll believe it if the story’s bloody enough.”
I listen, quiet and focused.
When he finishes, I stare at the scuffed edge of the mat, letting the weight of it settle into me. Then I meet his eyes.
“Once this starts,” I say softly, “there’s no going back.”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, gaze locked on mine.
“We’re not goin’ back, little siren.” His voice is low and final. “We’re goin’ through.”
I nod.
No more running. No more hiding.
This is war—and I’m done being unarmed.
I lean into him, resting my forehead to his shoulder. His arm wraps around me instinctively, protective and sure.
Tonight, the monster dies.
And tomorrow… whatever comes next, I won’t be facing it alone.