Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Seraphina
die first – Nessa Barrett
It has been thirteen days since everything shattered.
Thirteen days without Trey’s voice, without the brush of his fingers against my skin, without the solid warmth of his body at my back when sleep finally claimed us. Thirteen days since the last time I knew—truly knew—that the man I love was breathing.
Johnathon never allows me to stay still.
Every day brings a new location, new walls closing in around me, new beds that never smell like him and never offer comfort. We never remain anywhere longer than eight hours, as if lingering invites danger, as if the ground itself might betray us if we pause too long.
Until now.
Road signs blur past the window, town names meaningless in the darkness, blending together into nothing. But this place feels different. The men riding with us shift uneasily, their bodies tense, hands never far from their weapons, eyes constantly scanning.
Then the glowing sign rises out of the night like a beacon.
Las Vegas.
The city sprawls beneath the sky, alive with movement and sound, neon bleeding violently into the darkness in reds, blues, purples, and golds so bright they almost hurt to look at.
Endless streams of cars crawl through the streets, headlights glinting like rivers of fire.
People flood the sidewalks, laughing, shouting, stumbling in drunken excitement or desperate thrill, the air humming with energy that feels reckless and wild.
I picture Trey in the middle of it all, weaving through the crowds with that crooked smile, laughing freely, flirting shamelessly, alive in a way only he can be. The image twists painfully in my chest.
We pull up in front of a massive building with a glass facade that gleams under the lights, signs flashing promises of pleasure and escape.
The vehicle sweeps into a parking structure where men in red waistcoats nod us through without question.
A radio crackles somewhere overhead, and large metal shutters slowly wind up, revealing a dark void beyond.
We slide into a bay and come to a stop.
Johnathon exits first, then gestures for me to follow. His hand settles at the small of my back—a silent command to behave.
Artemis and Klause immediately flank me, bodies low, alert, ready. Two of his men fall in behind us with practiced precision, weapons concealed but close. Before we even cross the threshold, two more familiar faces are already positioned inside, watching, waiting.
The elevator jolts as we step in, shuddering upward before stopping once to collect more of his detail.
When the doors finally open again, sound crashes over me in a physical wave—bells chiming, plastic chips clattering, bursts of laughter, shouts of excitement, music thumping deep and heavy through the floor.
Klause nudges closer, pressing his head against my hand, and I scratch between his eyes, unsure whether I’m calming him or myself. Artemis coils tighter beside me, her focus narrowing, muscles taut.
“Fucking hate this place,” Johnathon mutters.
Then he moves, and everyone follows.
The casino swallows us whole.
Light pours down from massive chandeliers, reflecting off polished marble floors until everything gleams too brightly, too clean, too false.
The air smells thick with money and indulgence—layers of perfume over smoke, liquor, sweat, and desperation masked as luxury.
Slot machines sing and cry endlessly, a thousand small losses disguised as hope.
The chaos feels overwhelming.
It reminds me of Trey.
Johnathon doesn’t slow as he cuts straight through the crowd, the men around us carving a path as people spill aside—some annoyed, some wary, others too intoxicated to care.
My chest aches with every step as the weight of thirteen days presses down on me, and I fight the tremble rising in my throat. Crying has never helped. It only earns cruel looks and quiet mockery from Johnathon’s men.
Who is he really?
When Trey spoke of his father, there was always pain in his voice, never this cold authority, never this calculated control.
My stomach churns.
I have no phone, no money, no identity that matters anymore. Johnathon has made it clear that Gideon is still hunting me, that I am never truly safe.
So, I’m trapped, dragged from place to place like a piece on someone else’s board, waiting for Johnathon to decide when I’m allowed to see Trey…or hoping Trey will somehow find me first.
“Keep your dogs under control,” Johnathon says without turning around, his tone smooth but edged with steel. “If they step out of line, I’ll put them down.”
I’ve heard the threat too many times in the last few days.
“Stop threatening them,” I say quietly. “I’m already going with you, Johnathon.”
Every time I think he might show even a shred of civility, he reminds me exactly who he is, like cruelty is etched into his bones.
How Trey came from a man like this feels like a miracle.
A low growl hums in Artemis’s chest while Klause presses closer against my leg.
I nod once, not trusting my voice.
We continue through the sea of strangers, the crowd closing behind us like water after a ship’s wake, until we reach another elevator waiting at the far end of the casino.
The doors close with a muted thud, sealing us inside mirrored walls and silence.
I catch my reflection—drawn, hollow-eyed, hair loose around my shoulders like I forgot how to care for myself.
Johnathon doesn’t look at me. He rarely does.
He checks the floor count, the security feed on his phone, the men behind us.
He hasn’t hurt me. Not once.
Yet even with him, I never feel safe.
The guns don’t change that. Neither does the number of men surrounding us or the careful routes Johnathon chooses.
Safety is an illusion he wears like a tailored suit—sharp, convincing, and empty beneath the surface.
Every place he has dragged me through has only reinforced it.
Motels with flickering lights and stained carpets.
Abandoned shacks where the wind slipped through broken boards like whispers.
One night spent in the back cargo area of a hunting supply store, a fold-out cot wedged between shelves of dehydrated meat and boxes of ammunition, the smell of iron and dust thick in the air.
Now this.
The elevator doors open onto a dim hallway where the carpet has been worn thin by years of footsteps, its once-rich color dulled to something gray and lifeless.
We move quietly, the casino’s roar sealed away behind us like a world that doesn’t exist. Johnathon guides us toward what looks like a linen closet, opens the narrow door, and reveals a hidden stairwell tucked behind shelves of folded towels and cleaning supplies.
We descend one flight, the air cooler here, quieter.
At the end of the corridor, faint city light spills in from a window, painting long shadows across the floor. The silence feels unnatural.
Johnathon stops at an apartment door and keys his mic.
A moment later it opens, and a uniformed worker nods quickly, eyes downcast. Johnathon hands him an envelope thick enough to bend under its own weight. The man doesn’t count it. He never would. He simply steps aside and disappears down the hall without a word.
The apartment beyond is massive, but tired.
Once-grand wealth that’s gone untouched too long.
Dust softens every corner, dulls the shine of polished surfaces.
The air carries a faint stale scent, like rooms that have forgotten what it means to be lived in.
Johnathon walks me through without ceremony, pointing nothing out because he doesn’t need to.
A sprawling living area with heavy furniture. A kitchen that looks expensive but unused. An office filled with dark shelves and locked drawers. Rooms meant for people who once mattered.
Everywhere I look, I feel like a ghost passing through someone else’s forgotten life.
Then he opens a door.
This room is different.
Rich dark wood lines the walls, polished and warm.
Heavy drapes frame the glowing city beyond the windows, Las Vegas burning in the distance like a restless heartbeat.
The bed dominates the space—far too large for one person, its sheets crisp and untouched.
Beyond it, a large bath steams softly, heat already fogging the glass.
This room feels prepared.
My stomach tightens with unease.
“Bathe,” Johnathon says evenly. “There’s a robe. Clothes will come. Eat if you want. It’s under a cloche by the coffee table.”
He pauses, just long enough for the weight of his next words to settle.
“I’ll have information about Trey afterward. Then we talk.”
Klause lets out a long sigh beside me.
Johnathon’s gaze snaps to him.
“Kibble will be up too,” he adds flatly. “There’ll be a sack brought up shortly.”
That’s it.
“Fucking mutts.”
There he is again—cruelty slipping out for no reason at all, like it’s his native language.
I don’t thank him. I don’t ask questions.
I simply call my dogs to my side and close the door.
The bath fills quickly, steam rising to warm the chilled parts of me I didn’t realize were shaking.
I undress without looking at myself, unwilling to see the girl I’ve become in the mirror.
But before I can step toward the tub, a sudden wave of nausea rolls through me so violently it steals the air from my lungs.
My hand flies to my mouth.
“Oh—”
I barely make it to the toilet in time, dropping to my knees as sickness surges up without warning, my body heaving as though it is trying to purge every ounce of fear and grief that has lived inside me these past weeks.
When it passes, it leaves me trembling.
I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, breathing slowly, trying to steady myself while the room tilts slightly around me.
When I sink into the water, the heat presses against my skin.
Artemis stretches across the doorway like a silent sentinel. Klause sits just beyond her, eyes fixed on the hallway.