Chapter 3 #2
The bubbles cling to my arms and chest like a fragile barrier between me and everything that’s happening.
My hand drifts slowly to my stomach.
The thought comes unbidden, soft and devastating in its tenderness.
What if there’s something of him still with me?
Not a memory. Not a ghost.
Something living. Something stubborn and strong like Trey. A piece of him that refused to leave me behind.
The idea tightens my chest until it hurts to breathe.
Hope and grief twist together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Loving Trey—even for such a short time—made me whole in a way I never knew I was broken. He saw me. He chose me. He protected me when no one else ever had.
Now he’s gone…and I feel like I’m fading with him.
Just another haunting drifting through someone else’s darkness.
I lower my forehead to the edge of the tub, letting the water hide my trembling.
“If there’s a piece of you in me,” I whisper, my voice barely more than breath, “be stronger than I am. Be strong…like your father.”
Outside, the city roars endlessly.
Inside, fear coils tighter in my chest.
Because beneath the luxury, beneath the guarded walls and armed men, I can feel it.
Something is coming.
The way Johnathon watches me. The way every move feels calculated. The way this place feels less like refuge and more like a waiting room.
Danger is closing in, and the only thing keeping me together is the fragile hope that somewhere, somehow, the man I love is still breathing…still fighting…searching for me.
I step out of the bedroom wrapped in a thick white robe, the fabric heavy against my skin. My hair is twisted into a towel, damp curls already escaping at the nape of my neck. Artemis and Klause fall into place at my sides without a sound.
The apartment smells different.
I slow at the edge of the living space.
The table has been set.
Not lavishly—but deliberately. Two plates sit opposite one another, each covered with a polished silver dome. A single glass of water waits at one chair. Mine. Steam curls faintly from beneath the metal, as if even the heat has been measured.
Johnathon stands by the windows, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. The city spills behind him in sheets of neon light, reflected faintly in the glass. His voice is low.
“No. She won’t be moved again, for now.”
A pause.
“Yes. Alive.”
Another pause. Longer.
“Good.”
He ends the call and turns.
His gaze flicks over me once—robe, towel, dogs—and moves on. There’s no interest in it. No reaction at all. Just assessment.
“Sit.”
He doesn’t gesture. He doesn’t need to.
I cross the room and take the chair opposite him. Artemis lowers herself at my feet. Klause positions his body behind my leg.
Johnathon lifts the dome from my plate first.
Food chosen for efficiency, not comfort. Protein. Vegetables. Something pale and filling. No indulgence. No spice. Enough to sustain me. Nothing more.
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” I say quietly.
“No.”
He uncovers his own plate but doesn’t eat. Just watches me.
“You needed something warm,” he says. “Something that won’t upset your stomach. You haven’t eaten properly in days. Choice would have complicated that.”
I meet his eyes. There’s no challenge in my expression—just a steady, contained anger that has nowhere to go.
“You like deciding for people.”
“I like control,” he says calmly. “People are incidental.”
The words settle into me like a verdict.
I can see now why he might have struggled with Trey.
I inhale slowly and pick up my fork. The first bite feels wrong in my mouth, my body sluggish after days of surviving on ration packs, crackers, and canned meat. My stomach protests, unfamiliar with real food again, but I force myself to chew and swallow.
I’ve lived most of my life on simpler fare. Boiled meat. Potatoes. Meals meant to fill, not comfort. This bland dish is nothing extravagant. Whatever Johnathon thinks of me, I am not fragile.
Refusing would be noticed.
Refusing would be weakness.
And weakness is something men like him catalogue.
After a moment, he speaks again.
“Trey is alive.”
The words strike with brutal precision.
My hand stills midair.
I don’t cry.I don’t gasp.
But my breath catches hard enough to hurt, a sharp, involuntary sound tearing from my chest.
He gives me nothing else.
No explanation.No proof.No comfort.
I swallow and force myself to keep eating, my heart slamming so violently it feels like it might shatter my ribs.
“Why tell me now?” I ask.
“Because you’re clean,” he replies evenly. “Fed. Sitting where I want you.”
He leans back slightly, fingers folding together with deliberate calm.
“Because hope makes people compliant.”
How do I know he is telling the truth? That this is not just another leash around my throat?
My grip tightens around the fork.
“I want proof.”
He snorts softly.
“Now,” he continues, ignoring me entirely, “we’re going to talk about what you’re willing to do to keep him that way.”
I don’t ask anything else.I don’t beg.I don’t thank him.
I keep eating.
The food turns to ash in my mouth, but I finish it anyway. I steady my breathing. I quiet the shaking in my hands. I let my body slip back into endurance mode.
Johnathon watches closely.
He’s looking for cracks.
He doesn’t find them.
Because something inside me has already shifted, settling deep.
“You heard what I said, Johnathon. I want proof.”
With a grunt and an irritated sigh, he pulls out his phone, taps a few times, then sets it on the table and slides it toward me.
The screen is paused on a news clip.
Burnt Ashes band member Trey Baker is out of critical condition at a Los Angeles hospital. Doctors expect a full recovery.
The words blur.
My heart stutters.
Trey lives.
Heat floods my chest so fast it nearly knocks the breath from me. Klause’s tail thumps twice against my leg, sensing the surge of emotion. Tears burn behind my eyes, threatening to spill over.
I look up.
Johnathon is watching me.
His face is flat. Assessing.
I swallow hard and rein in my reaction, locking it down before it can betray me. The joy is there, roaring and wild, but I bury it deep beneath layers of control.
This isn’t safety.
This is leverage.
But Trey pulling through changes everything.
I prayed he might survive.
I hoped.
This…this is confirmation, and with it comes certainty.
I have to persist.
I have to endure whatever this becomes so Trey has time to find me.
That realization rewires something inside my chest.
Not hope.
Not peace.
Something colder. Stronger.
A quiet, lethal patience.
Because he will come for me.
Trey will come the way he does everything. With purpose. With precision. He will tear through anyone standing between us, because that is who my husband is.
All I have to do is survive.
All I have to do is stay exactly where I am.
Let Johnathon believe I’m subdued.Let Gideon believe I’m lost.Let them both underestimate the man they think they’ve broken.
I lift my gaze and meet Johnathon’s eyes.
There’s nothing there for him to read.
No fear.No gratitude.No surrender.
Only stillness.
He studies me for a long moment, like he senses the shift but can’t quite identify it.
Good.
Let him think silence means obedience.
Let him believe I’ve learned my place.
Because the man I belong to is alive, and when Trey comes for me, there will be nowhere left for them to hide.
They took everything from me but time, and time is the one thing I know how to turn into a weapon.