Chapter Twelve #2
People move around us—tourists, high rollers, vacationers in varying states of dress. Some glance at us. Some recognize us instantly. Some linger.
I don’t care.
My attention flicks constantly—Sera, exits, threats, reflections.
Sera looks just as overwhelmed as I feel, her fingers fidgeting with mine.
The elevator doors open soundlessly.
“This place is amazing…” she breathes.
I lean in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“I think it falls short compared to you, baby.”
She giggles softly.
“Get a fucking room, you two,” Chace mutters.
“That’s the plan.”
The elevator rises in silence.
I catalogue everything.
If something goes wrong, I need a path.
The doors open directly into the suite.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the city sprawling beneath us. The space is obscene—white marble, dark wood, soft lighting, a living area larger than most homes.
I guide Sera inside first.
Niko and Chace step in briefly behind us.
“Security detail has been briefed. No one reaches this floor without clearance. I’ll have surveillance feeds patched to your phone within the hour.”
“Thank you.”
They leave.
The door shuts.
Silence settles.
For the first time today, there is no movement, no echo of danger.
Just us.
I release a slow breath.
It hurts.
The pain arrives quietly—my ribs protesting with every inhale, a sharp pull along my side reminding me exactly how hard I drove my fist into my father’s body—and how hard he drove his into mine.
Adrenaline is a liar.
Now it fades.
Truth settles into bone.
Sera turns slowly, taking in the suite.
“Trey…”
I move toward the kitchen island before she can study me too closely, pulling out my phone.
“We’ll stay here a few nights,” I say evenly. “Until everything settles.”
I type quickly.
Clothing. Medical kit. Ice packs. Her tea. Her vitamins. Red dahlias. Secure line.
No press.
Send.
Pain flares again.
I shift subtly, masking it.
She walks to the window.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she says.
I look at her reflection in the glass.
“I did,” I reply.
Because I will not risk her again.
Because I underestimated once.
Because I would rather burn money than bury my wife.
My knuckles sting as I flex my fingers.
Nothing I can’t function through.
Nothing she needs to see.
Might consider munching on some aspirin like smarties.
“I’m going to shower,” I say casually.
“You’re okay?”
Nope. I’m fucked, sweetheart.
“I’m fine.”
Not entirely a lie.
I step into the bedroom, closing the door softly.
Then I exhale.
The pain sharpens as I lift my shirt. Bruising spreads deep across my ribs.
Cracked. Not broken.
Manageable.
The shower runs hot.
Steam fills the room.
I step under the spray.
Heat hits like fire—then dulls.
I rest my forehead against the tile.
I can still feel my father’s collar in my grip.
Hear the impact.
Years of restraint snapping.
Necessary.
Earned.
Still cost.
Eventually, I straighten.
By the time I step out, towel low around my waist, I look composed again.
The mirror tells a different story.
She cannot see me like this.
Not tonight.
Maybe just… lay in the middle of the rain shower.
But then I’d have to get up.
Could just live there.
I take a deep breath. If it hurts, it means I’m still here. And if I’m still here, it means I’m not fucking done.
I dry off carefully, pull on my jeans and shirt, and school my expression back into something calm before opening the door. The hot water had hurt like hell, but it helped undo some knots, some tension had left me.
When I step back into the suite, Sera is still by the window, her silhouette framed by the lights of the Strip. She turns at the sound of me, and the small smile she gives me feels like absolution. I cross the room and slide my hands gently over her waist.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
She turns in my arms, searching my face as though she’s measuring the question against everything we’ve endured. “I am,” she says after a moment. “Are you?”
I don’t answer that directly. Instead, I guide her toward the sectional, my hand steady at her back.
The leather is cool beneath us as I sit first and then pull her down onto my lap, settling her carefully against my right side.
My left protests if I shift too quickly, so I adjust subtly, angling her weight where it won’t draw attention.
She fits there like she was made to.
My arm wraps around her waist, holding her close.
“I’m fine,” I tell her quietly, brushing my mouth against her temple. “I just needed to know you are.”
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt. The city glows through the glass behind us, but I barely see it now. All I see is her profile, the soft curve of her cheek, the faint crease between her brows that only appears when she’s thinking too hard.
The adrenaline is gone. The ache in my ribs pulses in steady rhythm with my heartbeat. My knuckles throb where skin split earlier. Every breath is a reminder of what it cost to stand in front of my father and refuse to bend.
Yet, sitting here with her on my lap, I would do it again without hesitation.
I press my lips into her hair and close my eyes briefly.
I would burn for her.
I would walk into fire if it meant she never had to feel the heat.
One smile from her, one look that says she trusts me, and I find strength I did not know I possessed. It rises up from somewhere primal and unrelenting, something forged the night I lost her, and every day since.
She shifts slightly, tilting her face up to mine, and when she smiles—soft, tired, but real—it hits me square in the chest.
There it is.
The reason.
The answer.
The only thing that has ever made me feel both ruthless and redeemed at the same time.
I brush my thumb along her jaw, my voice low as the words settle into place between us.
“I would burn the world to ash if it meant you never felt the flame… because one smile from you gives me all the strength I will ever need.”
I think I just said that out loud.
Kind of intense…
Fuck it. I meant every word.