Chapter Thirteen
Seraphina
Constellations – Jade LeMac
Silent tears slide down my cheeks before I even realize it. I try to blink them away, but they keep coming, each one heavier than the last.
“Please don’t cry, baby,” Trey murmurs, his voice low and rough. His hands rise slowly, cupping my face, his thumbs tracing along my cheeks to wipe away the tears. “It fucking kills me to see these on your face.”
Trey studies my face like he’s memorizing it, his thumb brushing beneath my eye where tears have dried tight against my skin.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs softly.
His voice is rough with exhaustion, the edges frayed, and it hits me then just how much he’s endured to get here. He only left the hospital hours ago. He shouldn’t even be standing, and yet he is, because of me.
Because of us.
He stands slowly, his hand sliding into mine, his fingers threading through mine with quiet certainty. The contact sends warmth racing up my arm.
He leads me toward the bedroom.
I follow without question.
The bedroom steals the breath from my lungs the moment he leads me inside.
It too much, I don’t want to disturb anything. A person shouldn’t have this much excess, it feels like a sin to simply be here, yet my stomach is filled with nervous fluttering, his hand drawing me further in.
The walls are paneled in pale ivory silk, framed with gold so subtle it feels expensive rather than showy, and the ceiling rises high above us, crowned with a crystal chandelier that scatters warm light like falling diamonds.
The bed sits at the center of it all, layered in the finest white linens and a charcoal cashmere throw folded with impossible precision at the foot.
A marble fireplace stretches along the opposite wall, flames dancing behind glass, and beyond it, the entire Las Vegas Strip glows through endless floor-to-ceiling windows, the city alive beneath our feet like something offered up in tribute.
Everything glistens.
Everything whispers wealth.
Something about the height leaves you disconnected from the rest of the world.
The people out there walking around making merry.
Me up here surrounded by signs of wealth that I have zero familiarity with.
Yet with Trey by my side, and his lazy ease he welcomes me in, makes promises I should find alarming, yet find endearing.
None of the glitz or the glamour hold a candle to him though, to Trey.
None of it holds my attention the way he does.
His hand stays wrapped around mine, firm and warm, like letting go isn’t something he’s capable of anymore. When the door shuts behind us, the quiet settles deep, wrapping around us, isolating us from everything that tried to tear us apart.
I turn to face him.
He’s already watching me.
There is no distance in his gaze. No walls. No masks. Only something raw and exposed.
His fingers lift slowly to the hem of my camisole, hesitating there, his eyes searching mine.
I nod before he can ask.
The fabric rises beneath his hands, his touch unhurried, careful in a way that makes my chest ache.
He doesn’t rush to uncover me. He takes his time, like this moment matters.
Like I matter. And, God, do I want to believe him.
The cotton slides over my ribs, over my heart, over my shoulders, and when he pulls it free, his hands linger at my waist.
His eyes follow the path the fabric leaves behind.
His knuckles graze down my arm, featherlight, like he needs proof they didn’t break what belongs to him.
What belongs with him.
His breathing grows heavier the more of me he reveals, his jaw tight, his throat working like he’s holding something back.
His fingertips trace the curve of my collarbone.
“My heart stopped,” he says quietly.
The words land between us.
His eyes lift to mine, shining with something that makes my own burn.
“And when everything started fading… when it felt like the world was slipping out from under me…” His voice roughens, his thumb pressing gently over the frantic beat of my pulse. “I wasn’t thinking about the pain. I wasn’t thinking about dying.”
He leans closer.
Close enough that I feel his breath against my lips.
“I was thinking about you. About falling short of protecting you. About the way your skin feels under my hands. About the sound of your voice. About how I never got to touch you one last time. And I swear to God, Seraphina… I fought my way back because loving you was the only thing I was never ready to lose.”
The tears come before I can stop them.
He came back from the dead, he is spared, chosen, raised. He is my Lazarus. Only he wasn’t told to rise, it was his own will.
His hand rises instantly, catching one as it falls, his thumb brushing it away with infinite care.
His forehead rests against mine, his body surrounding me, shielding me, worshipping me in the only way he knows how.
He doesn’t touch me like a man who wants.
He touches me like a man who almost lost.
His lips press softly to my shoulder.
Then my throat.
Then my cheek.
Every kiss a promise.
Every breath a vow.
He came back from death itself.
He came back for me. His words settle deep inside me, threading through every fracture, every place I’ve been hollowed out by loss and fear and grief.
His hands rest on my waist, trembling.
Not with weakness.
With restraint.
His forehead presses to my sternum, his breath warm against my skin, and when he speaks, his voice is rough enough to break me.
“I need you, baby,” he whispers. “I need to possess you. I need to feel you, to know you’re here with me, that you’re real, that they didn’t take you somewhere I can’t reach.”
His fingers flex against me like he’s afraid I might disappear.
“I need to be inside you,” he admits hoarsely, shame and devotion tangling together. “I’ve never needed anything more than I need to show you how sorry I am. How much I love you. How much you mean to me.”
He exhales shakily.
“But I’m scared,” he confesses. “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.
I’m scared if I let go of what’s inside me, I won’t be able to stop.
You calm my demons, Seraphina. You’re the only one who can.
You’re my stillness, my everything. But I’m afraid that if let this hold slip, I could hurt you…
I don’t ever want to be a person that causes you pain. ”
My heart shatters in my chest.
I slide my hands into his hair, guiding his face up until his eyes meet mine,
He stands before me, raw, and vulnerable.
He doesn’t understand.
He never could.
He is the only person that I have ever known to put me first, to hold me in high regard. To show me pleasure. The ways of the world. To sit with me and simply be with no expectations. To stand up for me.
How can I find the words… during the dark days of our parting and my seclusion, the moments my fear threatened to smother me, my belief in him kept me strong.
His searching eyes. His warm smile. And his touch, Lord his touch and how he makes me feel alive…
to show me such pleasures, to keep me on the edge till all the pain and doubt crumble away…
I push gently at his shoulders, and his hands fall away from my waist as he lets me guide him back onto the mattress, his muscles tightening with instinct, his jaw clenching as he settles against the pillows.
His eyes darken as I climb over him.
“Trey,” I whisper, and my voice barely holds together. “You could never hurt me.”
My hands rest on his chest, feeling the steady, living beat of his heart beneath my palms, the tattoos that mark him, the strength that defines him, the fragility that nearly stole him from me.
“I need you too,” I confess. “Show me how much you love me. I’m not afraid.”
His breath catches as I lower myself over him, my hair falling forward, creating a world where only he and I exist.
His hands hover at my hips, waiting.
Always waiting for me.
Always choosing me.
I lace my fingers with his and press them into the mattress beside his head.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper.
His eyes close briefly, like the words undo him completely.
When they open again, the devotion in them burns brighter than anything I’ve ever known.