Chapter Seventeen
Seraphina
Daylight – Taylor Swift
Istand, because I can’t sit still, because the raw ache of watching Mac unravel is clawing at my chest, and Trey moves before I can even think, his hands on her shoulders, pulling her into his arms. I see it all—the collapse, the tears spilling down Mac’s face, the way she clings to him like she was afraid she’d never get to again—makes my chest tighten.
He carries her to a nearby table, sliding into the seat and keeping her on his lap, his arms wrapped around her with that quiet, unshakable devotion he reserves for the people he loves.
A twisted part of me—one I don’t want to acknowledge—flares with something close to jealousy at the attention he gives her, but it fades quickly, replaced by something softer. Awe. Admiration.
Because even as she sobs, he lowers his voice—so low, so steady—that I can almost feel the calm threading through her panic.
A figure approaches, catching me off guard, and my heart leaps into my throat before I register Logan. He pulls me into a hug without hesitation, his arms strong, grounding, comforting.
“It’s good to see you, Seraphina,” he murmurs, holding me close. “Mac’s been a mess. She’s very emotional, and Trey is like a brother to her.” His piercing blue eyes flick toward them. “Trey will calm her down.”
“—Or piss her off enough that she forgets she was sad. He’s good at that. Nimble prick he is, dancing out of his hospital room just to head straight for Vegas.”
Sam.
He pats me once before dropping into a seat, already pulling out his phone. “Oh, also—hi, Seraphina. I’m glad you’re in one piece. Unlike your husband, el-fuk-tardo.”
I nod into Logan as he pulls back, his gaze lingering on my face, assessing, while heat floods up my neck and into my cheeks. I hate being the center of attention.
I feel the weight of his concern, the quiet steadiness in it, and I let him go reluctantly before he steps back and sits down, guiding me into the seat beside him.
“Are you okay?” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes searching mine. “Did Johnathon—”
I shake my head quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”
The waitress returns, carrying coffee, and I can tell from the way she freezes and opens and closes her mouth that she didn’t expect the men before her. Chace smiles easily, Logan stares, and Sam glances down at his phone casually, after his cursing towards Trey, thoroughly unruffled.
“Can we have some coffees, please?” Trey calls, his arm still draped around Mac on his lap. “And for my wife, too.” He motions to me, while still having a petite blonde on his lap.
The waitress’s eyes widen again, and I can feel my cheeks heating. Sitting next to Logan, and Sam, my head lighting up like a lantern.
Logan chuckles behind me, slipping his arm around my shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to my cheek. If I wasn’t sitting already, I would have probably fallen down then and there.
“Oi, fucker. Keep your fucking lips off my wife.” Trey calls out.
Logan flips him the finger without looking.
“Baby, you cool with me slipping Mac the tongue? I gotta put that twat in his place.”
“Try it Baker, and I will bite the damn thing off.” Mac growls, before fighting off a sniffle.
“Jesus Christ,” Chace says, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “I turn up with them this morning, coming out of their suite, and now this? People are going to think we share everything.” I laugh, lifting my freshly refilled coffee. “I bet you—”
Logan’s hand slaps over my mouth before I can finish my sentence. Sam freezes, coffee halfway to his lips. Chace throws his head back, howling with laughter. I look left, blinking up at Logan, letting the moment stretch.
“Do not…finish…whatever it was you were about to say, sweetheart.”
I barely have time to blink before Trey’s knees appear at my right side, his fingers prying Logan’s hand from my mouth. A dirty grin tugs at his lips.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low and amused, “if you say anything with the words ‘I bet’ in front of us…that comes with a challenge. A challenge that has to be honored. So whatever words were about to come out of those pretty lips, Logan just stopped them from becoming a possible reality.”
My mouth drops open. “What!”
“You were about to say something dirty, weren’t you?” His grin widens as he leans closer, the heat in his gaze pressing against my skin. My face probably matches my hair right now.
“I…”
“You’re welcome,” Logan breathes in my ear, smirking like he’s done the world’s greatest favor.
I take a big sip of my coffee, burning the roof of my mouth, but relishing the sting.
Trey shakes his head, flicking my nose playfully, before tugging me up from my seat and kissing me breathless.
“I think we should do something tonight to commemorate the band being back together,” Mac says, a clear note of mischief in her tone.
“What do you have in mind, Angel?” Logan asks.
“Well, for one thing—we’re in Vegas. But I would like to keep Trey out of the casinos for the time being. At least until he proves he can be… sensible.”
“Well, that’s never going to fucking happen,” Sam mutters.
I glance at him with wide eyes, and he immediately flinches, mouthing an apology.
“Eggy-top, she’s fine with the odd swear. I think I’ve even got her cussing a few times—she’s no wilting daisy,” Trey says with a quiet chuckle. “Macaroni-mascarpone, what do you have in mind, then?”
Mac rolls her eyes. “I think I want to put on some dancing shoes. Tonight.”
“Alright,” Trey says easily, already shifting closer to me, “but I’m not parting from my wifey. We’re going to head back to the suite—we’ll meet you all there later.”
He starts to pull me out of my chair, and I can’t stop the excited giggle that slips free. I didn’t know I could feel this light—this happy.
“Aww, come on, bro, we just got here. You can hang out with us,” Sam says, trying and failing to sound convincing. “Chace mentioned a dope shooting range where you can use a mini-gun, and there’s this cool museum you have to check out.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” Trey replies, completely unbothered. “I’ve got a beautiful wife, and we haven’t had time to just… be.”
“Is that a sex thing?” Sam asks, glancing at Chace.
Chace doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s Trey, dude. Do you really have to ask?”
“Shit—my bad. Fair, bro. Catch you two lovebirds later.”
The afternoon disappears without me noticing.
I spend most of it curled against Trey on the sofa, tucked beneath his arm, my cheek pressed to his chest while some absurd British reality show called Geordie Shore plays across the television.
Trey loves it. It’s wild, chaotic, loud. Slightly unhinged.
And completely, disturbingly jaw-dropping.
They dress up every night like the world is waiting for them. They paint their faces and squeeze into glitter and heels and tiny dresses, and then they spill out into the dark, into flashing lights and music and crowded rooms.
They drink. They dance. They throw their heads back and laugh unencumbered.
I cannot stop watching.
Trey’s fingers move absently through my hair, his attention half on the screen, half on me, and every time one of the girls spins in a club, hips swaying, lights strobing over her skin, something tightens inside my chest.
They look free.
Completely, recklessly free.
By the time dusk begins to settle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the sky in bruised purples and fading gold, I can feel the want pulsing inside me like a second heartbeat.
I don’t want to watch it anymore.
I want to experience it. Now. Tonight. With my husband.
I shift, pushing upright from where I’ve been draped across him, and the absence of his arms makes my skin feel suddenly cool. I step into the middle of the room, hands settling on my hips, heart pounding so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.
He looks up at me lazily at first.
Then properly.
Something in his expression changes.
I don’t ask.
For once in my life, I don’t soften it into a question.
I hold his gaze, bold in a way I’ve never been before, but unafraid, because I know him, because I trust him, because there is nothing in this world he would deny me if it mattered.
My heart races so hard it almost steals my breath. “Tonight. I want to dance with you. Like they do.”
I gesture toward the television, where neon lights flicker over bodies pressed together in movement and music and freedom.
For a fraction of a second, surprise flashes in his eyes.
Then it’s gone.
His pierced bottom lip drags slowly between his teeth.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice roughening in a way that sends heat straight through me. “That’s sexy.”
He sits up fully now, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, studying me like I’ve just become the most dangerous thing in the room.
Then he spreads his legs slightly and crooks his finger at me.
“Tell me more,” he says quietly. “Tell me exactly what you want, baby. You can have it. You can have it fucking all.”
The air between us shifts.
Thickens.
I walk toward him slowly, my pulse fluttering in my throat, and when I reach him he catches my hips and pulls me down onto his lap so I’m straddling him, my hands instinctively finding his shoulders.
“I want a drink,” I whisper, leaning closer, my hair falling around us like a curtain. “I want music so loud I can feel it in my ribs. I want you to pull me close and not care who sees. I want to forget everything for one night and just…move.”
His hands tighten on my waist.
“You think I won’t give you that?” he murmurs, his forehead brushing mine.
I shake my head, breathless but smiling. “I think you will.”
His hands are firm on my hips, steady and possessive, and I don’t move away from that hold. I lean into it, heat rising through my core. I know my cheeks are flushed.
“When the night ends,” I say slowly, my voice steadier than my racing heart, “I don’t want you to be gentle.”
His eyes darken.
I don’t look away.
“I want you to take me back here,” I continue, my fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the strength beneath the fabric, the power in him that has never once been turned against me. “I want you to look at me like I’m not fragile.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re not fragile,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I reply. And that might be the boldest thing I’ve ever admitted.
I shift slightly on his lap, feeling him harden beneath me. I let it make me braver.
“I want you to love me,” I whisper, my lips brushing just beneath his ear. “Hard. Like you’ve been thinking about it all night. I want you to make me feel it. I want you to love me like you think it’s going to be our last time together.”
His fingers flex at my waist.
“Keep talking,” he murmurs, voice rougher now.
“I want you to take your time,” I say, breath unsteady but determined. “I want you to undress me slowly. Like you’re reminding me that my body is mine… and I’m choosing to give it to you.”
His forehead presses against mine.
“When you touch me,” I continue, softer now but fiercer underneath, “I don’t want you to hold back. I don’t want you to treat me like I’ll break. I want you to make me feel alive. Claimed. And…”
The word hangs between us.
“I want it all…right there…out on the balcony.”
His breathing is heavier now, controlled but strained, and I feel powerful in a way I never have before.
“And when I fall apart,” I whisper, my fingers tangling in his shirt, “It will be because of you. Because I’m yours, and your mine.”
Silence.
Thick, electric and torturously suffocating.
He stares at me like I’ve just set the entire room on fire.
“Seraphina,” he says, low and desperate and wrecked all at once, “you have no fucking idea the things I’d do for you. To keep you by my side.”
Maybe I do.
Maybe that’s the point.
Instead of softening, instead of retreating, I hold his gaze and let him see it. The woman I am becoming.
“Take me dancing,” I say again, breath warm against his mouth. “Then make me burn in the way that only you can.”