Chapter Eighteen
Trey
Far Away – Nickelback
She has no idea what she’s just done to me.
When she told me she didn’t want gentle, something inside my chest shifted in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Not because I am incapable of hardness, because I know exactly what I am capable of. I know the weight of my hands. I know what violence feels like under my skin.
But she said it without fear.
She didn’t tremble. She didn’t soften the edges of her words. She didn’t look at me as though she was asking permission.
She was choosing.
That distinction changes everything.
I want to drive her through the bed… through the floor, through the wall… like driving a nail into wood.
Shit.
I want to crucify her.
That might be a bit too much.
Right?
Focus.
My neighbor had this Dalmatian—Monty. Deaf as a post, but every time I saw him, he was destroying their apartment with that whip of a tail, grinning like an idiot, just pure chaos wrapped in fur.
Then there was Taz, this tiny Yorkie who ruled him like a tyrant. Absolute menace in a miniature body.
One time I was house-sitting when they were away, and Taz went into heat.
Monty did everything he could about it—poor guy had enthusiasm, not accuracy. Just… a lot of effort and very little success. Absolute tragedy in motion.
Why am I thinking about this?
Why am I thinking about anything that isn’t my wife standing right in front of me?
Get it together.
There is a very attractive, very real woman in front of you who is, inconveniently, your wife.
Focus.
Dog stuff is not relevant.
Sera is relevant.
Sera is everything.
And she has absolutely no idea I’m currently losing a war in my own head.
Thank God for that.
I watch her standing there in the center of the room, hands resting on her hips, chin lifted slightly, that fire-bright hair pulled high on top of her head in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her throat. There is nothing fragile about my wife in this moment. Nothing breakable.
But no, the reality is, this is not the girl I first wrapped in my arms to shield from the world.
This is a woman stepping into her own.
And I am so fucking here for it, baby. Give me fucking more.
I rise slowly, forcing calm into my movements because if I let instinct take over, we are not making it out of this suite tonight. Christ, if I act on even half the things I’m thinking, I’m going to have to call 911—for me, and probably for her.
“Stay here,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her bottom lip before I step away.
I put in an order with Chace, who probably sent Igor—or one of his equally terrifying counterparts—on a retrieval mission, and whoever he deployed absolutely nailed it.
The garment bag is still hanging untouched in the wardrobe.
Who would’ve thought rotting away while watching alcoholic Brits on a reality show could be that distracting?
I saw the good and the ugly in it—Sera seemed more drawn to the glitz and carefree chaos, while I was entertained by the drunken brawls, the so-called alpha boys making terrible decisions, then bonding again over kebabs or getting kicked out and rotating in fresh delusional housemates.
I unzip the garment bag carefully, already knowing what’s inside but still appreciating the moment.
Black.
Lace.
Short enough to provoke. Tight enough to command attention.
And my body reacts accordingly.
Let’s take a moment to appreciate Igor picking this out… that big bastard does have a heart of gold.
It probably wasn’t him.
But it’s funnier if I believe it was.
I slide the dress from its hanger and head back out to her, allowing myself a second—just one—to imagine what it will look like against her smooth, pale skin.
Then I hold it out.
“I got this for you.”
Her gaze drops to the fabric, and I see the flicker of surprise before it shifts into something warmer. When she smiles at me, it is not shy.
It is anticipatory.
The air thickens.
“The bathroom’s yours, baby” I say evenly.
“Take your time.” I slide my arm around her waist, drawing her against my side as she goes to move past. “Since I came back… there’s a darkness in me I can’t pretend isn’t there anymore,” I murmur quietly.
“The things I’m willing to do to keep you safe…
the lines I’ll cross without hesitation…
they’ve unlocked parts of me I spent a long time keeping buried. ”
My hand tightens slightly at her hip as I look down at her.
“But you need to understand something, Seraphina.” My voice softens, though the certainty in it never wavers. “You are the only person in this world who will never need to fear that darkness. Not from me. Not ever.”
I brush my thumb slowly against her side, grounding myself in the simple reality of her being here.
“Whatever I become… whatever I have to do… it will always be for you. I would spend my last breath making sure you still had yours, and there isn’t a thing you could ask of me that I wouldn’t give.”
I’m not sure why the words spill out so suddenly, all at once in a rush of emotion, but I mean them. Every one.
I feel completely exposed—like flayed skin, exposed nerves.
But I had to say them.
She closes the remaining distance between us and presses her lips to mine. “I know, I trust you with my life, Trey. I’ve only ever felt safe with you.”
She accepts my darkness as much as my devotion. The thought of her standing in that shadow without fear does something profound to me. My sweet church girl has her claws sunk in deep enough to reach parts of me no one else has ever touched.
She stares into the darkness and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.
Christ, I don’t know what I could have done to deserve her in my life.
I don’t want to hide anything from her.
While she gets ready for the evening, I change with the same quiet efficiency I bring to everything else. Black shirt. Tailored. Sleeves rolled just enough to expose my tattooed forearms. I need to look composed. I need to feel composed.
Because if she comes out looking the way I suspect she will, composure may be the only thing standing between me and reckless behavior.
The bathroom door opens.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The dress molds to her body like it was designed for no one else. Lace tracing her curves, the hem daring in a way that promises trouble, her legs long and bare beneath it. Her hair down, curls wild and free.
“Fuck,” I say quietly, the word slipping free before I can temper it.
She walks toward me, steady and self-assured.
“Is it too much?” she asks.
I close the distance between us and let my hands settle at her hips, feeling the delicate lace beneath my palms. “No,” I tell her, my voice lower now. “It’s exactly enough.”
My pulse starts to climb, tension coiling tight in my core. My freshly closed wounds threaten to split open.
Fuck, I would bleed for you. Again and again…
A knock interrupts us, and I force myself to step back before I forget there’s an entire world beyond this room.
Just when I’m considering convincing her into a two-toe shuffle, the horizontal lambada.
Chace enters first, already wearing that amused expression that says he expects chaos wherever we go. His gaze lands on her and he exhales a laugh.
“Congratulations, Seraphina. You’ve officially become Helen of Troy. You’re a vision.”
Sam follows, offering a low whistle of approval, and Logan steps in behind Mac. Even Mac, calm now and settled at Logan’s side, smiles warmly at Seraphina.
“That’s unfair,” she says lightly.
Seraphina beams, and I feel it again — that rising confidence, that quiet claim she is staking over herself.
Chace moves to the bar and uncorks a bottle of wine with practiced ease.
Glasses are poured, the city beyond the windows beginning to glow as dusk settles fully over Las Vegas.
I keep my hand at the small of Seraphina’s back, not to restrain her, not to cage her, but because I am proud to stand beside her.
“To bad decisions,” Sam says.
Mac laughs, leaning into Logan’s shoulder.
I look down at my wife, at the woman who is no longer asking for permission to want things.
The glasses clink, wine warms the air, conversation hums easily. Anticipation gathers beneath the surface like a current running through all of us.
Then Chace’s phone vibrates.
He checks it, expression sharpening into something professional and efficient.
“First car and escort are ready.”
The shift is immediate. Sam sets his glass aside, Logan does the same, Mac slipping her hand into his as security steps through the door. There is an ease to the way they move — practiced, unbothered.
Mac hugs Seraphina briefly before she is guided toward the hall. “See you downstairs,” Logan calls over his shoulder.
The suite empties.
Silence settles.
Now it is just the three of us.
Chace pockets his phone and glances between us with knowing amusement. “Second car’s five minutes out,” he says casually. “You two good?”
I slide my arm fully around Seraphina’s waist, drawing her in against me.
“We’re good,” I answer, my gaze fixed entirely on her.
Chace nods once and moves toward the window, giving us privacy without making a show of it.
I lower my mouth to her ear.
“When we walk into that club,” I murmur, letting my voice settle into that low register that is only ever meant for her, “every man in the room is going to look at you.”
My hand tightens slightly at her waist.
“They can look,” I continue, nipping her ear and dragging it between my teeth. “But they can’t fucking touch.”
She smiles and shakes her head.
“They’ll be watching you too, Husband. You look… too good to be true.” She adds with a whisper. “Good enough to eat.”
THIS WOMAN GONNA brING ME TO GOD…
I wanna eat you too, baby. Suck you, fuck you, love you…
The elevator doors begin to glide shut, the low mechanical hum filling the mirrored space while security remains stationed outside on our floor, immovable and watchful as ever.
Just before the doors meet, one of the guards’ comms crackles sharply to life.