Chapter Twenty
Trey
DIRTY LITTLE FIEND – Dutch Melrose
The dealer clears his throat, polite but expectant. “Place your bets, sir?”
I pick up a stack of chips and slide them across the felt, the texture crawling under my skin in a way that has always made my skin crawl.
“Put it all on red,” I say, flicking Sera a wink that I intend to be smooth, even if everything beneath it is anything but.
Sam looks at me like I’ve finally lost my fucking mind, and maybe I have, because the truth is I would lose it all—my sanity, my money, my life—without hesitation if it meant keeping breath in my wife’s lungs, if it meant preserving the light in her eyes and the curve of her smile.
My gaze drops to Seraphina’s body as I brush my knuckles along her hip, grounding myself in the simple fact of her being here, with me, and I know with a certainty that eclipses everything else that even if I walked away from this table with nothing, even if I lost every last penny to my name, I would still be the richest man in the room as long as she was mine.
The roulette wheel spins in a blur of red and black, the white ball rattling along the rim while the entire table leans in, drawn tight with anticipation, like a pack of wolves scenting blood.
Vegas has always understood men like me—has always known exactly how to tempt us.
The promise that one decision could become everything… that it could flip your luck in an instant or leave you exactly where you started.
That said, if I were here betting my kid’s tuition, that’s not strategy—that’s risking someone else for the sake of my own high.
Not that I’m going to be a parent anytime soon.
…Our pullout game is weak as fuck, though. Let’s be honest.
My fingers rest loosely against the edge of the table as the wheel begins to slow, the sharp, rhythmic clicking of the ball growing faster, more deliberate, each strike against the metal grooves echoing beneath my skin.
“Red,” Logan mutters beside me, already half-smiling.
“Red,” Sam echoes, like it’s inevitable.
I don’t say anything.
Everyone here already knows exactly where my money is.
The ball drops, bounces once, twice, teasing me with black 15, before rolling and hopping.
Red 21.
A quiet satisfaction settles low in my chest as the dealer pushes the chips toward me, the table breaking into a chorus of groans, laughter, and disbelief.
Logan slaps the felt with a sharp exhale. “Now walk away.”
Sam shakes his head, watching the pile grow. “That’s the fourth time tonight.”
“Fifth,” I correct easily, dragging the chips toward me with slow, unhurried precision.
Movement brushes the edge of my awareness before I see it, the faint trace of perfume reaching me first, expensive and deliberate.
A woman steps into my space, blonde, tall, polished in that distinctly Vegas way—every detail curated to be seen, admired, wanted. She leans her hip lightly against the table, her smile practiced, confident.
“You seem to be having a very good night,” she says, her voice smooth enough to slide.
I give her a glance that barely qualifies as interest. “Mm.”
She’s here for my mojo!
Her fingers drift a little closer to the chips, her intention as obvious as it is unremarkable. “Maybe your luck could rub off on me.”
“Sure. Take my spot, I’m out.”
Logan chokes on a laugh beside me, while Sam suddenly finds something fascinating above our heads.
I turn my head then, giving her a proper look out of courtesy more than anything else.
She’s beautiful. Anyone with eyes can see that.
But she is just another passerby.
Ta-ta, take care, bye-bye now… be gone, thot.
My hand slides around Seraphina’s waist, as I draw her into my side.
She melts into me instinctively, her body aligning with mine as though there has never been a version of the world where we were not like this.
I try to make room, pressing through the crowd gathered around us. Some, definitely against casino policy, have their phones out.
Naughty, naughty. If I’d just lost, I might’ve made a scene.
Whispers of Burnt Ashes, of my name, circle low. People watch without quite crossing the line. Niko’s men hold the edges of the space in sharp suits and sharper stares, especially one of the Igors, his pointed brow carrying a clear, silent warning.
The blonde I’d already dismissed slips her hand onto my upper arm, fingers digging in. “So,” she says lightly, “are you going to introduce me?”
What the actual fuck?
Unhand me, devil woman.
My arm tightens around Seraphina as I glance down at her, something colder settling beneath the surface of my calm.
“Sure thing, crazy,” I say evenly, deliberately looking at the woman in my arms. “This is my wife.”
Seraphina’s fingers curl softly into my shirt, and something deeply satisfied shifts through me.
I try to move us along, but the newcomer doesn’t take the hint.
“I can share…” she purrs.
Sam scoffs. Of course he does. He and Chace are the only single ones here.
Go bother baldy-locks. Sniff around Slaphead Sammy. Don’t ruin the vibe I’ve got with my wifey.
“Babe,” I say out loud, glancing at Sera, already regretting putting her on the spot, “what do you say—want to share me?”
I feel the tension shift. If she doesn’t shut this down, and security or Niko’s men don’t step in, Mac absolutely will.
“I would rather shit in my hands and clap.”
It probably sounds completely out of left field to anyone else—to the band, to the people watching. Sure, some of them might say I’ve been a terrible influence, corrupted something pure and innocent, all that yada-yada bullshit.
But it’s more than that. So much fucking more.
Seraphina, my Dove, my wife, my nun no longer on the run, just dropped that line—verbatim—from the show we’ve been binge-watching.
That’s right. My sweet, innocent girl just pulled a quote from Geordie Shore and rammed it straight down this blonde’s throat.
And fuck—I am so hard for her right now.
Jesus… I want her to insult me.
I want to be buried balls deep in this woman, this entity I claim as mine
Put yo dick in her, make her sing…
Unable to hold back the bubbling, electric rush of love I feel for her, I grab her hips, sliding my hands to her ass as I lift her until we’re face to face, then stamp my lips to hers, pushing my tongue between them in a bruising, filthy kiss. I’m going to fuck you breathless.
Is it weird to yearn to grow old enough that she needs hip replacements? Fuck it—put us on oxygen tanks, have us going harder for longer.
Yeah… that is a fucking weird chain of thought.
The crowd lingers around us, and I’m hit with the memory of what she whispered before we left. The filthy promises of how the night will end. Pretty sure she asked me to take her on a balcony overlooking Vegas.
No need to worry about anyone below.
I’m not planning to pull out.
Already covered that, my guy. Our pullout game is weak.
I kiss her once more.
My mouth claiming hers in a way that leaves no space for misinterpretation, no question of who she belongs to and who I am to her. I groan in appreciation.
Houston, we have a problem… we are ready to launch.
Delay countdown. I repeat… delay countdown.
Somewhere behind us, a whistle cuts through the air.
Logan groans. “Okay, motherfucker, you just made a woman pass out from watching…feel free to end it before it gets X-rated.” I ignore him.
I don’t stop until I feel her breath falter against my mouth, until her hand brushes against the belt of my pants.
Only then do I pull back, with a fuck ton of sheer will, as her eyes open, dazed, hooded, entirely mine.
Am I hard? Fuck, yes. Do I care. Abso-fucking-lutely-not.
I want more. Need more. Sam leans across the table immediately.
“I think you just got some of these patrons pregnant. Tone it down, Casanova.”
“I am not going to apologize for giving you a stiffy,” I mutter, not even looking at him.
Call me the boner fairy, biotch.
Sam snorts into his drink, but my attention is already back where it belongs.
Seraphina.
“Sorry to make a spectacle of you baby, you okay?”
“I-I think so.”
My thumb traces her jaw.
“Ready to leave, and do some more dancing?” I ask wriggling my brows suggestively.
Outside, the night hits us in a wave of light and sound, the Las Vegas strip alive in a way that borders on overwhelming—neon blazing, music spilling from every open doorway, crowds moving in constant motion.
Security falls into place around us instantly, Niko’s men forming a seamless perimeter, their presence unmistakable in the sharp cut of their suits, the cold focus in their eyes. They don’t touch, don’t interfere, but the message is clear.
Phones still lift. Our names get called. But we continue.
My arm stays firm around Seraphina’s waist as we move, keeping her anchored against me without restricting her, letting her take it in while never quite leaving her unguarded.
She tilts her head slightly, taking everything in—the lights, the noise, the sheer excess of it all—and for a moment, she almost looks… free.
It settles something in me.
This is what I’m fighting for.
This.
Her.
A life where she can stand in the middle of a crowd and feel like she belongs there.
I let my hand slip from her waist as we walk, falling a step behind her instead, my gaze dragging slowly, deliberately over the line of her body, the curve of her legs beneath the lace.
A smirk pulls at my mouth.
“Fuck, Dove,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears. “That ass...”
She glances back at me, heat and desire flickering in her storm gray eyes.
Logan grunts. “I swear to God, get a room.” Sam says.
Chace laughs under his breath. “I hope the walls are thick, you are either side of them, right?”
Logan groans again, shaking his head.
“It’s fine, baby, we can have a competition, see who moans the loudest.” Mac beams.
“Angel…” He says in a growl.
“It’s not a participation sport.” Sam says.
“Uh… Bin Diesel, fucking definitely is a participation sport.”
Just imagine it at the Olympics… that would draw in some numbers.
Also, could give some spectators proper technique and form.
Oh my God, there could be a fucking “meta.” No more one pump chumps…
Actually… I am down for that.