Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Seraphina
You Say – Lauren Daigle
Iwake with something sharp lodged in my chest, like I’ve been dragged violently from somewhere I wasn’t meant to be, my breath catching halfway up my throat as my body jerks against the mattress, drenched in sweat, my skin damp and clinging beneath the soft cotton of Trey’s t-shirt.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know what’s real.
All I know—all I can feel—is the blood.
It’s everywhere.
I can smell it before I can even think, thick and metallic, suffocating, coating the inside of my lungs with every shallow, panicked breath I try to drag in, and it clings to me.
God, it clings to me. As though it’s soaked into my skin, into my bones, into something deeper that I can’t reach or scrub or tear away.
My hands.
My gaze drops to them instantly, my stomach lurching as I lift them in front of my face, already bracing for what I’ll see, already knowing.
They should be covered.
They are covered.
Trey’s blood.
Dark. Wet. Dripping between my fingers. It moves, alive, travelling down the cracks and ridges in my fingers, viscous, warm, sticky.
A broken sound builds in my chest, something between a sob and a scream, but it never fully escapes because I can still see him. I can still see him… Lying on that cold basement floor, his body too still, his blood spreading, his eyes…
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t breathe.
The air is too thick, too heavy, and it tastes like iron as panic surges through me, violent and overwhelming, my pulse roaring in my ears so loudly it drowns out everything else.
I need to get it off.
I need to get it off me.
Behind me, Trey’s body is warm and solid, his chest pressed to my back, one heavy arm wrapped around my waist even in sleep, holding me there like he always does, like he never lets me go.
Even now, even when I’m unraveling, but it isn’t enough to ground me, not when my mind is still trapped in that moment, not when I can still feel his blood on my skin.
My fingers tremble as I reach for his wrist, careful despite the urgency clawing through me, easing his arm away inch by inch, terrified of waking him, terrified of not waking him, of turning around and finding…
Alive.
He’s alive.
I know he is.
I know.
But the image won’t let go of me.
He doesn’t stir as I slip free, his breathing steady. Something inside me twists painfully at the sound of it, at the proof of him, because it doesn’t match what’s still burning behind my eyes.
My legs barely feel like they belong to me as I stand, unsteady. I ache, a soreness I am unfamiliar with, the room tilting slightly as I move, guided by instinct more than thought, by that desperate, overwhelming need to clean myself, to scrub away what isn’t there and yet feels so horribly real.
The bathroom light is too bright when I flick it on, but I don’t hesitate, don’t pause, don’t think.
I just turn on the taps and shove my hands beneath the rushing water, scrubbing immediately, harsh and frantic, my nails dragging against my skin as if I can force it away, as if I can erase it.
It’s still there. Cloying at me. At my mind, my soul.
I can see it.
I can feel it.
“No—” My voice breaks, thin and shaking, barely recognizable as my own. “No, no, no—”
I scrub harder, faster, my skin turning red beneath my hands as the water splashes up the sink, as the sound fills the room, loud and relentless and not nearly enough to drown out the memory.
Because it doesn’t matter how hard I try.
It doesn’t matter how much it burns.
It doesn’t go away. Steam rises, clouding the mirror, my hands are numb and tingling and itching from the hot water.
It won’t go away.
Because it isn’t on me.
It’s in me.
In my head.
In the moment I watched him die and couldn’t do anything but kneel there.
My breath fractures, uneven and desperate, as I brace myself against the sink, my shoulders shaking, my gaze locked on my reflection—but I don’t see myself.
I see the basement.
I see him.
I see the blood.
“He was dead,” I whisper, the words hollow, disbelieving, like I’m trying to convince myself of something my mind refuses to accept. “He was—he—”
My voice fails completely.
Warmth presses in behind me, causing me to jump.
Real and solid.
It hits me before he even speaks, before his hands settle carefully, so carefully, on my arms, like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast.
“Sera…”
His voice is rough with sleep and the sound of it nearly undoes me completely because it isn’t a memory, it isn’t something broken or fading—it’s here, it’s real, it’s him.
I choke on a breath, my hands still under the water, still scrubbing even though my skin is raw now, even though there’s nothing there.
“I can’t—” My voice trembles, my body following, every word pulled from somewhere deep and fractured. “I can’t get it off—”
His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady me, and then one of his hands slides over mine, gently but firmly pulling them away from the water, shutting the tap off in the same movement.
“There’s nothing there, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, his breath warm against my temple. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
But I shake my head immediately, panic still clawing through me as I look down at my hands again, turning them over like I’ll catch it this time, like I’ll prove it.
“I saw it,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I saw you—you were—there was so much blood, Trey, I couldn’t—”
The words collapse into a sob before I can finish them.
He doesn’t let me fall apart alone.
He turns me into him, one arm wrapping around my back, the other coming up to cradle my face, forcing my gaze to his, and God—God—he’s right there, his eyes clear, alive, focused entirely on me.
“I’m here,” he says, firm now, grounding in a way nothing else is. “Look at me, Sera. I’m right here.”
My hands fist in his t-shirt, gripping tightly as if he might disappear if I don’t hold on hard enough, my chest heaving as I search his face, memorizing every detail, every line, every breath.
“You died,” I whisper, the words fragile, terrified. “I watched you die.”
His expression shifts, something darker flickering beneath the surface, but his hold on me only steadies further, stronger, unyielding.
“Like that could keep me from you,” he replies quietly, his forehead pressing to mine, his voice lowering like it’s just for me. “Our story has only just started, Dove.”
That breaks something open inside me.
A sob tears free, full and raw, and I collapse into him, my face buried against his chest as his arms tighten around me, holding me together when I can’t do it myself.
“I thought—” My voice shakes violently against him. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t.” His hand moves up and down my back. “You never will.”
I cling to him harder at that, breathing him in instead of the blood, forcing my body to recognize what’s real—him, his warmth, his heartbeat beneath my cheek, the solid strength of him wrapped around me.
Alive.
Slowly, painfully, the panic begins to loosen its grip, softened by his presence, by the way he holds me like he’s not letting me slip back into the nightmare.
After a while, when my breathing evens just enough, when the trembling eases into something quieter, he tilts my chin up gently, his thumb brushing over my lips, still tender from him, still swollen.
His gaze softens, something protective settling deep within it.
“Come on,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to my mouth.
“Let’s get you back to bed.” I feel the moment his grip tightens, the second he realizes this is more than just a nightmare, more than something that will fade with time.
And I hate that he can see it, hate that he can feel how deep this goes, because even as he holds me together, I can feel myself coming apart in his arms…
And this is the part of me he can’t save.