Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Trey
Just pretend - Bad Omens
She slips out of my arms like something fragile trying not to break under pressure, and I feel the loss of her immediately—the heat of her gone, the weight of her presence, something vital pulled clean out of my hands before I can tighten my hold and keep her there.
“Sera…”
Her name comes out quieter than I intend, rough with sleep and threaded with something far more dangerous, but she doesn’t answer, doesn’t even hesitate, just keeps moving until there’s space between us.
Real space this time, not just physical, but something heavier, something I can’t close with a step forward or a reach of my hand.
She turns her back to me, not sharply and not in anger, but far more deliberate, far more cutting, like she knows that if she looks at me, I’ll see everything she’s trying to hide, and that thought alone lands deep enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the muted bleed of city lights filtering through the balcony doors, casting her in shadow and silver, my t-shirt hanging loose from her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs while her hair falls in wild, untamed waves down her back, and even like this, especially like this, when she’s coming apart right in front of me—she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
But she’s shaking.
I see it in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the way her arms fold tightly across her stomach as though she’s trying to hold something in, as though if she loosens her grip for even a second everything inside her will spill out and drown her where she stands.
My chest tightens at the sight, because I know that feeling, I know what it is to carry something that doesn’t belong to the present, something that lingers long after it should be gone, but this is different—a memory, a collection of thoughts and worries and doubts.
A gift, tied up with a bow, courtesy of a history of abuse and a whole catalogue of other trauma, signed off by that fucking cunt.
Gideon.
He and I are due a catch-up. Or a rematch. He’ll turn up sooner or later—he can’t help himself. Men like him never can.
And the worst part?
He’s living rent-free in both our heads.
At least in Sera’s I can try to reassure her. I can make promises. But the unquiet moments don’t show up where they’re convenient. They cycle. They return. They slip in when everything should feel safe.
At least… that’s how it used to work with my mom.
Shit.
That thought lands heavier than I want it to.
This does remind me of my mom.
Was it caused by my dad?
Or was there more to it?
Fuck.
Why can’t everything be black and white? Simple. Clean. Easy to hold.
Why does it all have to rot in the grey instead?
I take a step toward her before I can stop myself, instinct driving the movement, every part of me wired to close the distance, to pull her back against me, to remind her that she isn’t alone in this, but I force myself to still because she doesn’t turn, doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t do anything except stand there like she’s bracing for something I can’t see, and in that moment the truth settles heavy in my chest.
I don’t know how to fix this.
This is fucking bullshit.
I want to prove to her I’m fine. I’m right here. I want to deal with this with logic.
But I know.
I fucking know this won’t help.
I don’t know how to fight something that lives inside her head.
I can hit and get hit, but I can’t tear Gideon out of her memory, can’t silence whatever voice he left behind, can’t kill something that exists only in the aftermath of what he did to her, and the helplessness of that realization stings.
My hands flex uselessly at my sides, tension coiling through me with nowhere to go, nowhere to land, because for the first time there’s no clear target, no enemy I can put down to make this better, just her and the way she’s trying to carry this alone.
Say something, you fucking idiot. Don’t just stare.
“Sera,” I try again, softer now, forcing the rough edge out of my voice even as it threatens to break through, “look at me.”
Great, that will reach her, give her a command.
She doesn’t.
Her head dips just slightly, enough to tell me she heard me, enough to tell me she’s choosing not to.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once, twice, like movement might burn off some of the pressure building inside me, like it might give me something to do other than stand here and watch the woman I love unravel piece by piece in front of me.
“I don’t—” The words catch, frustration spiking sharp and immediate as I try again. “I don’t know how to help, if you won’t talk with me.”
The admission feels foreign, wrong on my tongue, but it’s the truth all the same, and I have nothing else to offer her but that.
I don’t know how to reach her when she shuts me out like this.
I don’t know how to fight something I can’t see.
I don’t know how to take this from her.
And I fucking hate it.
Still, I step closer. Slower this time, careful not to spook her. Like approaching something that might bolt if I make the wrong move. My gaze stays locked on her back, on the rise and fall of her breathing, on the tension she’s trying—and failing—not to show.
She can see me. She can hear me. Feel me.
Fuck. Make a choice then. Stay. Run. Say something. Anything.
Or walk away. Give her space. Let her figure it out.
No.
No, I can’t.
I want to fix this. Calm her. Help her. Reassure her.
But even as I think it, I know…
I fucking know this isn’t something I can logic my way through.
“He’s not here,” I say quietly, forcing steadiness into the words even as they scrape on the way out. “He’s not touching you. He doesn’t get to—”
My voice falters as anger surges again, darker this time, because it isn’t entirely true, is it, when he is touching her right now, just not in a way I can stop.
My hands curl into fists before I force them open again, dragging in a slow breath as I close the final distance and stop just behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body without touching her, giving her the space to choose, because it has to be her choice.
“I can see it,” I murmur, my voice lower now, stripped of everything but truth. “You’re trying to hide it, but I can see it, Dove.”
Her shoulders tense, a small crack in the control she’s holding onto, and it’s enough to pull me forward that last inch.
My hand lifts, hovering for a fraction of a second before settling gently at her waist, not pulling, not trapping, just there, something real she can take if she wants it.
“He’s still in your head,” I say, the words quiet but unflinching. “And I hate that I can’t rip him out of there for you.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, filled with everything she isn’t saying, everything I can’t fix.
My thumb moves slowly against her side, a small, grounding touch.
“I can’t fight this for you,” I admit, the truth settling deep and immovable in my chest, “and that’s the one thing in this world I don’t know how to live with.”
Another breath, another tremor through her body, and something inside me locks into place.
Resolve.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” I continue, my voice steadying, deepening into something unbreakable. “Not when you shut me out, not when you’re scared, not when he’s still out there.”
My hand tightens slightly at her waist, just enough to remind her I’m here.
“I can’t fight the war in your head, sweetheart, but I will fight every real thing in this world for you, and I’ll never let you face any of it alone.”
Morning comes without mercy, pale light bleeding through the curtains in a way that feels almost offensive after the night we’ve had, after the way her body shook in my arms and the way her voice broke around memories I would burn the world to erase, and I lie there wide awake, staring at the ceiling while Seraphina sleeps curled against me like she’s carved herself into the only place she feels safe, her head tucked beneath my chin, her arm wrapped tightly around my waist as though even in sleep she’s afraid I might disappear again.
She didn’t push me away… she didn’t cast me out… but, fuck. Not hearing her is torture.
I don’t move, not even when my muscles start to ache, because she needs this, she needs the steady rise and fall of my chest beneath her cheek, the quiet proof that I’m here, that I’m breathing, that I’m not slipping through her fingers the way I did before, and all I can give her—when I can’t tear Gideon out of the world yet, when I can’t reach into her mind and rip out what he’s left behind—is this, is presence, is the silent promise that I’m not going anywhere.
Even though I want to scream, split my fucking knuckles, fracture bones.
Trauma.
That’s what it is, and I feel it now in a way I didn’t fully grasp in the moment. In the way her body refused to let go even after her eyes opened, in the way her breath came sharp and uneven against my throat. In the way she looked at me like she was trying to convince herself I was real.
I can’t even put the whole blame on that fucking piece of shit either, because her father was also guilty of being a motherfucker…
My jaw tightens as I stare up at the ceiling, a slow, simmering rage settling low in my chest, Gideon is still out there, still breathing, still capable of reaching for her in ways I can’t intercept, and the thought alone is enough to make something violent burn in my veins.
I shift slightly, just enough to press my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in, grounding myself in her warmth, in her softness, in the quiet trust of the way she’s wrapped around me now, and for a moment the world narrows to just this bed, this room, this woman who owns every fractured, brutal piece of me.
Then my phone vibrates against the bedside unit, the sharp buzz cutting through the stillness like a blade.
I go still.
Seraphina stirs faintly against me, her fingers tightening briefly at my side, and I instinctively pull her closer, my hand sliding up her back in a slow, soothing motion until she settles again, her breathing evening out as she sinks deeper into sleep.
Only then do I reach for the phone, careful, deliberate, every movement measured so I don’t disturb her.
A group chat notification lights up the screen.
Chace: Everyone needs to meet asap. Trey’s suite.
Trey: What’s happened.
Logan: Gimme five minutes.
Sam: He only needs two.
Mac: Don’t be too generous, Sammy.
Trey: 30 seconds?
Logan: Might not want to comment, Baker. You got caught with your wife by TMZ on the balcony last night.
Chace: FFS. This is not the time.
Mac: Shared the link
Logan: Might not want to let your wife click that.
A cold, sharp edge slices straight through the haze in my head.
I tap the link.
Then I wish I hadn’t.
Images load one after the other, each one a violation so precise it feels surgical, like someone reached into a moment that belonged only to us and tore it open for the world to consume.
“Motherfuckers,” I breathe, the word a low against the quiet of the room. Picture quality is shit… but I can make it out.
There she is.
My wife.
Her head thrown back, her body arched in a way that speaks of trust and abandon, her hands gripping the railing as though it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth, while I stand behind her, completely focused on her, every line of my body angled toward hers, my hands on bare skin that should never have been seen by anyone else.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches.
She is exposed in a way that goes beyond skin, beyond the simple fact of her body being visible, because what they’ve captured isn’t just flesh—it’s intimacy, it’s the raw, unguarded way she gives herself to me, the way she lets me see her, feel her, hold her in those moments where the rest of the world ceases to exist.
And now it’s out there.
Consumed.
Judged.
Owned by strangers who have no right.
Something dark and territorial rises fast and vicious in my chest, a possessiveness I don’t even try to suppress, because she is mine in every way that matters, not in ownership but in devotion, in the way she chose me, in the way she chooses me, again and again, even after everything.
But the anger fractures almost as quickly as it forms, because beneath it sits something quieter, more complicated.
She wanted that moment.
She wanted me.
Out there, under the open sky, with nothing between us and the world but distance and height and the illusion of privacy, she chose to let go, to feel, to take something back after everything that’s been stolen from her.
And I would give her that a thousand times over.
I would give her anything.
My gaze drifts down to her sleeping face, to the softness that replaces the fear when she’s like this, when her guard is down and her body finally allows her rest, and the rage in me reshapes, sharpens, redirects.
Because this—this right here—is what matters.
Not the images.
Not the headlines that will follow.
Not the whispers or the speculation or the inevitable storm that’s about to hit.
What matters is that she sleeps without tears on her face, that her body is warm and safe against mine, that for a few hours at least, the ghosts didn’t win.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I lock it, setting the phone back down with quiet precision.
Whatever this is, whatever fallout is coming, I’ll deal with it.
I always do.
Can’t argue for privacy when out in the open…
But right now, in this fragile, fleeting pocket of peace, there is only her, only us, and I tighten my hold on her just slightly, pressing my lips to her hair again as a silent vow settles deep in my bones.
No one takes from her again.
Not her body.
Not her mind.
Not a single fucking piece of her.