Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Seraphina
I’m With You – Avril Lavigne
The paper is damp by the time I reach the street.
It sticks to my palm, the ink smudged, Trey’s handwriting bleeding in places.
Still, the numbers are clear enough to lead me here.
A quiet block, half-asleep in the pre-dawn drizzle.
Houses crouch in a row, pale skeletons through the fog.
Most are dark. Curtains drawn tight. Doors bolted.
But one—this one—breathes with light behind its bones.
The Rosewood.
The sign hangs clear on its post, painted letters legible, swinging with each gust. White clapboard siding stretches tall, Edwardian bones softened by age.
Broad porch, railings painted white and steady.
A place with history. The kind of house that has heard laughter echo down its hallways.
That has carried grief in its walls, too.
It doesn’t look like hell, and that’s enough for me.
I stand across the street, damp hair plastered to my cheeks, cardigan and cotton dress clinging wet against my skin.
My slippers in tatters, squelch with each step.
Cold gnaws at my bones, sharp and relentless.
My breath fogs in front of me, vanishing into the mist. Every instinct scream that I shouldn’t be here, that Gideon will come storming down the road at any moment and drag me back.
But my fingers tighten on the paper. On Trey’s scrawled promise.
If I can’t trust this… then what’s left?
I can’t knock.
Not yet.
Instead, I crouch low beside the trash bins at the edge of the drive, pulling my knees to my chest. The metal is slick and cold, smelling of rain and rot. The ground is wet, soaking through my already damp cotton dress, but I don’t care.
I press my forehead against my knees, willing myself invisible. My body shivers uncontrollably, teeth clattering so loud I’m sure someone will hear. The drizzle slips down the back of my neck like icy fingers.
Every little sound magnifies—the drip of rain from the gutter, the hiss of a car gliding past on wet asphalt, the rumble of distant thunder. And beneath it all, my own pulse, frantic in my ears.
What if he’s not here?
What if it’s a trick?
What if someone else opens the door?
I clutch the paper tighter, crumpling it against my chest as though ink and rain-stained words could shield me. Trey had written this down for me, like it mattered, like he meant it. And yet doubt chews at me, bite after bite.
He said I needed to get out.
He said this place was safe.
But men say a lot of things.
The sky lightens by degrees. Black fades to bruised violet, then a washed-out grey that turns the mist silver. Windows sweat with condensation. The Rosewood looms softer in this light, less haunted, more lived-in.
A flicker upstairs.
My breath snags.
Curtains glow faint with lamplight. A shadow moves past—broad shoulders, a shape too indistinct to name. I freeze, shrinking further into the shadow of the bin.
Another light follows, this time downstairs, spilling gold across the porch. The contrast nearly undoes me. Warmth there, cold here. Life and laughter behind walls, while I sit shivering, damp and half-broken, on the outside.
I’ve never wanted to step into a place so badly.
And I’ve never been so afraid to.
Gideon’s voice cuts through my chest, sharp as the chill.
You’ll scream, Seraphina. But not loud enough to reach God. Not loud enough for anyone to hear while I remake you.
The memory claws at me, terror seizing my lungs.
I pull my arms tighter around myself, rocking in the damp, trying to shake him from my head. The way his tone stayed calm, almost tender, while the words promised ruin.
I swallow bile.
The wedding dress flashes in my mind—white, stiff, starched. The white meant to denote purity, but it seems lifeless to me, like an interred corpse.
And his threats…
I’ll break your body before I break your mind.
My nails dig crescents into my arms. I rock harder, lips moving soundlessly, reciting the scripture my father drilled into me since childhood.
The lines come easy, but they taste like ash.
Words stripped of meaning long ago. Words that never belonged to me, but that I can wield as armor when the silence turns heavy with his ghost.
The front door creaks. My head snaps up.
A man steps out, tall and steady, wearing a worn denim jacket against the drizzle. He stoops to pick something up from the porch—maybe the morning paper. His features are softened by distance and mist, but his presence is solid. Not Gideon.
I shrink further anyway, pressing myself into the bin, afraid to breathe.
Then another joins him. Leaner, hair swept back, leaning on a crutch as he steps into the doorway. His limp is obvious, yet he carries himself with a casual strength, like he refuses to let pain write his story.
He says something to the first man, voice low but warm. Teasing. Brotherly. Their laughter cuts through the fog, startling in its ease.
I almost rise. My muscles twitch, toes curling in my wet shoes, body urging me forward.
But fear nails me down.
What if Trey isn’t in there?
What if they look at me the way my father does—like something small, something wrong, something that deserves to be broken?
The thought of stepping out, of facing those eyes, of opening my mouth and asking for help… it freezes me harder than the cold.
Maybe I don’t belong here.
Maybe I don’t belong anywhere.
My chest heaves. My vision blurs. I press the paper harder to my heart, the only proof I have that Trey’s voice wasn’t just a dream.
I nearly turn to leave, but exhaustion pins me. My body won’t move, too heavy with damp and fear and nights without sleep.
The one with the crutch has stilled in the doorway, gaze shifting toward the bushes. His brow furrows, cautious but not cruel. His voice carries across the mist, low and careful.
“Hey… you alright out there?”
My heart slams.
The paper crinkles loud in my fist. Trey’s scrawl digs into my palm.
The drizzle hisses. My pulse drowns it all.
Do I stand? Do I step forward? Or do I run?
The porch light glows warm, golden, like a beacon. The pair wait. And I—
I can’t breathe.
He shifts his crutch forward, weight balanced, gaze steady. He doesn’t raise his voice or move too fast—just watches, patient.
“You uh… want some hot cocoa or a coffee? You look like you could do with something warm?”
Behind him, the other man—broad shouldered, hair damp from drizzle—turns his head. His eyes land on me, narrowing slightly. Not unkind, but sharp, observant.
I flinch. My body wants to bolt, but my exhaustion holds me hostage. My legs would never carry me far enough.
Words scrape up my throat, jagged. “I’m… I’m looking for someone.”
The taller man steps closer, slow, like he’s approaching a wild animal that might spook.
“Who, sweetheart?”
My mouth opens. Closes. The name feels dangerous on my tongue, yet I force it out.
“Trey.”
Something flickers between them. The broad one, crosses his arms, scanning me in the shadows. The other—leans a little heavier on his crutch, his gaze softening.
“Why don’t you come out of the rain?” His voice is gentler than I expect. “You’re freezing. You can barely stand. Let’s get you warm, and then we’ll talk.”
I hesitate. My father’s voice hisses in my head, sharp as a whip.
Strangers are vipers. They’ll smile while they sink their teeth in.
But I can’t stop shaking. My clothes cling to me like a second skin, heavy and cold. My lips taste of salt from rain and tears.
He lifts his free hand, palm out, no sudden movement.
“My names Dean, this is my brother, with the old man walking stick, Clay. It’s safe here. Promise.”
Safe.
The word doesn’t exist in my world. Not really. But the way he says it—it doesn’t feel like a trap.
I push myself up, knees wobbling. The bin scrapes as I leave my corner. The men’s eyes sharpen, scanning me, but not with Gideon’s hunger. With concern.
The porch light paints them gold against the drizzle. My steps squelch on the wet path. My arms fold tighter around myself as though I can hide the shaking.
The broad one steps aside, holding the door open. Warmth spills out—soft light, the faint smell of coffee and something sweet.
Crossing the threshold feels like breaking a chain.
Heat wraps around me instantly, shocking after the damp chill outside. My skin prickles. The living room is wide, wood floors creaking beneath my soaked slippers. A fire snaps low in the grate, faint crackle over the sound of rain outside.
I hover near the door, dripping onto the mat, unsure if I’m allowed further.
The broad one, Dean, shuts the door behind me, leaning against it, arms still crossed. He studies me with a look that could strip a soul bare—but there’s no malice in it. Just steady calculation.
Clay, the one with the crutch eases onto a chair, resting his crutch against the arm. His expression is gentler, almost coaxing.
“You want to sit down? Warm up?”
I shake my head. My voice is a whisper.
“I’m not staying. I just… I just need to find him.”
“Trey?” Dean asks. His voice is firm, not unkind.
I nod. My throat aches.
For a beat, silence stretches, heavy with things unsaid. Their gazes meet above me—something silent passing between them. Brotherhood. Agreement.
I fumble with the crumpled paper, hands trembling. It’s all I have—the scrawl of Trey’s name, this address. Proof I didn’t dream him.
I hold it out, fingers shaking so badly it nearly slips to the floor. The one with the crutch takes it carefully, smoothing the ruined page. His lips twitch faintly, not quite a smile, not quite a frown.
Dean leans in, scanning it. His jaw tightens.
Another look passes between them. One that makes my stomach drop.
“What?” My voice cracks, sharp with fear. “What is it?”
He shakes his head quickly, soothing, before passing the paper back to me, “Nothing bad. Just… give us a second.”
Dean’s hand is already in his pocket, pulling out a phone. He steps into the corner, voice low as he scrolls, then presses a number.
The sound of the ring tone shatters me.
It’s real.
He’s real.
Dean’s voice is clipped but calm when the line picks up. “Trey? …Yeah. You’re gonna want to come down here.”
The soaked paper shakes in my hand. My knees buckle. For the first time in forever, I’m not sure if I want to run… or collapse.