Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Seraphina
Never Be the Same – Camila Cabello
Isink into the wooden chair at the kitchen table, the crochet blanket wrapped around me like a thin shield against the chill still clinging to my bones.
It smells faintly of wool and sun-bleached cotton, the kind of scent that makes me want to curl tighter and disappear, yet somehow, it feels safe.
My thin cotton dress clings to me, wet from the drizzle outside, and the scarf I had wound around my hair rests in my lap, heavy, soaked through, almost like it’s weighted with everything I’ve run from.
My red curls spill down my back in tight spirals, damp and cold against my skin.
Dean offers me a towel, thick and warm, and when I take it, the heat feels alien—like sunlight touching skin that hasn’t known it in years.
I stiffen, hyper-aware of every creak of the floorboards, the hum of the radiator, the soft murmur of wind against the old windows.
Clay hobbles around the kitchen, the motion slow but deliberate, making cocoa that smells like chocolate and caramel, sweet enough to make my stomach ache in the best way.
He hums softly, a tune I don’t recognize, the kind of sound that makes me want to close my eyes even as I stay alert.
Dean leans in the doorway, arms crossed, sharp and protective, his gaze steady, calm, like a lighthouse watching over me.
I want to trust them. I need to trust them.
But my chest constricts. Every kind gesture, every small warmth feels like it could be ripped away in a heartbeat.
I’m not used to safe hands. I’m not used to someone offering warmth without demanding obedience.
I tuck my hands under the blanket, letting the wool brush against my palms, and my mind races, spiraling as it always does.
What if Gideon or my father finds me here?
What if they’ve followed me? What if this kindness is just another trap?
I want to ask them to lock the door, to prove that I’m really safe, but the words die in my throat.
I bite the inside of my cheek and force my hands to still, focusing on the thin line of steam rising from the mug Clay sets gently in front of me.
“So,” he says, voice casual but deliberate, “how did you meet Trey?” His words aren’t a demand. They’re an offering of space, a small island of normality I almost can’t believe exists.
“Church,” I murmur, almost a whisper. My throat is dry, raw, and every syllable tastes like ash on my tongue. The word is harmless, meaningless in the warmth of this kitchen, yet I feel exposed speaking it.
Dean shifts slightly in the doorway.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says, calm and steady. “Trey trusts us. And if he sent you here, you’re safe.” His words settle like a gentle weight on my chest, enough to remind me I can breathe, but not enough to quiet the trembling under my skin.
I clutch Trey’s scrap of paper, the note damp from the rain, pressing it to my palm.
It’s the only talisman I have, the only proof that the world hasn’t entirely abandoned me.
“I didn’t think I’d make it here,” I whisper, and the sound surprises me with its honesty.
Clay’s eyes soften, and his voice is quiet, warm, unthreatening.
“You’re safe. I’ll sit with you until he gets here.”
Clay glances at the faint bruise on my neck, the ghost of fingerprints still visible beneath my skin, from where my father held my neck, forcing me to the floor for his lashings just last week. He leans slightly closer, voice gentle.
“I’m studying to be a doctor,” he says, nodding toward the mark. “If you need anything…” I lift my hand and drop it again, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“I’m okay,” I murmur.
He doesn’t press, just moves on, humming softly as he returns to the counter, talking quietly about small things, trivial things—how Mackayla once showed up at The Rosewood lost, scared, unsure of herself.
How she found her footing. He says she’s Trey’s best friend, that she’s alive and well.
A spark ignites in me. Maybe broken girls can be pieced back together.
Maybe I’m not beyond repair. Maybe I deserve warmth after all.
Dean heads toward the stove, frying bacon and eggs, the sizzle punctuating the room in a way that steadies me. He sets a plate in front of me, gently pushing it closer.
“Eat. Even a bite,” he urges. My hands tremble violently, almost betraying me as I lift the fork.
But I do it. I need to feel something tangible.
I need to ground myself before my mind starts spinning back into the storm I’ve fled.
The heat of the food seeps into me, a fire against the ice that has taken permanent residence in my chest.
The clock ticks loudly in my head. Every distant footstep, every soft creak, every rustle of a page outside the kitchen door makes me flinch. Every sound could be Gideon. My father. Danger. Trey. My pulse hammers. I whisper, almost to myself,
“What if he doesn’t want me here?”
Clay leans closer instantly, voice firm but kind.
“Then he wouldn’t have told you to come. He’s coming, and that means something.”
I swallow hard, letting the words settle like stones in my chest. My shoulders relax slightly, a little of the tension bleeding out.
I curl deeper into the blanket, letting the soft wool wrap around me, the fire crackles and pops in the hearth, the warmth of the cocoa seeping into my fingers. The Rosewood is safe.
But fear lingers. It always lingers. Every step I’ve taken to reach here was a gamble, and my mind keeps mapping every exit, every corner, every shadow.
I check the door almost reflexively, listen for any sound outside the kitchen, any approaching figure.
Every creak makes my stomach twist. Every wind gust rattling the windows makes my throat tight.
I sip the hot cocoa slowly, letting the sweetness fill my mouth, warm my throat, ease the ache that’s been gnawing at me.
I try to focus on the taste, the softness of the blanket, the warmth from the fire.
I try to focus on anything that isn’t the memory of Gideon’s eyes, the way his hands reached for me. But his ghost lingers.
Dean notices my restlessness, and he leans against the doorway, calm, patient. “Take your time,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything right now but be here. That’s all.”
Clay hums again, distractedly talking about how Mackayla once wandered in lost and scared. “Even the strongest girls get a little broken sometimes,” he says quietly, almost to himself. I let the words thread into my chest. Maybe being broken isn’t the end. Maybe there’s a way back.
The bacon sizzles and pops, the eggs hiss on the pan, and the smell of food swirls around me.
Dean moves to the stove again, adjusting the heat.
The room is alive, humming, breathing around me, but nothing feels threatening.
It’s almost too easy to believe, almost too simple.
I watch Dean plate him and Clay their breakfast.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the firelight paint shadows behind my eyes.
The Rosewood hums around me. I curl further into the blanket, Trey’s paper pressed into my palm, my curls warm against the towel Dean offered.
The storm outside feels distant. For the first time in forever, I let myself believe I’m free.