Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Trey
Beside You – Marianas Trench
The taxi tires hiss against wet pavement, and my stomach is doing somersaults.
Every heartbeat is a drum in my chest, every breath shallow and ragged.
Portland smells different than Vancouver—damp leaves, wet asphalt, faint smoke from chimneys—and yet beneath it all, there’s that same old weight of anticipation, the kind that makes my hands shake.
I’m staring at the Edwardian facade of The Rosewood, its white paint dulled by years of rain, windows framed with dark wood that has seen countless storms. It should feel normal, but it doesn’t. Not this time. Not with her inside.
I clutch my bag tighter, chest constricting as I wonder if she’s okay. It still feels unreal. I don’t know if I ever really believed I’d see her again—especially after the last run-in with her piece-of-shit dad. And now… now I have.
Wait. Hold up.
Seraphina’s basically a nun.
I’ve got a troubled nun in a bed-and-breakfast run by hot, overly wholesome brothers. Jesus Christ, I’ve walked straight into a Hallmark movie. All I need is a Christmas market, some tragic backstory, and a golden retriever with abandonment issues, and this shit would sell.
That makes me the bad boy.
The bad boy with daddy issues.
And the nun? She’s got daddy issues, too. Her freak matches mine.
I’m still mentally casting the made-for-TV version of my life when the door swings open and Dean fills the frame, rudely interrupting my inner monologue.
Stupid sexy do-gooder.
Is he some kind of Ned Flanders nice-guy pervert? Him and his brother—oh shit. Rod and Todd. That’s who they are. The Flanders boys, all grown up and sin-free.
Dean just watches me patiently, arms crossed, that calm, polite look that makes me feel like I just got caught smoking behind the church.
“You got here faster than I thought possible. You fly commercial?”
I shrug, because honestly, I have no idea.
“Uh… I don’t think so? There were only, like, eight seats.”
“Whatever,” he says, voice lowering as his eyes flick toward the kitchen. “Your guest is inside. We’ve been keeping her warm.”
He, what?
Okay, I take it back—he’s not a Flanders. He’s Moe. Or maybe Troy McClure, the one who was allegedly into fish. Great, now all I can think about is Simpson characters.
“Keeping her warm?” I echo, eyebrows shooting up.
“She was in a state when she got here,” Dean explains, tone still maddeningly calm. “Starting to get hypothermia. Clay was about to call 911, but she begged us not to.”
I nod, barely aware of the words. My legs move before my brain does, carrying me across the threshold, up the few steps, and into the kitchen.
And there she is.
She’s curled into herself in a chair by the stove, blanket wrapped tight around her thin frame, red curls spilling down her back, wet strands clinging to pale skin.
Her hands clutch a crumpled scrap of paper—my name and this address.
Her storm grey eyes, wide and hollow, flick up at me, and my heart twists.
So small. So fragile. My hands itch to touch her, to make sure she’s real, but I don’t want to scare her. Her face looks sickly pale.
“Christ, we should get you to a hospital.” I breathe, dropping to my knees in front of her. “Are you okay? You hurt?”
Her lips part, voice trembling.
“You said… you said I’d be safe here.” Her cheeks look thinner than I remember, a little hollow, like she’s been running from more than just the cold.
The blanket slips slightly from her shoulders, and I notice the damp cotton of her dress clinging to her frame.
My chest tightens. She’s smaller than I remember, but even more—she’s been through hell, and it shows in the tension coiled through her.
I track every tremble, every micro-flinch at the smallest noise: the faint hum of Portland traffic, the distant drip of rain from the eaves.
“What happened? Can you talk about it?” I ask, jaw tight, anger sharp but controlled. My fists are on my knees. The kitchen smells of hot chocolate, toast, and a faint tinge of bacon. I force myself to inhale slowly, I want to lose my shit, but it won’t help.
She shifts slightly, eyes darting, body still curled inward. “I…I can’t…” Her voice is weak, breathless. I want to hold her; I want yell and just fucking lose it… but I can’t…I…I don’t really know her. I don’t want to overstep.
The words come out softer than I mean them to.
“It’s okay, just rest,” I murmur, watching her eyes fight sleep. “I’ll help get a room set up, chuck you in a couple of extra blankets, yeah? Maybe…maybe you could have a hot bath? Dean, you guys got a room with a bath, yeah? I’ll cover it.”
Dean hesitates. “I mean…of course.”
She’s barely hanging on. Her fingers tremble around the mug, eyelids heavy.
“Finish your cocoa,” I tell her, crouching down beside her chair.
“Then I’ll carry you upstairs if I have to, okay?
” She gives a tiny nod, a ghost of a smile flickering before she sips again.
But she’s fading fast, her chin dipping lower…
until the mug slips from her hand, hot liquid spilling across the table and down her blanket.
She jerks awake with a gasp.
“I am so sorry, father. I didn’t mean to—”
Father.
The word cuts like a blade.
I am going to fuck that motherfucker up.
She fumbles for the blanket, trying to dab at the spill, panic in every movement. I’m already there, reaching for her, but the second she looks up and sees me—really sees me—she freezes. Her breath catches, and her wide eyes fill with something raw.
Her voice breaks on a whisper.
“You’re here.”
Everything fades. The noise. The room. The people.
She leans into me, forehead resting against my chest like she’s trying to hide in the beat of my heart.
I wrap my arms wrap around her, hold her so fierce it feels like I could shield her from the world with my ribs.
She’s painfully small. I draw the blanket tighter around her shoulders, fingers finding the soft point at her wrist, squeezing just enough to be steady.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her, low and sure. “I’ve got you.”
Her voice is a tremor. “What if they find me?”
Who the fuck are they?
I tuck a damp curl behind her ear and inhale—rain and fresh soap. I hold her closer until the tremor slows, until her breath matches mine.
Clay and Dean hang back, giving us space. Their murmurs fade into the background. The clink of plates, the hiss of the coffee machine, someone laughing from the living area. It’s domestic and ordinary and for a second almost cruel in its normality.
I memorize everything—the way her shoulders shake, when she tries not to, how her fingers curl white at the blanket’s edge, the tiny lift of her lip as she swallows a thought. Each detail etches into me like a brand. She exhales against my chest, a soft, empty sound.
Who the fuck could be after her?
Who did this to her?
Who made her run?
I tighten my grip.
I let my gaze drift without moving my head—windows, back door, the street beyond, the shadowed trees. My mind starts its list automatically. Exits, cars, who can hear us.
Worst-case routes unfold in my head, and I tear each one apart, rebuilding them into contingencies like a field general. Get her out. Cover her trail. Find the names. The faces. Hunt them down.
She presses her face harder into my chest, and for a single breath, I let myself believe the lie—that this is enough to fix the rest.
It isn’t. Not even fucking close.
But it’s a start.