Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Trey
RUNRUNRUN – Dutch Melrose
What the actual fuck am I doing?
I have to physically force my hands to stay flat on the mattress. Every instinct in me is screaming—touch her, fuck boy, just one more taste. I want to pull her in, tilt her chin, and kiss her until she forgets what air feels like.
Bite, lick, suck and fuck.
But…I don’t.
My palms stay where they are, pressed into the bed, tendons straining like they’re holding back an earthquake.
Because if I move—if I let myself go even an inch—I’ll wreck it.
I’ll wreck her.
It was just a kiss. One. Single. Kiss.
But fee-fi-fucking hell…my cock’s reacting like a golden retriever whose owner just came home from war.
She’s beautiful.
Not just the kind of beautiful that stops you dead—but the kind that undoes you.
Untouched. Disconnected from the filth of the world in a way no one is anymore. Innocent, but not na?ve.
That kiss—Christ, that kiss—she kissed me like she was stepping off a cliff and trusting I’d be there to catch her.
My cock got excited.
For a kiss.
A fucking kiss.
What’s next, candlelit confessions and a rosary kink?
Jesus Christ. Bro’s got a thing for nuns now.
She’s still there, my Dove. Her copper hair spills over the pillow like fire licking through darkness.
Her skin is porcelain, soft and perfect, except for the few bruises she tries to hide.
The kind of fragile that makes you want to handle her with both hands.
Those eyes…God, those eyes. Wide open, full of everything she’s never said out loud.
The kind of eyes that make you want to fight, burn, bleed just to make sure they never go dull.
Her lips. Soft. Pink. Still trembling from where they pressed against mine—her first kiss—and she gave it to me.
Trusted me with it.
Unless, of course, everything she’s said is a lie, and she’s been passed from pillar to pew, making out and wanking off the entire congregation. Still, kind of hot. Crazy—but hot.
I drag in a slow breath, pulse hammering. My body doesn’t care about vows or innocence, it only knows what it wants. But my heart—my head—they know better.
This, unfortunately, solidifies my view. She’s too good for the things that live inside me. Too untouched for what my hands are used to.
I could take more. God, I want to. But I won’t. I can’t. Not with her. Not when one wrong move could ruin her in ways she’ll never come back from.
I can’t sit here any longer. The air between us is too charged, too tight, and if I stay...
I push up from the bed, moving before I can second-guess it. My hands need something to do, anything to keep from reaching for her. A robe hangs from the back of the door, soft white cotton, and I pull it down, pressing it into her hands.
“Here,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “You’ll be more comfortable.”Her fingers curl around the fabric, her eyes lifting to mine—uncertain, questioning—but she doesn’t argue. She just holds it to her chest like she is naked before me.
I step into the bathroom, twist the taps, and let the tub fill.
Steam curls up into the cold air, fogging the glass, blurring the edges of everything until the world feels quieter.
The rush of water is steady, grounding. I scan the counter for anything useful—soaps, detergents, whatever these guys use.
Well, not bad shit.
They probably clean up on TripAdvisor.
Stupid, sexy, brothers.
Hallmark-looking motherfuckers.
Somewhere between the bubbles and my brain fog, I realize I’ve got my phone out—scrolling, flipping through Raya.
No response from Taylor. Scarlet’s a no go. Everyone’s coupling up, and here’s me running a bath for a nun on the run.
The tub’s filling nicely now—bubbles foaming to a respectable level, no risk of flooding. My hands keep busy, so I don’t lose another few grand messaging inactive celebs.
It’s not just about distraction, though.
It's about her.
Taking care of her in the only way I can right now—making sure she’s warm, safe, looked after.
She deserves gentle.
But my depraved ass wants more.
I test the water, adjusting the temperature until it’s perfect. Behind me, I hear her move—the soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of breath.
I glance up at the mirror and catch her reflection; curled into herself on the bed, robe clutched tight, copper hair spilling in waves around her pale face.
Fucking hell.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat held hostage by my Franken-cock. My dove.
Too fucking pure, innocent, for the things I’d do if I let myself.
She’s not yours, you dumb fuck.
Then she glances up, catches my eye in the mirror, and gives me this shy little smile that damn near knocks the air from my lungs.
What is this? This fucking spark in my chest, this excitement that feels way too dangerous?
I force my eyes back to the water, jaw tight.
No. A kiss is all I’ll ever take.
Anything else and I’ll break her.
I want to break her.
Well, that’s fucking wrong.
No, but like…in a sexy way.
Oh.
Ohh. Yeah.
I clear my throat and stay busy.
I’ve officially run a perfect bath.
Call me Poseidon—God of water.
Wait. I also gave her a robe. Does that make me Robbie, God of Robes?
I twist the tap shut, and the rush of water fades into a slow steady drip.
Steam curls thick around my arms, clinging to my skin.
The whole room smells like clean linen and heat.
I grab a stack of towels from the shelf and shake one out, folding it neatly on the counter even though my hands aren’t built for neat.
My fingers twitch—too big, too restless, but at least they’re doing something other than reaching for her.
When I step back into the room, she’s still perched on the edge of the bed. Robe clutched tight. Knees pressed together. She looks small—swallowed by shadows and silence—as if she doesn’t know how to exist in this space yet.
I clear my throat. “Bath’s ready.” My voice comes out softer this time, steadier.
Her head lifts, wide eyes meeting mine.
Down, boy.
Just, shut the fuck up for a minute.
I gesture toward the bathroom, and she rises slowly, bare feet whispering against the rug. The November chill seeps through the windows, threading cold into the room. Even up here, the city lights can’t chase away the bite of the season.
I hold out a towel. “This is for after. I’ll leave it right here.” I set it on the counter beside the tub.
Her hand brushes mine as she reaches past to set the robe down. The contact is brief—accidental—but it hits like a live wire, a spark that travels all the way up my arm. I lock my fists at my sides before they get any bright ideas.
Don’t say anything weird about baptisms…
Don’t say it.
Don’t—
I step back, clearing my throat. “Take your time, Dove. I’ll be downstairs.”
She blinks up at me, curls clinging damply to her cheeks from the steam drifting out of the bathroom. “You…you’ll stay?”
“Always,” I say without thinking. The word is out before I can stop it. My brain scrambles to recover the emotional damage.
“Going to grab a coffee. You want anything?”
“S-stay. Please.”
Well, this is open for interpretation, isn’t it?
Stay where exactly, sweetheart? In the room? In the tub?
Does the lady require assistance with the bathing process?
“I can wait outside, if you prefer?”
She nods quickly—too quickly—and her cheeks flush pink. Which means mine do too, because apparently, I’m a man who now blushes.
What the fuck, Trey.
Something in her eases after that, though. Her shoulders lower, a soft sigh escapes her lips, and she nods once.
The door clicks softly behind her.
I stand there for a second, staring at the fog curling out from the gap at the bottom, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. My chest is tight, my pulse still racing from the kiss I swore would be simple but nearly undid me.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Count it. But then, faint through the wood, I hear a sound that knocks the air straight out of me.
Crying.
Not loud, not broken sobs. Just soft. Fragile. Like she’s trying to smother it under the splash of water. But I hear it anyway, every quiet catch of her breath cutting through me like glass.
There could be a million reasons she’s crying.
Hell, I’m probably a few of them.
Wait—is this because she kissed me?
No. That’s fucking dumb.
Oh, shit—she thinks I’ve sullied her. Robbed her of her purity or dignity or whatever medieval nonsense her priest of a father shoved in her head.
Like fuck.
Don’t think about it, Trey. You’re trying to help.
She’s paid in blood and scars her whole life—like me.
No. This isn’t about me.
But, Jesus, I want to rip that door open, scoop her out of the bath, tell her she doesn’t have to cry anymore. But this isn’t mine to fix. It’s hers to face. Her moment. Her covenant.
So, I slide down the wall, knees up, arms resting heavy on them, the cool plaster against my back. My head tips forward, eyes shut. I try not to listen.
The crying fades. First soft, then gone.
Water shifts—gentle waves lapping against porcelain. The heater hums. Outside, traffic hums a dull, low, city pulse.
It’s too peaceful. Too quiet. My brain doesn’t know what to do with quiet anymore.
The door opens. She steps out, damp curls sticking to her cheeks, robe loosely tied. She moves like someone who’s never been allowed to move freely—every step measured. My pulse spikes.
Stay calm. Keep your hands in check.
Then my lungs just stop working.
What the fucking, fucking, actual fucking fuck do I even do with this?
I take a breath—try to.
There’s no way to describe what I’m seeing that doesn’t sound like a man begging to be struck down by lightening. But here we go.
You know that scene in Twilight where Bella walks into class, and Edward just…gasps?
Yeah. That.
That’s me.
Except, instead of sparkling, I’m trying not to get a hard-on.
Seraphina.
Holy Hell.