Chapter 40
Chapter forty
Seraphina
THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND – Bad Omens
The world tilts before I can open my eyes.
Sound comes first—whispers, water dripping somewhere close, a low hum that pulses behind my temples. I try to move, but my limbs float, boneless, uncooperative. My head feels stuffed with cotton. My tongue, heavy and dry.
What happened?
The question slithers through the fog, slow, disoriented. I try to remember—the interview room, Trey’s smile. Then…nothing.
My chest tightens. I try to speak, to call his name, but all that comes out is a weak, broken sound.
Hands touch me—too many of them. I blink, but my lashes stick together. The room swims in and out of focus. White fabric. Candles. Figures moving around me.
“She’s waking,” someone says softly, like I’m something sacred.
“Praise be.”
My body doesn’t listen when I tell it to move. My muscles twitch but refuse to obey. I can feel them lifting me, sitting me up. My skin prickles where air meets dampness. My thoughts slide apart before I can hold onto them.
A hand tilts my chin. My eyes meet faces. Five women, all dressed in white linen gowns, their expressions serene. One looks barely more than a girl, wide eyed and solemn. They smell of soap and rose oil and candle smoke.
“She will be cleansed,” another murmurs. “Made ready for her vows.”
The words scrape through my skull, dull and echoing.
Vows.
My pulse kicks weakly. I shake my head, or at least I think I do. My body barely shifts.
I’m weightless, but not free.
They work in silence, washing my skin with cloths dipped in fragrant water, their lips moving in a steady rhythm of prayer. I want to scream—to tear their hands off me—but I can’t. My throat refuses, my voice trapped.
They lift me again, drying me, dressing me in white—thin, sheer, a mockery of purity. The fabric clings to me as if it has a life of its own. My hair is brushed smooth, my wrists perfumed. I see my hands, trembling faintly, and realize what’s missing.
My wedding rings.
My jewelry.
All gone.
A flicker of panic cuts through the drugs.
Trey.
The thought of him pierces the fog. His smile, the warmth in his voice.
I blink. If I can hold onto him, if I can stay awake. I can stay his.
“Come,” one woman says. “The congregation awaits.”
My knees fold when they try to stand me, but they catch me, lifting me under the arms, moving me forward like I’m a marionette. Each step feels distant, foreign. The floor beneath my bare feet is cold, rough concrete giving way to polished stone.
Candlelight flickers over the walls, casting long shadows of crosses and serpents entwined. The scent of incense thickens, almost sweet enough to choke on.
We stop before a set of heavy wooden doors carved with crucifixes. The murmuring beyond them swells—a hundred voices in prayer.
The doors open.
The light blinds me for a heartbeat. When my eyes adjust, the sight steals what little breath I have left. Rows upon rows of people kneel before an altar, their heads bowed, faces hidden. White robes ripple like waves across the floor. None of them look up.
At the center, bathed in the glow of a thousand candles, stands Gideon Cross.
My pulse stutters.
He looks older—dark hair slicked back, white robes trailing the floor. His expression is serene. But I remember what lives behind the facade.
He smiles, voice smooth as silk.
“Children of the Cross, your Mother has been brought to us.”
A soft gasp ripples through the crowd. He opens his arms, palms up as though welcoming grace itself.
“She has wandered far from the fold,” he continues, “but our Lord of blessings is merciful. He calls forth His vessel home. Through her womb, our salvation will come.”
The congregation murmurs
“Amen.”
My stomach twists. The air feels too thick, pressing down on me. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The women hold me upright as Gideon approaches.
He reaches for me, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering like a blessing—or a claim. “Your purity will be restored,” he whispers. “You will be made mine so it was written.”
Written. Like I was scripted to this nightmare. Like I was part of this madman’s prophecy.
I try to speak, to tell him no, but the word catches in my throat. Only a weak sound escapes.
“Soon,” he says, “you will speak your vows before the eyes of the faithful. You will take your place as Mother of the Cross. Then I shall remove your tongue, so you can speak no blistered words—only be the acceptance of my gifts.”
My stomach twists. My heart hammers. I can’t move, can’t breathe—only listen.
The women bow their heads. The crowd bows lower.
My head swims, but I fight through it, clinging to the one image that cuts through the noise—Trey. His hands on my skin. His laughter. His promise to fight for me.
I hear his voice in my head.
You’re my peace, Seraphina.
You’re my salvation.
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs.
“I…won’t,” I whisper, hoarse, struggling to find my voice.
“I…won’t… say…them.”
Gideon’s eyes darken, his saintly smile curdling. “Our Mother is full of spirit. What a good fat Mother you will make. Defiance, to your husband even now? You continue to test my patience, Seraphina.”
He steps closer, his breath warm against my cheek.
“The boy you sinned with is still alive. For now. Shall I show you what happens to those who question what is foretold? Who dares to touch, to take, what is rightfully mine? He spoiled your fertile ground with his tainted seed.”
My blood runs cold.
He gestures to the guards.
“Prepare her. Let her see what her rebellion costs.”
Fear claws at my throat, but I know what I have to do. I can’t win this fight—not yet. I need to get to Trey.
My heart hammers as I force my gaze to the floor.
“I’ll…I’ll do it,” I whisper. “Please… just… let me…see him.”
Gideon’s grin returns, benevolent again, false holiness wrapping around cruelty. “Ah, but of course our wavering Mother begs to be with my holy appointment. You see? Even the lost can be saved.”
The guards lead me away, their hands tight. Unforgiving. The doors close behind us, cutting off the chants of the congregation.
The hallway is colder here, the light dimmer. The air smells of earth and metal. We descend a staircase, my bare feet slipping on stone steps slick with damp. A single bulb flickers above, painting everything in sickly yellow.
Chains clink somewhere in the dark.
My eyes scan my surroundings.
Trey.
No. God, no.
He hangs from the far wall, wrists shackled high above his head, his body limp, head bowed, feet barely touching the ground. A streak of blood traces down his temple, over the tattoos on his chest, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers.
His body is bruised, wet.
Something inside me breaks.
“Trey.” His name escapes like a prayer. I try to run to him, but one of the guards pulls me back by my hair. My knees hit the floor.
Trey doesn’t move.
I press a trembling hand to my heart.
Hold on. I silently beg him.
Please hold on.
The wives enter behind us and begin to pray again, their voices soft and rhythmic, filling the cold air. Their words blur into static against the thunder of my heartbeat.
I close my eyes, and I see him again—not bleeding, not bound, but smiling, his eyes bright, his hands pulling me down on top of him as he rests.
You’re my peace, baby. I just want to hold you. Will you let me?
I speak the only truth I have left.
“I am not your Mother. I am not your vessel.” My voice trembles, growing steadier. “I am Seraphina Baker.”
Their prayers falter.
I look up at the ceiling, at the flickering light that feels one breath away from dying.
“That man is my husband. I belong to him. My heart, my body, every part of me belongs to him.” I whisper, knowing that they’re listening.
Their vows are lies.
Their God is not grace, it is carnage.
My love—my husband—is the only salvation I will ever need
A sound echoes—a dull metallic click followed by a low mechanical hum, before a rush of water, ice-cold, drops from the pipe above Trey’s head, soaking him. He jerks at the shock, his muscles tensing, his body straining against the restraints. The chains clatter, sharp against the concrete.
The wives don’t react. They keep murmuring, their voices a soft, rhythmic chant that seems to rise and fall with the flicker of the bulb overhead. Words about cleansing. About obedience. About sin. Their faces are blank, eyes glassy with devotion, and it’s more horrifying than if they screamed.
I can’t breathe. The air smells of iron and damp earth, the cold seeping into my bones until it hurts to draw breath. Every instinct in me screams to move—to stand up, to run to him—but my legs won’t obey. Fear roots me to the spot, heavy and suffocating.
Trey groans, the sound tearing through the silence. His head lifts slightly before falling forward again, his hair dark and wet. The sight nearly drops me to my knees.
He’s alive. God, he’s alive.
The women continue praying, their whispers weaving through the sound of dripping water. The one nearest to me presses a trembling hand over her heart, whispering,
“May the Lord strip the darkness from him.”
I want to scream at her. I want to tell her he’s the light, that she’s been living in the dark this whole time. But the words catch in my throat.
The bulb swings harder above us, throwing wild arcs of light across the room. Each pass catches a different fragment—the red smear of blood beneath Trey’s feet that barely touch the floor, the rusted chains at his wrists, the white fabric of my gown swaying as I tremble.
I take one step. Then another. The wives part only slightly as I move, their chants stumbling when they realize what I’m doing. My feet are bare, sliding over the cold, gritty floor.
“Trey,” I whisper. My voice cracks on his name.
He stirs again, his head lolling to the side, a low sound escaping his throat.
I rise on my toes in front of him, my hands trembling as I lift his face. His skin is cold, lips blue, the pulse beneath his jaw faint but steady. There’s blood smeared across his temple, another cut along his collarbone. I brush my thumb against it, my vision blurring.
His lashes twitch.
“Trey.” My voice shakes, desperate. “Baby, it’s me. It’s Sera. Open your eyes, please.”
For a long, breathless moment, nothing happens. The only sound is the water dripping from the pipe, the whispers, the rattle of his chains when his body jerks faintly. Then, slowly—agonizingly—his eyes open.
Green.
Unfocused at first.
A sob catches in my throat. Relief hits so hard it steals my breath.
He blinks sluggishly, trying to orient himself.
“Sera?” His voice is raw, hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
“I’m here,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to his. “I’m right here.”
His breath shudders against my skin, and for the first time since waking, I feel strength return to me. The terror doesn’t leave—it never will while we’re in this place—but it quiets beneath the sound of his voice.
Because if Trey is alive, there’s hope. A reason to breathe. A reason to fight.
I’ll burn this entire place to the ground before I let Gideon take him from me. Even if it kills me.