Chapter 22
Seraphina
The car that picks me up is sleek, black, and entirely too quiet.
A Vex family driver opens the door with a respectful nod, eyes forward, voice clipped.
No small talk. No commentary. Just a job.
I settle into the leather seat, my fingers clenching around the clutch in my lap.
The earpiece hums once, the signal barely noticeable.
Then— “I’ve got eyes,” Callum’s voice murmurs through the line, low and steady.
I exhale, tension loosening from my shoulders like a release valve. He’s close. Watching.
The restaurant Damon chose is elegant in that curated, hollow kind of way. Candlelight flickers over white tablecloths. Strings of soft music thread through the air like smoke. The kind of place where people pay more to pretend they’re important. Fitting.
He’s already seated when I walk in. Charcoal gray suit.
White shirt, no tie. His hair’s styled just enough to look effortless.
He stands when he sees me, his smile measured.
Controlled. His eyes sweep over me, and for a split second, his gaze flicks lower—calculating.
“You look stunning,” he says. I give him a polite smile.
“Thanks. You clean up decently yourself.” He chuckles like I’ve told a joke, even though we both know I haven’t.
Callum: “Steady, lass. Just like we planned.”
We sit. I let Damon order the wine without protest. Let him ask about my week.
I answer in half-truths and hollow details, smiling at just the right moments.
His eyes never leave me. “I spoke to your father again today,” he says, swirling his wine as if it matters.
I tilt my head, letting a touch of curiosity soften my expression.
“Oh?” “He thinks highly of you.” A pause.
“He wants to make sure you’re paired with someone who can protect the legacy.
Someone who can help… guide it.” I sip my wine to keep from laughing.
“And you think that’s you?” His smile deepens, but there’s no real warmth behind it.
“Why not?” I lean forward, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Because the only thing you’ve ever protected is your own reflection. ”
There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s theatrical. “Well,” he says, settling back in his chair, “at least I’m consistent.”
Callum: “He’s posturing. Wants control, but not through force. He’s testing yer compliance.”
I lift my glass again, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder if I’m going to speak.
Then: “So, what’s next? A ring? A press release?
” He shrugs. “Whatever your father thinks is best. I’m not rushing anything.
” Liar. He’s already ten moves ahead. “Besides,” he adds, “we don’t have to make it official until after the ceremony.
” My stomach twists. “The gala?” “No,” he says, voice slick.
“The binding.” I keep my face neutral, but inside, something shrivels.
A binding ceremony isn’t just symbolic. It’s a declaration. A contract. A surrender.
Callum: “Don’t react. Let him talk.”
Damon leans in. “You’ll come around. Your father knows what’s best for Blackdawn. And for you.” There it is. The threat under the velvet glove.
I blink slowly, tilting my head. “Funny. I didn’t realize I needed a keeper.” “I don’t want to keep you, Seraphina,” he says, voice suddenly quieter. “I want to own the world with you.”
Callum: “Bastard’s playing emperor. He wants to crown himself through ye.”
I straighten in my seat. Smile just a little too sweetly. “Then I hope you’ve brushed up on your court etiquette.”
He chuckles again, but I see the flicker in his eyes. Annoyance. Maybe even suspicion. He knows I’m not as pliable as he expected.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of practiced grins and hidden barbs. I play the role well. Let him feel in control. Let him believe I’m slipping into the mold he wants. All while Callum’s voice in my ear anchors me, steady and sharp.
As the check is paid and Damon stands, offering his arm, I hesitate only a second before taking it. We step into the night, and I glance toward the alley just beside the restaurant. A shadow shifts. Callum.
Damon walks me to the car, fingers brushing the small of my back in a move that’s meant to claim. I feel it in my bones. This isn’t attraction. It’s acquisition. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my cheek. It burns.
The elevator glides to a stop on the top floor, and the soft chime feels too delicate—too polite for what waits on the other side of the doors. I step out into the penthouse. It’s quiet. Not the kind of quiet that welcomes you home—but the kind that warns you to tread carefully.
And then I see him. Callum is standing by the windows, back to me, the city lights casting long shadows around him.
Beside the couch sit two duffel bags, neatly packed, his coat slung over one of them.
There’s no panic in his posture. No tension in his shoulders.
Just the kind of stillness that comes before a precise, calculated strike.
He knew I’d come back here. He knew what I’d need.
Callum turns slightly at the sound of my heels, eyes meeting mine.
There’s no anger there. No accusation. Just intent.
Focus. Strategic, as always. “This place isn’t safe anymore,” he says before I can speak.
“We’ll move tonight. I’ve secured another location.
” I nod, because he’s right. Because of course he already has a plan.
He probably had it before I ever left for dinner.
I step further inside, the soft click of the door closing behind me louder than expected. The silence settles again—thick and charged. Then I say it. “He wants to bind me, Callum.” “I heard.” Silence. Then his voice, low and dangerous: “Then we burn the fucking altar.”
The words hang in the air like a blade—sharp, final. He moves first, crossing to the bags and hoisting one over his shoulder before reaching for mine. I don’t argue. I don’t ask where we’re going. I just fall in beside him, matching his pace as we head for the elevator.
We don’t speak again until we’re in the car—his car, not one of Dominic’s sleek black ghosts.
It smells like leather and pine, familiar and grounded.
He pulls into traffic with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift.
But I know him too well now. He’s thinking three layers deeper than his expression reveals.
“He made his move,” I say, watching the city blur past. “Dinner was just the start. He said Dominic’s been grooming him for this role—positioning him as the ‘obvious choice’ for alliance.
” Callum’s jaw ticks, but his voice stays calm.
“ He’s playing the long game.” “He kissed me,” I add quietly.
That gets a reaction. His fingers tighten on the wheel, the leather creaking under his grip.
“Did ye let him?” I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t stop him.” A beat. Then two. “Good,” he says at last, voice like steel wrapped in velvet.
“Let him think yer yielding. The more convinced he is, the more reckless he’ll become.
” I look away, throat tight. “It felt like betrayal.” “Then use that guilt,” he says without flinching.
“Let it feed the fire, not smother it. He wants to own you, Seraphina. Ye let him think he’s winning. And then we take it all from him.”
The rest of the drive is quiet.
When we arrive, the neighborhood is unassuming—quieter, tucked into one of those older parts of the city that money forgets but history remembers.
The building is narrow, brick, worn in a way that feels intentional.
Safe. Callum leads me up a private stairwell to the second floor.
No elevator. Just creaking steps and a heavy wooden door that opens with a code, not a key.
Inside, it’s simple but clean. Open layout.
Exposed beams. Hardwood floors scuffed with age.
It smells faintly of cedar and something else—Callum, probably.
He sets the bags down in the corner like this place has always been waiting.
“This is yours?” I ask, taking it in. “Aye,” he says.
“Bought it under another name years ago. Didn’t plan to use it.
Till now.” I walk further in, running my fingers along the back of the worn leather couch.
“You’ve thought about every angle, haven’t you?
” He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.
He disappears into the bedroom briefly, returns without his coat.
I stay near the window, looking out over the quiet street below.
For a moment, I let the silence settle between us again—this time not heavy, but steady.
Anchor-like. “He talked about what our life would look like,” I say quietly.
“About shared power. Legacy. He even mentioned children, Callum.”
That makes him stop mid-step. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. His voice is a low growl. “He won’t touch you again.” I cross to him slowly. “Not unless I let him,” I finish for him. His eyes flick to mine—burning, steady.
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he turns back to the window, tension pulsing beneath the surface of his calm.
“You ever think about the past?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
A pause. “Every day,” he says. “It’s not something you can escape.
” His reflection in the glass is fragmented by the streetlights outside.
“I was trained to be a weapon,” he continues.
“Emotions stripped away, replaced with obedience. But sometimes…” His jaw clenches.
“Sometimes, the ghosts of those choices linger.” I move closer, stopping just behind him.
“You’re more than your past, Callum.” He turns to me slowly, eyes searching mine.
For a moment, all the layers fall away. No tactics.
No schemes. Just him. “With you,” he says quietly, “I hope to be.”
And this time, neither of us says anything else.