Chapter 42
Seraphina
Tension wasn’t just in the air—it was the air.
The moment we returned to the safehouse, the silence fractured. Callum and Kieran hadn’t spoken on the drive back. Not one word. I’d sat in the passenger seat, caught between the chill radiating off Callum’s clenched jaw and the fire simmering in Kieran’s glare through the rearview mirror.
Now we were inside, and the quiet couldn’t hold.
“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” Kieran snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. “Going dark for twelve hours, ignoring check-ins, dragging her to the dirtiest corners of the city without backup—”
“I didn’t drag her anywhere,” Callum said, voice low. Dangerous.
“No?” Kieran stepped forward. “Because from where I stood, it looked like you were running on instinct. Not intel. Not planning. Just your gut. And you’ve got a damn blind spot where she’s concerned.”
Callum’s eyes went flat, glacial. “Careful.”
“I am. You’re not.”
I stepped between them. “Enough.”
But neither of them heard me.
“You keep pretending this is just another job,” Kieran said, jabbing a finger at Callum’s chest. “But it’s not. It’s personal for her. And it’s personal for you. And that makes it messy.”
Callum didn’t flinch. “What do you think I’ve been doin’, Kieran? Standin’ around? Every bloody move I’ve made has been to keep her safe.”
“No,” Kieran snapped. “You’ve been reacting. And reactions get people killed.”
My voice cut sharper this time. “I said enough .”
Both of them turned to me. Kieran’s eyes widened a fraction. Callum just stilled.
“I’m not a mission to be managed,” I said. “And I’m not a weakness either. So if either of you want to keep treating me like a cracked vase you're afraid to drop, maybe you shouldn’t be on this team.”
A thick, hot silence followed.
Kieran stepped back first. Hands raised. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He walked out, boots heavy on the stairs.
I waited until the door slammed upstairs before I exhaled.
Callum hadn’t moved.
“You think he’s wrong?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to mine. “I think he’s angry.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He ran a hand down his face, weariness etched into every line. “No. He’s not wrong. I am reacting. I don’t know how not to—when it’s you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That’s not good enough.”
He looked away. “I know.”
The silence stretched again, not thick this time but aching. I crossed the space between us.
“I can’t be the reason you lose your edge,” I said quietly. “If I am, we won’t make it.”
He didn’t speak right away. Just stared at the wall, like the weight of every decision was carved into the paint.
Then, softly, “I’ve always known how to fight.”
I waited.
He turned to me finally. Eyes raw, voice low.
“You’re the only reason I’ve ever wanted to survive.”
And just like that, every wall I’d rebuilt since Old Rose cracked again.
I didn’t say anything. Just leaned into him, into the gravity of him. He wrapped his arms around me like he was afraid I’d vanish. Like holding me was the only thing anchoring him to this life instead of the next.
We didn’t speak again that night. We didn’t need to.
Because love in a world like this wasn’t loud.
It was quiet.
Furious.
Unshakable.