Chapter 42: Hidden

Seraphine's POV

I crossed the room and opened the wardrobe door. The hinges moved silently, well-oiled and maintained like everything else in this goddamn room.

Inside: shirts hanging in a precise row, pants folded on shelves below. All dark colors—black, charcoal, deep navy, the occasional dark gray. Not a single piece of clothing in any shade that could be called cheerful.

Can't have anything fun, can you?

I grabbed a shirt at random, pulled it from its hanger. The fabric was soft, high-quality, the kind of material that whispered money without being ostentatious about it.

Without thinking—without stopping to question why—I brought it to my nose.

Inhaled.

Pine. Cedar. Something clean and sharp, like winter air and woodsmoke.

His scent.

I dropped it like it had burned me, the shirt falling to pool at my feet.

What the fuck are you doing?

Heat flooded my face, embarrassment crawling up my neck like a rash.

Sniffing his clothes like some kind of creep? Like some pathetic—

You're losing it, Sera. Actually losing it.

---

I started pacing.

Four steps to the window. Four steps back. Four steps to the door. Four steps back.

The carpet muffled my footsteps, but I could feel the rhythm of my movement, the back-and-forth that did nothing to ease the restless energy building in my chest.

This is driving me insane.

The bond hummed, steady and insistent, a constant reminder of his presence somewhere in this house.

I hate this. Hate feeling him there, knowing he's close but not close enough to—

To what? To yell at? To fight with?

Constant fucking reminder that I'm not alone, even when I am.

My eyes landed on the window again, drawn to it like metal to a magnet.

Those goddamn boards, nailed across my only view of the outside world.

Maybe if I try one more time—

I walked over, pressing my palms flat against the wood. Felt along the edges, fingers searching for any weakness, any gap I might have missed before.

The wood was solid, unyielding. The nails driven deep, heads flush with the surface.

My bandaged fingers throbbed, protesting even this gentle pressure.

Cordelia's voice echoed in my head, cold and final.

"If you keep doing this—I won't come back to help."

I paused, hands still pressed against the wood, feeling the rough grain under my palms.

She meant it. She's done with me. Done cleaning up my messes.

And without her treatment—

My shoulder pulsed, the bite wound sending a sharp reminder of pain through my body.

Could get infected. Could get worse. Could kill me.

I need her help.

I dropped my hands, stepping back from the window with a frustration so intense it felt like screaming.

Fine. No more clawing like a trapped animal.

But the anger didn't dissipate, didn't ease. It just built, pressure mounting with nowhere to go.

I'm stuck here. Completely fucking helpless. Caged like a—

My foot lashed out before I could think about it.

Kicked the wooden cabinet against the wall.

THUD.

The impact sent a shock of pain through my toes, sharp and immediate.

"Shit—"

I hopped back, clutching my foot, eyes watering from the sudden hurt.

Stupid. So fucking stupid—

Then I heard it.

A sliding sound from above the cabinet, like something being dislodged.

What—

Something fell.

Hit my head with a solid thunk.

"Ow—fuck—"

I grabbed my skull with both hands, the pain bright and startling. My eyes watered, tears spilling over from the impact.

What the hell—

I looked down, vision blurred.

A book. Lying open on the floor at my feet, pages splayed.

Must've been sitting on top of the cabinet, balanced there out of sight. My kick had been hard enough to shake it loose, send it tumbling down onto my already-abused head.

Perfect. Just perfect. Another injury to add to the collection.

I bent down, still rubbing the sore spot on my skull.

Add head injury to the list of ways I'm systematically falling apart—

Then I saw them.

Photos.

Several of them, scattered across the carpet around the fallen book.

Must've been tucked between the pages, hidden away. When the book fell and opened, they'd spilled out like secrets.

I froze, crouched on the floor.

Photos? In Kaelen's room?

My heart started pounding, suddenly loud in the quiet room.

He doesn't seem like the sentimental type. Doesn't seem like someone who keeps memories.

So why hide these on top of a cabinet where no one would find them?

I knelt down slowly, carefully, like the photos might disappear if I moved too fast.

Stared at the scattered images.

Some lay face-down, their white backs revealing nothing. Others face-up, but from this angle I couldn't make out details—just shapes and colors and edges that teased at meaning.

Should I look?

Part of me screamed no.

This is private. Personal. None of your goddamn business.

But another part—the louder, more reckless part that had gotten me into this mess—whispered yes.

You need to understand him. Need to know what made him this cold, this controlled.

Maybe these photos have answers.

My hand reached out, moving almost of its own accord.

Trembling slightly. Hesitant.

Hovered over the closest photo, fingers extended but not quite touching.

Just one look. That's all. Just to see what he's hiding.

The bond pulsed—stronger now, more insistent, like he could somehow sense what I was about to do.

Is he coming back? Can he feel this through the bond?

I held my breath, listening for footsteps in the hallway.

Waiting for the sound of the lock turning.

But nothing changed. The house remained silent around me, just the faint whisper of snow against glass and the quiet creak of settling wood.

He's still far away. Probably busy being an asshole somewhere else in this prison.

My fingers touched the edge of the photo.

The paper was old, I could tell that much. Slightly worn at the corners, softer than new photo paper, like it had been handled many times over many years.

Whatever's in these—it mattered to him.

Mattered enough to keep. Mattered enough to hide away where no one would find them.

I picked it up, the paper light in my bandaged hand.

Turned it over slowly.

And stared.