Chapter 49

Marius POV

"MOMMY!"

A child’s shriek rang out like a gunshot, followed by the rapid sound of bare feet pounding against hardwood floors.

I froze.

Another voice—softer, but tired—spoke over the excited screaming.

"She just woke up an hour ago, and I already had to bribe her with the promise of pancakes to keep her from trying to run down the driveway to find you."

Seri laughed, stepping fully into the house. "Thank you, Maria. Seriously, take the rest of the day off. I’ve got her now."

I forced myself to move, stepping through the doorway after her—

And stopped dead.

It was not what I expected.

The house was chaos.

Walls plastered with crayon drawings, children’s artwork covering the fridge and any free space that could be claimed. Small shoes and toys were scattered across the living room floor. A fluffy pink sweater had been tossed over the back of a chair, forgotten in the morning rush.

And in the middle of it all, Seri knelt on the floor, arms wrapped around a tiny, dark-haired child, hugging her so tight it was as if she was afraid to let go.

The little girl—maybe four, at most—clung to her mother, her raven-black ponytail bouncing as she turned her head slightly to peek at the strangers in the doorway.

Big, big dark eyes.

I swallowed thickly.

Seri finally stood, effortlessly shifting the child into her arms.

"Sophia, sweetheart, these are my… friends." She hesitated just briefly before looking back at us. "Marius, Damon, Tyrone—this is my daughter."

Silence.

The three of us stood rooted in place as Seri carried Sophia toward the kitchen, casually setting her on the counter and rolling up her sleeves. Like this was normal. Like we hadn’t just had our entire understanding of her shattered.

The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and melting chocolate soon filled the air as she grabbed ingredients and started making pancakes.

Sophia did not stop talking.

Not once.

"Did you see the moon last night, Mommy? It was so big, and Maria let me stay up for one whole extra hour to see it!"

"Really? One whole hour? That’s practically a grown-up bedtime, little love."

"Mhm! And—and I drew you a picture! It’s on the fridge. Did you see it? Did you?"

"Not yet, but I will, I promise."

She flipped a pancake, reaching out absentmindedly to brush a few loose strands of hair from her daughter’s face.

I was still frozen at the edge of the kitchen, stunned.

Seri was…

She was soft here. Gentle. Effortless. A woman who had been running an underground faction by night and still making chocolate chip pancakes for her daughter when she came home.

It wasn’t until Sophia’s pancakes were finished and a knock sounded at the door—Maria’s husband coming to take her for the day—that Seri finally turned back to us.

Her expression shifted.

The warmth faded.

She set the pan down with a soft clink and exhaled, bracing herself.

"I know you have questions."

And just like that, the tension returned.

I swallowed hard, but before I could speak—

"I’ll start."

Damon POV

His voice was quiet, measured.

Seri’s gaze flickered to him.

And so, the truth began.

He knew Seri had secrets.

That much was obvious from the moment he met her. She was too precise, too controlled—too good at hiding. But this? This was beyond anything he’d expected.

He watched her as she set the frying pan aside, her fingers flexing once before she crossed her arms. The warmth that had softened her while she was with her daughter was gone, replaced with the sharp, unyielding edge he recognized.

She was prepared for war.

She was prepared for us.

And that should have pissed him off. The way she constantly kept us at a distance, always maneuvering, always staying two steps ahead. But right now?

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t even surprised.

He was fascinated.

Because he had finally seen something she didn’t want us to see.

He’d seen her.

Not the assassin. Not the strategist. Not the untouchable woman who had eluded us at every turn. He saw Seri, the mother. The protector. The woman who could run an entire faction with cold efficiency and still flip chocolate chip pancakes for her daughter like it was just another Sunday morning.

And he wasn’t the only one affected.

I was silent, arms folded, trying to mask my reaction. Tyrone had that look—the one that meant he was turning everything over in his mind, breaking it down, analyzing, already planning his next move.

Damon wasn’t thinking about strategy.

He was thinking about the scars.

Because he’d seen them. All of them.

And now, for the first time, he could finally ask.

"Take your shirt off."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Seri blinked. Once.

Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Tyrone and I both turned to look at him, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.

"Your scars." He stepped forward, slow, controlled, stopping just short of her personal space. "You cover them well. But I’ve seen them. And I need to know."

She went completely still.

Not in the way most people do when they’re caught off guard. Not in shock.

It was calculated stillness. A decision.

And then she spoke, voice quiet, but deadly.

"You think I owe you that?"

He met her gaze, holding it. "I think if you expect us to trust you, we should know what we’re dealing with."

He had already seen them.

Every scar. Every mark. Every wound that had been carved into her skin.

He had traced them with his own hands, felt the raised lines against his fingers as she lay in his arms, raw and exposed in a way she never was around anyone else. That night in the bath had told him what he already suspected—Seraphina was a survivor, but she had paid in blood to become one.

Tyrone and I hadn’t seen.

Not really.

Not like he had.

So when I saw the way our eyes tracked her movements, taking in the scars that she tried to hide under her tattoos, I knew exactly what we were thinking.

He had already gone through it.

The anger.

The disgust—not for her, but for the bastards who had put their hands on her.

The silent, burning rage that settled in his gut, twisting, coiling, making him want to hunt down the ghosts of the men who did this and make them suffer all over again.

We were feeling it now.

I saw it in the way my jaw clenched, my fingers flexing against my arm. In the way Tyrone was unnervingly still, his eyes dark and calculating, already piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed.

Seri noticed.

Of course she did.

She was watching us, measuring our reactions, waiting for one of us to speak. But we didn’t.

Tyrone muttered a low curse.

I said nothing, but my expression darkened, something cold and lethal flickering in my chest.

And Seri?

She stood there, unflinching, baring herself in a way that had nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with power.

This was not vulnerability.

This was a warning.

And fuck, it was effective.

Across her ribs, a jagged slash, long-healed but deep enough that I knew it had been agonizing. Along her back, thin, deliberate lines, like she had been marked. Down her arms, circular burns, some small, some large—cigarettes, lighters, something worse. And her stomach… I felt my hands clench at my sides.

Tattoos covering the worst of them.

Damon let his gaze drift over her, past the ink that decorated her skin, past the intricate tattoos designed to mask the evidence of her past.

Because he knew what lay beneath.

"Who?" he asked, voice low.

Seri tilted her head, considering him. "You already know."

"I want to hear you say it."

A pause.

Then—"Genovese."

He already knew the answer.

He had known the moment he saw the way she reacted when his name was mentioned. The way her entire body tensed, the way her gaze darkened just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

But hearing it?

It still hit like a gut punch.

He exhaled slowly, controlling the rage curling in his chest. "And the others?"

Another pause. This one longer.

Then she rolled her shoulders back, like she was adjusting armor that had never really come off.

"My father made me a target. My husband made me a prisoner. And then he tried to break me."