Chapter 63 Seraphine
I slammed the door in Dante’s face.
The sound echoed through my apartment—too loud, too final—and it hurt more than I expected. My chest ached like I’d just torn something loose that hadn’t finished bleeding yet.
But I didn’t open it again.
I couldn’t.
I leaned my forehead against the door for half a second, eyes burning, then forced myself to move. If I stood still, I’d break. If I let myself think about the way his eyes had looked in the cab—confused, frantic, desperate—I’d turn around.
So I didn’t think.
I acted.
I crossed the living room and cranked the heat up higher than necessary. The apartment felt freezing all of a sudden, like the warmth had been sucked out with one sharp inhale. I turned on music—heavy, loud, unapologetic. The kind with screaming guitars and lyrics that were half rage, half smut, all attitude. The kind that didn’t ask permission to exist.
Good.
I needed noise.
I grabbed cleaning supplies from under the sink and got to work.
Kitchen first.
I scrubbed the counters like they’d personally offended me. Wiped down the stove. Tossed old mail into the trash without reading it. Emptied the recycling. My hands moved fast, methodical, fueled by adrenaline and anger and something dangerously close to grief.
Living room next.
I folded blankets that didn’t need folding. Straightened books already aligned. Vacuumed the rug even though it was already clean. The rhythm helped—forward and back, forward and back—something I could control.
Control. I needed that.
As I moved, my mind kept ticking.
Check your accounts.
See what you can afford.
You don’t feel safe here anymore.
And that thought landed heavy.
This townhouse had always felt temporary, but now it felt exposed. Too many people knew where I lived. Too many eyes. Too many secrets pressed too close to the walls.
At least I was renting.
That was a small mercy.
I grabbed my laptop and logged into my bank accounts, heart pounding as numbers loaded. It wouldn’t be easy—but it was possible. Downsizing. A different neighborhood. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere boring.
Somewhere human.
I opened a job board next, scrolling through listings that mentioned literature, editing, content management. Anything that used my degree without putting my face on a byline that could get me killed.
Journalism had been the dream.
Writing my own books had been the dream after that.
I swallowed hard.
Dreams die.
Sometimes they don’t explode or burn or fade dramatically.
Sometimes they just… quietly stop being an option.
The music kept blaring as I moved on to the bathroom, wiping down the sink, bleaching the tub, scrubbing until the sharp chemical smell overpowered everything else. My thoughts dulled into white noise, and for a moment—just a moment—I could breathe.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I froze.
I knew who it was before I even turned around.
I turned the music down but didn’t turn it off. I walked to the door slowly, steadied myself, and opened it.
Amara stood in front.
Dante and Lucian were behind her.
All three of them looked concerned—different shades of it. Dante looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Lucian looked wary, contained. Amara looked pissed.
She took one step forward.
I blocked her path.
“No,” I said quietly. “I’m done.”
Her face crumpled just a little. Surprise first—then hurt. Real hurt. That one almost made me cave.
Almost.
“I can’t do this,” I continued, forcing the words out before my resolve slipped. “I can’t be something I’m not. I refuse to be second choice—whether that’s because of what I am or what’s inside me or what someone thinks I could be.”
Amara opened her mouth.
I shook my head.
“I’ve already given more than enough of myself,” I said, voice shaking now but steady enough to finish. “I’m not joining another world. I’m not becoming anything else. I’m done.”
Her eyes shone. “Sera—”
“I love you,” I said softly. “But I’m done.”
And I slowly closed the door.
For a terrifying second, I thought she might force it open. Part of me—traitorous, aching—almost hoped she would.
But she didn’t.
I heard a deep sigh instead.
Then her voice—whisper-yelling, furious and raw.
“You absolute dumbass, Dante. You ruined this.”
Silence.
Then footsteps shifting.
Dante’s voice followed, low and strained. “We’re just… leaving? Like this?”
Amara answered, quieter now. Calculating. Dangerous.
“No. I have another idea.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
I locked the door.
Then I went back to cleaning—hands shaking, heart bruised, music roaring—because if I stopped moving, I might start breaking in ways I couldn’t put back together.
I didn’t realize how long I’d been cleaning until there was nothing left to clean.
Every surface wiped. Floors vacuumed. Laundry folded and stacked with military precision. The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and something sharp and final. I switched the music off and put on a random TV show instead—some sitcom I’d already seen a dozen times. The laugh track filled the silence without demanding anything from me.
Background noise. That’s all I needed.
I sat on the couch with my laptop balanced on my thighs, scrolling through apartment listings downtown. Smaller places. Closer to the mall. Near main roads and coffee shops and people who didn’t rule territories or breathe fire.
Farther from Dante’s penthouse.
Farther from that upper district of rich assholes who thought power meant ownership.
This one had exposed brick.
That one had in-unit laundry.
This one was available in two weeks.
My chest tightened—but not with longing. With resolve.
I could do this.
I would do this.
I was just bookmarking another listing when I heard it.
The unmistakable sound of keys.
Metal scraping against the lock.
My head snapped up.
“No,” I whispered, already standing. “No, no—”
The door opened.
And Stephen walked in.
Alive. Uncuffed. Looking wrecked.
And right behind him—
Amara.
“What the hell—” I started, the words coming out sharp and disbelieving. “What the actual hell is this?”
Stephen froze the second he saw me. Relief slammed into his face so hard it almost buckled his knees.
“Sera. Oh thank God—”
“Stop,” I said immediately, lifting a hand. My heart was already racing. “Do not ‘thank God’ your way into my apartment.”
Amara closed the door behind them.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
And that alone told me everything.
“I used him,” she said plainly. No excuses. No sugarcoating.
My head snapped to her. “You what?”
“He still has your spare keys,” she continued, meeting my eyes. “You weren’t answering. Dante wasn’t backing off. Lucian was seconds away from doing something irreversible. I needed you and your brother in the same room—human to human—before this spiraled even further.”
Stephen took a cautious step toward me. “I just wanted to talk. I didn’t know where else to go. They wouldn’t tell me anything, and then she—” he gestured at Amara “—said you were here. That you were safe. That I needed to calm down.”
“You showed up with a gun,” I snapped. “You took her hostage.”
His face collapsed. “I thought you’d been kidnapped.”
“That doesn’t justify—”
“I was scared,” he cut in, voice cracking. “I called you. I texted you. You didn’t answer. And then I saw you with him, and no one would listen to me. I just— I needed to see you with my own eyes.”
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
Not forgiveness.
But understanding.
Amara stepped slightly between us, grounding the space. “Okay. Everyone breathe before this becomes another disaster.”
I rounded on her. “You had no right.”
“I know,” she said immediately. “But I made a call. Maybe not a perfect one—but I made it.”
Stephen swallowed hard. “I’ll leave after. I swear. I just needed to know you weren’t being—” He hesitated. “—controlled.”
That word landed wrong.
“I’m not controlled,” I said coldly. “By anyone.”
He searched my face. Really looked this time.
No fire.
No glow.
No heat.
Just me.
“…You look tired,” he said quietly.
I was.
Amara shifted her weight. “He’s unarmed,” she added. “And he’s not staying long.”
I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers into my palm until the shaking eased.
“Sit,” I told Stephen. “You have five minutes.”