Chapter 64 Seraphine
Stephen didn’t sit.
That alone told me everything.
He stood in the middle of my living room like he owned the air—like he was waiting for permission he’d already decided he deserved. His eyes kept flicking to the windows, the door, the corners of the room. Tactical. Protective.
Paranoid.
Amara leaned against the counter instead, arms folded, jaw tight. She wasn’t here for him. I knew that much instantly. She was here because she didn’t trust how this conversation would go.
And she was right not to.
“I need you to listen to me,” Stephen said, hands raised like he was talking to a suspect instead of his sister. “That man is dangerous.”
I laughed.
It slipped out sharp and ugly, the sound of someone already at the end of her patience.
“You don’t get to start with that,” I said. “Not after tonight.”
“Sera—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to ‘Sera’ me like you didn’t show up with a gun and take someone hostage.”
His jaw tightened. “I thought you were kidnapped.”
“And that justifies what?” I snapped. “Threatening a civilian? Pointing a weapon at an unarmed woman? Barging into a private residence like you’re above the law?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
There it was.
That word.
Protection.
Something in my chest cracked.
“I am so fucking sick of that word,” I said quietly.
Stephen blinked. “What?”
“You don’t get to protect me,” I continued, my voice rising despite myself. “Not from him. Not from anyone. Especially not when you’re the one who’s been lying to me.”
His face hardened. “I don’t know what you think you know—”
“Oh, I know exactly what I think I know,” I shot back. “And what I know is that you’re a dirty cop.”
The room went dead silent.
Even the TV humming in the background felt too loud.
Stephen stared at me. “That’s not—”
“Don’t,” I warned. “Do not insult my intelligence right now.”
Amara straightened, eyes flicking between us.
“You really thought,” I continued, stepping closer, “that I’d never come across a piece with your name on it? That I wouldn’t connect the dots? You and Rio skimming evidence. Running interference. Burying cases that inconvenience the wrong people.”
His face drained of color.
“You used your badge like a shield,” I said bitterly. “And you had the audacity to come in here and talk to me about danger?”
“I was trying to keep you safe,” he insisted, desperation creeping into his voice now. “You don’t understand what kind of people you’re dealing with.”
I laughed again—this time hollow.
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “What I don’t understand is how stupid you had to be to think I wouldn’t find out.”
He flinched.
“Do you know what protection actually is?” I demanded. “It’s not control. It’s not fear. It’s not dragging people into danger because you can’t handle uncertainty.”
I jabbed a finger at his chest. “Protection is respecting my autonomy. Protection is not committing crimes and calling it love.”
His voice cracked. “I was scared.”
“So was I,” I shot back. “Every time you lied. Every time you acted like I was fragile. Every time you decided you knew better than me.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Amara finally stepped forward. “Stephen,” she said firmly, “you came here to convince her Dante is dangerous. You don’t get to do that while ignoring the fact that you are.”
He looked between us, lost now. Smaller.
“I just wanted to help,” he muttered.
I exhaled slowly, exhausted. “Then leave.”
He looked up sharply. “What?”
“Leave,” I repeated. “Before you make this worse. Before you say something you can’t take back.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
He didn’t argue.
When the door finally closed behind him, I sagged back against the couch like my bones had turned to sand.
Amara didn’t say anything at first.
She just watched me.
Then, softly, “Okay. That explains him.”
I rubbed my face. “You weren’t here for that.”
“No,” she agreed. “I was here for you.”
I looked at her.
“And?” I asked quietly.
She tilted her head. “Now you tell me what happened with Dante. Because you didn’t burn a bridge—you detonated it.”
He didn’t argue.
When the door finally closed behind him, I sagged back against the couch like my bones had turned to sand.
Amara didn’t say anything at first.
She just watched me.
Then, softly, “Okay. That explains him.”
I rubbed my face. “You weren’t here for that.”
“No,” she agreed. “I was here for you.”
I looked at her.
“And?” I asked quietly.
She tilted her head. “Now you tell me what happened with Dante. Because you didn’t burn a bridge—you detonated it.”
I swallowed, my hands twisting together in my lap.
“I’m… sorry,” I said quietly. “For ruining your night. With Lucian. I didn’t mean to derail everything.”
Amara didn’t answer right away.
She stared at the wall, jaw tight, fingers laced together like she was bracing herself. The silence stretched just long enough to make my chest ache.
Then she spoke.
“I asked him to wait.”
I blinked. “You—what?”
She finally looked at me, and there was something raw and steady in her eyes that stole my breath.
“I told Lucian not tonight.”
Shock rippled through me. “Amara, why would you—?”
“Because,” she said gently, “I want to mate with him the same night you mate with Dante.”
My mouth fell open.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said immediately. “That’s not your responsibility.”
“I know,” she replied softly. “That’s why I chose it.”
She shifted closer on the couch, turning fully toward me.
“Maybe it’s stupid,” she continued. “Maybe it’s selfish. But somewhere along the way, you became… family to me. Like a little sister I didn’t know I needed.”
My throat tightened.
“I wouldn’t even know what I am without you,” she said. “You were the one who pulled me into this. You were the one who asked the questions, who refused to look away. And yeah—I’m terrified. I don’t say that out loud a lot, but I am.”
Her voice wavered, just slightly.
“But going through it alone?” she shook her head. “That’s scarier.”
I felt tears sting my eyes again.
“So if I’m going to take that step,” she said, “I want you beside me. Not behind me. Not already gone.”
She reached for me then, arms wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me into her warmth. I sank into it, clinging back harder than I meant to.
We sat there like that, breathing each other in, the world finally quiet for a moment.
“I don’t know how to face him,” I whispered into her shoulder. “I really don’t think I can.”
Amara didn’t rush to argue.
“I don’t think I’m meant for this life,” I admitted shakily. “The power. The expectations. The way everything feels like it’s swallowing me whole.”
She rested her cheek against my hair.
“Maybe you’re not meant for it the way they imagine,” she said. “Maybe you’re meant to change it.”