Page 4

GIDEON | FIVE YEARS AGO

TERRENEAN REALM

“ I barely even looked at her, Sera.”

Another glass explodes on the wall beside my head. I’m so desensitized to this already, I don’t even flinch. Instead, I just massage my tense brow between my thumb and forefinger.

Seraphine’s make-up smeared, tear-streaked face—not entirely dissimilar to the way I found her when my team and I rescued her—is contorted with rage as she hisses at me so fiercely that her spit peppers my face.

“You were. You’re fucking lying. Do you know her? Do you wanna fuck her? Did you sneak her your number?”

“And just how the fuck would I have done that? Sitting right there in front of you when she brought us the check?”

“You went to the bathroom! You could have done it then! You certainly eye fucked her enough!”

If I wasn’t so exhausted from this already, I’d laugh at the absurdity of it, but recurrence has long since extinguished any humor.

“Sera… I waved at her to bring us the bill.”

Seraphine’s scowl is withering, and she has all the conviction in the world. I recognize that this isn’t her just torturing me and accusing me for the fun of it. In her mind, she genuinely believes I’m disloyal.

The fact that, unless I’m tasked with an op, I barely leave the house unless it’s with her, has proven irrelevant to her logic.

And there’s nothing in the world I can do to prove it to her because I’ve already tried.

Three years I’ve given this woman. For one whole year, she managed to hide just how unwell she is—not merely from the trauma she survived when I found her, but from years of trauma since childhood that she has done nothing to actually heal, but everything to escape.

Once she thought she had me, she began letting her mask slip. And then what was once, what I thought, a healthy relationship—even if it wasn’t exactly ideal or truly fulfilling, but just enough to grow complacent—gradually turned into an absolute-fucking-nightmare.

Why have I stayed for two more godforsaken years?

Some misguided sense of loyalty and, I suppose, fear of abandoning her. As twisted as it is, I feel responsible for her. Especially when she has almost no one in her life whom she can trust.

Her father, the politician?

I blame him for at least half the reason she’s so fucked up.

Her mother?

A useless, xanaxed-out barnacle on the sinking ship that is her family.

But I’m getting real fucking close to the end of my fraying rope. I fucking dread going out of the house. I have for years because of this shit. I’ve moulded my whole life around preventing arguments with Seraphine.

We’re members at a gym that’s open 24 hours; I only go with her, and only during late-night hours when it’s guaranteed to be empty.

And my friends?

What friends?

I can barely speak on the phone to them, and can only hang out with them if she’s with us.

“You’re gaslighting me, and I fucking know it.”

I attempt to step forward and lay my hands gently on her shoulders to calm her. “Sera, please. I can’t keep doing this.”

Seraphine’s dark eyes burn with indignation.

“I fucking hate you.”

She turns, snatching her keys and purse off the counter.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Trying to maintain some semblance of calm, my eyes slide to the oven’s digital clock.

“It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“And?”

“Nothin’s open but bars and Walmart.”

“I’m going to my cousin’s.”

Jesus Christ.

“That’s even worse.”

That dickhead will have her coked out of her mind the second she steps through the door.

Seraphine reaches the door and briefly turns to face me as she slides on her sandals. “And what do you care? Why don’t you call the fucking waitress, huh? I’m sure she’d love to keep you company.”

By the time she swings the door open, I’m already there, all my bottled-up righteous rage making my hands shake as I hold it open. “Seraphine, I swear to fuck if you walk out of this house?—

“You’ll what, Gideon? Huh?”

“I’m done, Sera. I can’t do this anymore. Aren’t you tired of this? Because I’m fucking exhausted. I’m tired of going to bed angry, tired of arguing, tired of the accusations, tired of having to tip-toe around your fucking paranoia?—

Seraphine gives me a rueful smirk, shaking her head.

“Guess, I’ll just be doing you a favor then, huh?”

Her snide retort is punctuated by wrenching the door shut, and I let her. Hanging my head with a soft thump on the cool metal surface , I listen to the soft purr of her Mercedes engine hum to life and then reverse down the driveway.

Fuck this.

A tremendous sigh heaves from my chest.

My relief lasts all of ten seconds.

God damn it, I’m tired of worrying about this fucking asshole of a woman.

And I refuse to spend yet another evening going to bed angry and worried sick while I wait for her to come home.

Storming over to my kitchen counter, I snatch my phone to open up the group chat between me, my SEAL Team, and some of our other military buddies.

This group chat has been the highlight of my life for the last five fucking years.

And thankfully, like me, a couple of them are home on post-deployment leave.

Anyone down to grab a beer?

In seconds, the chat lights up with shocked emojis and GIFs.

Riggs is the first one to respond.

With who? You? Or you and your warden?

I can’t help but huff a laugh.

Just me.

More shocked faces.

Beau pipes up.

I’m down, brother.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in my truck and pulling into Hogstown Brewery parking lot to meet Beau. Anxiety is a tight fist in my chest because something’s off. I mean it’s always been off, but… I feel like it’s taken me a long fucking time to wake up and finally acknowledge just how off.

Which is precisely when the familiar, garbage, house music ringtone of Seraphine’s phone fills the car.

My eyes dip to the front passenger’s seat floor where her phone’s screen is illuminated. The name of the caller reads Louisa.

Louisa?

Five fucking years, and I’ve never heard her talk about a girl named Louisa.

Alarms blare in my mind as intuition and anxiety battle for dominance in my gut.

My eyes dance between the parking spot I’m pulling into and her phone.

It stops ringing, but my heart is still pounding.

My hand already has a tremor in it when I put my truck in park and pick her phone up off the floor.

I quickly call Beau, who answers after the first ring.

“Hey, Zaddy.”

“Where you at?”

“Just pullin’ up, you?”

“Second row, third spot.”

“Copy.”

I stare at the phone fucking willing Louisa to call back as I press the unlock button on my truck for Beau, and not ten seconds later he climbs in.

I don’t even look at him, because my eyes are still locked on Seraphine’s phone screen—the background is a photo of her and her so-called friends.

She’s got no other notifications outside of the missed call from Louisa.

“Maybe if you stare harder at Seraphine’s phone, it’ll actually open.”

I finally look up at Beau, freshly shaved, bright hazel eyes studying mine. There’s no small amount of pity in them.

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“You’re on Instagram, right?”

“Yes, sir. Who we lookin’ for?”

“Go to Sera’s account, and look through the people she follows for someone named either Louisa or Louis.”

Beau’s dark brows jump, but he doesn’t say anything; he just opens Instagram and does as I’ve requested.

A moment later, Seraphine’s phone rings again, and lucky-fucking-me, it’s Louisa.

“Hello?”

Beau holds up his phone screen, showing me the face of some guy dressed in a fucking polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sailboat slippers, or whatever the fuck you call those things.

Louisa has an awfully deep voice.

“Who is this?"

“Bitch, you called me.”

Click.

Oh-hell-fucking-no.

I take Beau’s phone, swiping through image after image of some guy who’s dressed and posing like he’s in a fucking L.L.

Bean catalogue or some shit. I’m scrolling through photos, none of which have Seraphine in them, but something in my gut just fucking knows.

About twenty photos later, my intuition pricks when I come across a carousel of photos from what looks like a Christmas party.

My heart thunders so loudly it echoes in my ears when I see her.

There are several other people in the photo—all laughing with drinks in their hands, and this motherfucker has Seraphine in his lap with his arm draped around her hip, hand laid on her thigh and ass like she fucking belongs to him.

They’re mid-laugh like they’re having the time of their lives.

Seeing it feels like my fucking heart’s just been cut in two.

I look at the date and my fucking jaw drops.

Christmas Eve.

Two fucking years ago.

I remember that night.

Like so many other nights, we’d gotten into an argument and she’d left. She told me she was going to stay at her parents’ for Christmas. And while there are several people in that picture, not one of them is a family member.

Beau must see my reaction because he leans over, murmuring an, “Aw, shit.”

Louis doesn’t have a last name or any links shared, but unfortunately for him, all I need is his face.

When I come across a clear portrait-style photo, I screenshot it and use Beau’s browser to do an image search of his face.

Money.

There’s dozens of images of Louis Pembroke III attending everything from the fucking Kentucky Derby to night club openings and even philanthropic events.

Two seconds later, I’m clicking on a very professional headshot photo of him at the corporate attorney’s office, Ashford & Pembroke, where apparently he’s a partner.

I hear Beau sigh next to me as he reclines his seat and yawns, patiently waiting. In another handful of seconds, I’ve found his home address on the Virginia Secretary of State website by searching for his LLC’s name.

When I begin backing out of the parking spot, Beau rolls his head to look over at me. “So, is this a DA or SR op?”

Direct Action or Special Reconnaissance operation.

“I haven’t decided yet. You wanna get out? I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Hell no, brother. What do you think this is? Your birthday? You tryin’ to steal all the fun for yourself?”

Despite my anxiety, an almost grin graces my lips for the first time since… the last time I was able to step more than two fucking feet from Seraphine. My eyes slide to Beau as he gives me a knowing grin and turns on the radio. It’s on a country station, and Dolly Parton’s Jolene is playing.

Beau laughs at the irony and turns the volume up to a near-deafening blare as he rolls his window down all the way.

My adrenaline is roaring after seeing that photo, and I’ve got years worth of conviction fueling my rage, but Beau’s good humor is contagious—as always—and as soon as he starts howling the lyrics, beggin’ Jolene to not steal Dolly’s man, I’m rolling down my window and we’re both singing Jolene at the top of our lungs.

About a minute later, Beau interrupts his vocalizations.

“Pull over at the Walmart real quick.”

“Why?”

“Because I gotta take a dump, brother. God damn, just do it.”

Ten minutes later, I’m watching Beau exit Walmart, toting an extra-large pack of toilet paper and a large bag of something I can’t make out. When he climbs back in my truck, he’s nearly as excited as he is before an actual op.

“What the hell is this for? You gonna take a shit on his lawn?”

Beau cackles, opening his Walmart bag to reveal four dozen eggs and a giant pack of paper rainbow confetti as I drive off. “I like your thinking, but no.”

I can’t help but grin. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you acutally planning on losing your fucking job and going to prison over this deranged woman and some tool bag attorney?”

My eyes slide back to the road. I don’t answer. Because for a moment there, I actually was.

Beau gives me a knowing smirk. “Brother, it’s a fucking blessing in disguise. If anything you should thank her because now you can finally give yourself permission to leave her ass, guilt-free.”

The emotion I’ve desperately been trying to bury swells in my chest. Emotion that I have to force down or I just might fucking cry. And the last fucking thing this woman deserves are my tears.

At my silence, Beau turns down the now too-loud radio.

“Look, man, you already know I’ve been cheated on before, too. It hurts like a fucking shotgun blast to the heart, I know, but guess what? It also makes room for the right person when you were too fucking stubborn and intent on martyring yourself for the wrong one.”

My throat works around a thick swallow as I draw in a deep breath. I manage a shakily exhaled, “Thanks, man.”

God damn, am I grateful for him.

Beau gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. “And now, we get to have some fun. We’re gonna toilet paper, confetti, and egg this penny-loafer-wearin’ - attorney-at-fuckhole’s house and the fucking walking nightmare that is now your ex-girlfriend’s car.”