Page 62 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Thirty-One

Raylen

Raylen's not so spooky anymore house

Hey Sunshine.

I stare at the message, squinting to make sure I’m reading it properly as if there's an incorrect way to read two simple words.

It's not some long apology or even his new favorite phrase "Hi, I’m Moe" , it's just him.

Like nothing ever broke, like I didn't kiss him by the hole where I buried my ex.

Like I didn't push him away when all he's done is fight to win a place back in my heart.

Its him, and for some reason it makes me feel more like myself than I have in weeks. I thought I needed space, but as soon as his lips touched mine, I realized that even though I thought he broke something, it was cracked long before it shattered.

Another message pops up before I can fully wrap my mind around the first.

I know it's last minute but Caspian and Cordelia's wedding is tomorrow and I don't have a date. You know anyone that might be interested?

I laugh but quickly clasp my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound as I slip to the floor beside my sink.

God forbid Laura and Jack hear me during game night.

That’d be a disaster. Jack still doesn't know what happened and unfortunately I can never tell him.

Laura does though, and honestly after I finally forgave her and let her in, she's been a better friend than I could've ever imagined…

my brows furrow and a lone tear slips down my cheek before my hand can swipe it away.

God damn it, I’m a hypocrite. A sick twisted grumpy ass hole who is putting a man through hell all because I need someone to let this anger out on…

needed someone to let this anger out on.

Honestly, ever since Lance was moved, I haven't been as tense, or angry.

I've felt lighter, almost free from everything that made me into a walking storm cloud. So why am i still–

“Ray, I swear if you don't get your arse out here, I’m tucking cards in my sleeve again!” Jack yells, cutting off my thoughts.

I swallow hard and look back to my phone as I remind myself that I’m allowed to be confused.

I suffered years of not only physical, but mental abuse.

I'm allowed to work through the moments where I’m fighting to rewire my brain.

Instead of responding, I take a shaky breath and tuck my phone into my pocket. I almost expect it to buzz again, to make some dramatic signal that he's not going to stop messaging but it doesn't…

Because it's Moe. The man who reads me before I even write the words. The man who stands in my storm before it even starts. It's the man that knew me before I even knew myself.

I creak the door open and tiptoe down the hall, just in time to catch Jack doing exactly what he promised, digging through the stack of cards and tucking them under his arse as Laura is nose deep in her phone, refusing to even push her glasses up her nose from where they've fallen.

“Hey!” I yell and they both jump. The sight is something I didn't know I needed. Jack topples over in the old wooden chair he pulled up and Laura curses as her phone falls to the floor with a thud so loud, I swear the screen just shattered.

I wish I could stop laughing but I can't. I drop to the floor clutching my side as they stare at me like I just lost my mind but I haven't, I just finally found it again. I found my light in his darkness and I hope to God he continues to follow it.

This is stupid. So fucking stupid.

If I could think of a more vulgar word for "stupid," I would be using it right now—internally screaming it as if it could drown out the high-pitched static in my brain.

Instead, I'm ninety percent sure I've just drooled on myself. And it’s not just a cute, anxious little glisten; I’m talking full-blown short-circuit mode.

My neurons are fried, and my dignity is dead.

Of course I never texted him back, and now, standing here like an overdressed idiot in someone else's fairytale, I feel like the world's biggest asshole.

I feel out of place, surrounded by rows of strangers—some in sleek tuxedos and glamorous dresses that belong on magazine covers, while others wear unfamiliar military-style uniforms that I’ve never seen before.

Each one seems more intimidating than the last. Meanwhile, I’m wearing a deep emerald dress that Laura practically wrestled me into, as if it were a military operation.

Thankfully, she didn’t touch my makeup, or I probably would have locked myself in my room and never come out.

Waves crash against the shoreline just beyond the canopy, creating a rhythmic thunder beneath the low hum of conversation. The air carries the scent of salt and lilac, a mix of gunpowder hidden behind flower petals .

People slip into polished mahogany pews, laughing softly and nodding at each other in that way powerful people do—cool, composed, and slightly intimidating.

An older woman steps into the front row, her long navy gown draping elegantly over a prosthetic leg, yet no one even blinks.

She carries herself as if she commands empires, as though she’s done worse things than any man present.

The venue—or whatever this classified fairy-tale battlefield is—seems almost excessively perfect, in a way that is quintessentially Cordelia .

Fairy lights strung beneath the white canopy cast a golden shimmer across the sand, flickering like fireflies in the gentle breeze.

Rose petals line the aisle. Everything feels curated and cinematic, while I somehow manage to be the mess in the middle of it all.

“Bloody hell…” a deep voice rumbles behind me.

Oh, no.

No. No. No.

I know that voice.

I haven’t seen Jon since Australia and after everything that’s happened, I don’t even know where he and Moe stand now. I haven’t asked. I haven’t had the energy to think about it.

I turn slowly, setting my best resting bitch face into place like armor. Of course, like Moe, Jon just smiles . That same cocky, effortless grin that probably used to get him out of murder charges.

“Place is packed,” he murmurs, sweeping the crowd with an amused glance. His gaze flicks to the man beside him, towering, built like war incarnate.

King. He’s got a plain black shirt tied around his head like always, and somehow no one questions it. At least it’s not the ratty one I first met him in. That’s something.

I look around them as ungracefully as I can, but there's no Delilah in sight.

“Where’s the damn nuisance?” King grumbles, voice low and gravel-thick. “Still need to chew his ass out for thinking I’m old enough to be his father.”

“No, you won’t.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

King’s gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes narrowing with amusement. He doesn’t look pissed. He seems intrigued—like he can smell the feral protectiveness coming off me and likes it.

Great. I’m gonna end up biting someone’s ankle before this ceremony even starts.

I spin on my heel, chin high, ready to find Laura and strangle her for leaving me stranded in a mafia-meets-fantasy fever dream.

Every uniform I pass is different in ways I hadn’t noticed—some sharp and modern, others embroidered, archaic, fantastical.

It’s like walking through time, past lives, past wars.

I push through the crowd until a familiar grip finds my arm and tugs me gently back.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Laura whispers, eyes flicking sideways like she’s smuggling state secrets. “Our seats are over here.”

She ducks her head, so I follow her lead without question, crouching slightly as we slide into a pew. Because yeah, with my luck, today’s the day this becomes a shootout.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, staring at her like she’s lost her damn mind as we settle in our seats.

“Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, eyes scanning the perimeter.

“These are all the factions, by the way. Every last one. We’ve never all gathered together like this.” She sits up a little straighter as she speaks, like she just cleared the area and didn't just change the subject. However, that does explain the air.

It’s thick. Humming with old grudges, unspoken truces, and the kind of tension that could slice a person in half if they moved wrong. Every second, another seat fills. Some guests remain standing along the flowing fabric walls, shifting with the breeze like ghosts on guard.

My knee starts bouncing.

“Where is he?” I whisper, scanning the crowd again, but apparently, not quietly enough.

The entire row in front of us turns in perfect, synchronized disapproval.

Behind me, deep chuckles follow.

“Think he got her back?” Jon mutters, and I'm half tempted to sic Laura on him.

“I fucking hope so. So he’ll finally shut the fuck up about it.” King grumbles.

“It’s a wedding. Not his wedding. Could you maybe wait until after the vows before drooling on the seating chart?” Laura whisper yells, elbowing me hard enough that it pulls my attention to the way her shoulders are pinned back tight and her neck has turned a deep shade of red.

That's curious and new, but I don't have time to interrogate her.

I roll my eyes and drag in a sharp breath through my nose, trying to force calm into my chest as the music swells.

A hush falls so fast it’s like the air itself holds its breath.

At the front, the older woman clears her throat and stands, walking to the altar with incredible elegance despite her leg. All heads pivot toward the entrance in a single, reverent motion.

Caspian steps through first, and everything stills.

He looks like a fever dream—tux tailored within an inch of his life, dark and dangerous in the way only he can make look elegant. But beneath all that control, there’s a tremor in his step. A softness in the way his eyes flicker toward the altar, like he’s still not convinced this is real.

And somehow, that’s what makes me smile.