Page 43 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Muse - Chapter one - Sanctuary

Trey

I don’t look back.

I don’t breathe.

Something’s following me. I feel it. It wants to slip beneath my skin, nuzzle up to my bones—maybe shove my soul out, if I’ve even got one left.

Run. Run faster. Harder.

That breeze wasn’t a breeze. It had weight. A whisper too close—like breath skating over the shell of my ear, speaking in a language my soul recognizes but my mind doesn’t.

A car horn blares.

“I ain’t got time for you, you tooting motherfucker!”

Fuck—my pants are sliding down my ass. My nipple piercing snags, biting at my shirt.

Why don’t they make clothes for pierced baddies that aren’t mesh vests or crotchless BDSM cosplay?

I don’t hate the fashion. Far from it. But it’d be nice to have a convo without someone deciding you’re a dick dragging pervert.

Oh my God… I just slipped on a condom.

Did that have something in it? Do I want to check? No.

I didn’t fall. I didn’t touch it. Small mercy.

Keep moving, Trey.

Every hair on my arms lifts in warning. My spine locks.

I bolt.

The Shanghai Tunnels are behind me now. Somewhere back there, in the dark. I’m—fuck, where am I? Crowds shove past. Music bleeds from an open door. Neon lights. People laughing. Cool place for a drink?

No time, Trey.

“But there’s always time for a drink, my guy.”

You’re not thirsty. You just want to stop running. But if you stop—it catches up.

“Fuck you, mental voice. Can you be less creepy?”

Just sayin’…

“Wait… that girl has a tail. If I compliment her, will it wag? Is she a good girl?”

I can already see how it plays out. She gets offended. I apologize. One of her bros tries to flex. I get knifed, punched, or shot. People scream. Casper catches up and butt-fucks me into the afterlife.

“Fuck you, Casper. I’m a top.”

Sometimes.

“Sometimes.” I agree out loud. “Sometimes it’s nice to be held.”

Damn straight.

The rain-slick streets of Portland blur beneath me as I pound the pavement. I feel it—still there. The presence. Whatever I dragged out of those tunnels, it’s not done with me yet.

I don’t stop until my thighs burn and my lungs go raw. Headlights flicker past, casting halos on wet asphalt. I step in a hidden dip and cold-water seeps over the rim of my boot, soaking my sock.

“Fuck me.” I groan, adjusting my pants again because this downpour is trying to turn me into a H2-ho.

An old church stands before me. It’s weathered and worn, a relic of better days—but I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be.

You are gonna burst into flames if you walk in there.

“At least it’ll dry my socks.”

Fair. I hate wet feet.

The church is small. Crumbling. Forgotten. I stumble up the steps, grip the black iron handle. The door groans like it hasn’t been touched in years.

“Sorry, Mr. Door. Just a damp bastard looking for sanctuary,” I mutter, pushing it closed behind me.

The rain turns to white noise, distant now.

The silence inside i heavy. Not peaceful—expectant.

Pews stretch forward, swallowed in shadows.

Candles flicker, casting a sickly orange glow across the stained-glass saints.

One window catches my eye—Christ nailed to the cross, blood dripping from painted wounds. His expression twisted in agony.

My stomach flips.

Memories rise.

I shove them back.

A single candle burns on the altar. Flickering. Breathing. I collapse into the last pew, heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. Steam rises off me. I drag my hand down my face.

Still here.

Still me.

The silence presses in.

I scan the saints, the crucifix, the bleeding son of God.

I laugh at my own expense—bitter, but honest. Voices disturb the quiet. A door opens near the front. Footsteps. Heavy. A man’s voice, booming with fury.

“You will marry my anointed one, Seraphina! He will take you in hand. A firm husband. An obedient wife. That is God’s will.”

I freeze. A girl steps into the light. Thin frame, wrapped in fabric that hides more than it shows.

A scarf slips from her head, revealing a tangle of red hair that glows like firelight.

She turns. Ice blue eyes. Alabaster skin.

Fire behind the frost. Her voice, though soft—cuts like broken glass.

“He’s older than you, Father. I’m barely twenty-one. I won’t—”

CRACK .

The sound echoes off the stone. He struck her. She stumbles, hand flying to her cheek.

My fists clench.

Heart hammering. Frozen in place.

He towers over her, a mountain of black robes and wrath. “You will obey.” He storms down the aisle, robes snapping behind him like angry wings. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t care.

The doors slams. Silence again. Except for her breathing. Sharp. Uneven.

I should follow him… maybe piss on his cape.

He’s another one. I know the type.

I rise. My boots scrape against the stone. She flinches.

“Hey—” I say gently, “Hey, are you—?”

Her eyes snap up. The fire’s still there, but it’s drowning in pain.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”

She’s not.

Up close, I see the bruise already blooming on her cheek. Her lip trembles before she traps it between her teeth. Her scarf’s fallen away. More red spills out—wild, untamed.

Her clothes hang off her, like they were made for someone else. Long sleeves. Layers. Designed to hide what no one wants to see.

To hide the damage.

“You’re not fine,” I say quietly. “I saw.”

Her throat bobs. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“In a church?” I huff. “Yeah, probably not. Neither should you.”

Her lashes drop. “Why are you here?”

I rub my jaw. “Running from a ghost.” She blinks.

“Yeah,” I nod, sinking onto the front pew. “I ran outta the Shanghai Tunnels. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been haunted for years, but this… this was something else. Didn’t pass the vibe check.”

Something flickers in her face. Not a smile, not quite—but close. A crack in the ice. Dangerous. Encouraging.

“I just wanted somewhere… away. Then I stumbled here. I don’t even know how far I ran. Long enough to get soaked and leave puddles wherever I sit.” I glance at her cheek. “You sure you’re okay?” She nods. Lies. “I’m Trey,” I say, softer now. “What’s your name?” She hesitates.

“Seraphina.” Of course it is.

I let the name settle on my tongue like it’s something sacred. “You’re gonna think less of me,” I say, “but that’s a hell of a name. Seraphina… sounds like a fallen angel in an epic.”

Her brows furrow. “You think I’ve fallen?”

“I think you’re still standing,” I reply. “And that’s more impressive.” She studies me. Starts to move like she might bolt.

I stand, slow, careful not to crowd her. “Can I help?”

Her chin lifts. Defiant with quiet strength. “No one can.”

We both go still. The only sounds are the creak of old pews and the rain whispering against stained glass.

Then she whispers, “But thank you.”

Then she lowers herself onto the pew in front of me, like she’s made of glass. The old wood creaks under her weight, a small, fragile sound, that’s swallowed by the hush of the church.

Her hand lifts to her cheek, brushing lightly over the bruise.

Like she’s checking if it’s still there.

It is. I can see the shape of his hand in it.

Every fucking finger. A red-purple bloom staining skin that should never have known violence.

My jaw clenches. She doesn’t look at me.

Just stares ahead like she’s trying to keep from splintering apart right here in front of me.

I should say something. Anything. But what the hell do I lead with? She saves me from myself.

“So…” Her voice is quiet. Careful. “Why were you in the tunnels?” I ease down beside her—not too close. Close enough to share the silence, not enough to make her flinch. My hands hang between my knees. I breathe out, half laugh, half sigh.

“Honestly?” I glance at her. “My best friend.” That gets a flicker of curiosity.

“She’s been going through some heavy shit lately. Wanted to blow off steam. Her idea of fun is... questionable. But I tagged along.” A corner of my mouth kicks up. “She thinks I’m the crazy one.”

Sera shifts beside me. Not relaxed. But not retreating either. “Did you just leave her there?” she asks, a little sharper now. “Alone?”

“No,” I say quickly. “God, no. She’s with her boyfriend—Logan—and the rest of the guys. Sam and Chace. She's safe. Safer than safe.” Unlike you.

I don’t say it, but it claws at my throat.

I can still see it—her father’s hand striking her like it was second nature.

Like she’s had that hit coming her whole life.

And the worst part? She didn’t even flinch.

She just took it. I drag a hand down my face, trying to breathe through the heat flooding my chest.

“I just… needed air,” I admit. “Thought I was losing it. Honestly, pretty sure I need an exorcism.” A quiet laugh escapes her lips.

Small. Surprised. It slips into the room like sunlight through a crack.

Even bruised, even broken… she laughs. But it hurts her.

I see the way she stiffens, how her fingers rise back to her cheek like maybe she can press the pain back in.

Rage coils in my gut like barbed wire. He did that. Without shame. Without hesitation.

Arson’s bad, sure… but if it’s a church, is it an act of God? No. Probably not. Note to self: Safe search later. Or ask Chace—he’s weirdly good with that kind of shit. Definitely not Logan. Too goody-goody. He’d go loco.

I curl my fists to keep them steady.

She turns her head, eyes moving over me—and it’s not flirty. It’s not shy. It’s… assessing. Like she’s trying to figure out what kind of creature just wandered into her holy little world.

Sup, I’m Trey Baker. Ladies call me the organism of orgasms… probably…

Her eyes settle on my hands first—on the rings across my knuckles, the black ink weaving through my fingers. Then her gaze travels. Up my arms. Across my chest. Up my neck to the jawline.

She doesn’t even try to hide it. She stares at me like I’m sin wrapped in skin.

I wonder what she sees.

The tattoos? The metal? Or the hollow carved out underneath it all?

I shift slightly, let her look. Let her try to unravel whatever version of me her mind is building.

I’ve been stared at my whole damn life—offices, hospital rooms, rundown motel rooms with smoke-stained ceilings.

Broken TVs. Beer bottles on the floor. Empty fridges.

Empty stomachs. But this… this feels different.

Not judgmental. Not yet. Just… unfamiliar.

“My dad says people with tattoos worship the devil,” she says, eyes forward again. “That they’re lost souls.”

No venom in it. Just scripture repeated by someone raised on fear.

I huff a laugh. “Guess I’m doomed then. I’m definitely lost. But worshipping the devil? Nah. Feels like the ones who preach hate carry more of him in them than the ones just trying to survive.”

She blinks. Surprised. Like no one’s ever said that out loud in her world.

“Devil worshipper,” I add with a shrug, flexing my fingers. Silver flashes in the candlelight. “I don’t worship anyone. Not even myself—though I fake it pretty well. Some might say people worship the band I’m in…”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile.

“So… you’re in a band?” she asks, “Do you play locally?”

That one makes me grin. She has no idea.

“Nope,” I shake my head. “We could, but we’re not from around here.”

She tilts her head, curious.

“We’re on tour. Played L.A., New York, Chicago… all the big cities. Big venues. We’re kind of… loud.”

Her brows shoot up. “You travel?”

“Yeah. A lot.”

“With music?”

“With music,” I confirm, watching the gears turn in her head.

“You must be really good,” she says, like it just occurred to her.

I glance at her. No sarcasm. No ego-stroking. Just… honest.

It hits different.

I nod once. “We’ve worked hard.”

She looks down again, fingers twisting in her lap. Like maybe she doesn’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t fit inside her father’s sermon-shaped box. Or maybe… she’s wondering what it would feel like to finally step out of it.

I let the silence stretch.

She doesn’t seem bothered that I’m the devil her daddy warned her about.

Says something. About her.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

She fidgets, brushing her thumb along her wrist. Another bruise marks her pale skin, half hidden.

There are a million things I could ask. But only one that won’t leave me alone.

“Can I ask you something?” I keep my voice low, careful not to shatter the fragile thread holding her together.

She nods, not quite meeting my eyes.

I take a beat. Choose my words.

“You don’t seem like someone who wants the life they’ve mapped out for you.” A pause. “The silence. The rules. The marriage.”

Her breath stutters. Barely audible.

“I’m just wondering…” I exhale. “Why stay?”

Her eyes flick up. Wide. Shocked.

Like I just cracked open a box she’s never dared to touch.

“I’ve never…” she starts, voice shaking. “No one’s ever asked me that.”

I nod slowly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have an answer.”

Her silence this time isn’t empty. It’s full. Stuffed with words she doesn’t know how to say.

Yet.

So, I keep talking. Quietly. Honestly.

“My tattoos,” I say, rolling up my sleeve a little. “They all mean something. Some are stories. Others are reminders.”

Her eyes track the ink again, slower this time. Like she’s reading a language she doesn’t speak but still feels.

“Most people think it’s rebellion. Decoration. A warning.” I smirk, faint. “But every line of ink covers something else. A memory. A scar.”

I glance down at the rose inked into the back of my hand.

“Because under all this…” My voice lowers. “I carry real ones.”

Her gaze sharpens. She listens.

“My dad,” I say, throat tight, “He thought pain was the only way to teach anything worth remembering.”

She stiffens. Barely. But I see it. Feel it.

“Wasn’t until I got out that I realized he was wrong.”

The church creaks around us, the building itself groaning beneath the weight of all our ghosts.

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” I tell her. “But I know what it feels like to live in someone else’s version of who you’re supposed to be. And what it costs when you finally choose yourself.”

I rest my arms on my knees, glance sideways.

“So maybe the question isn’t why stay, Seraphina”

I pause.

“Maybe it’s—why not leave?”