Page 44 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Muse - Chapter two - Whispers in the Walls

Seraphina

The rain hasn’t stopped. It whispers against the stained-glass windows like it’s trying to get in.

I can still feel that young man, Trey, his voice lingering beneath my skin, low and cracked, like it came from somewhere deeper than his lungs.

There was something behind his eyes—something storming.

Like he might be as damaged as I am. Only I keep mine hidden beneath my sleeves.

Purplish blemishes, like fractured pieces of marble.

I’m terrified of him. Not because he’s dangerous. But because he looked at me like I’m not.

The floor groans as I rise from my mattress. This building always sounds like it’s breathing at this hour—bones shifting, air sighing through the walls. It’s almost two in the morning. I heard father lock his door an hour ago.

Three clicks. Always three.

Holy trinity.

Holy wrath.

Holy silence.

My room is narrow and cold, perched above the chapel like a forgotten wren’s nest. The radiator rattles weakly in the corner. I kneel beside the vent and pull out my sketch book, its corners warped from damp. The pencil is still hidden behind the loose baseboard, exactly where I left it.

I draw in the dark.

Soft strokes. Gentle shadows. The candle flickers beside me, animated and cheerful, my only companion in this silence, aside from the curious critters in the walls.

I’ve bundled my sheet around the doorframe to stop the light from casting shadows that might catch Father’s attention.

I still my beating heart and summon every detail of him. I don’t need light to see his face.

Trey.

He's already burned into me.

I start with his eyes—haunted green, rimmed in shadows.

Long lashes. Messy brown hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in days.

There’s a scar near his eye. I press down harder there, dragging the graphite down his cheek.

His jaw is sharp. Lips too full for someone who looks like he’s tasted hell.

He said he needed an exorcism.

What kind of pain makes someone believe they’re possessed?

There was a moment, just one, when he touched my wrist. His hand was warm.

Solid. Not demanding. Not cruel. Just…steady.

Like he was trying to hold onto something real.

Something that wouldn’t run. My throat tightens.

I close the sketchbook and press it to my chest. My fingers are blackened with smudges.

If Father knew I was drawing again…

He says art opens doors to demons. A cankerous sore on the world.

A perversion of sin, spat onto canvas. Too provocative.

Too seductive. But art is the only time I feel.

The only time I’m permitted to breathe without asking permission.

But tonight… Trey gave me something I can’t explain.

He looked at me, really looked at me, and didn’t flinch.

He didn’t see a sinner.

He didn’t see the red hair.

He didn’t see the bruises.

He saw me.

That terrifies me more than anything.

The wind screams through the cracked window frame, rattling the glass. Downstairs, the chapel glows faintly, warm light flickering across the altar. I forgot to snuff the candles. I should go down. My hand hesitates at the door. I told him to wait. I didn’t expect him to listen. No one ever does.

Is he still out there? Cold. Soaked. Searching for salvation in a place that’s never offered me any.

I tuck the sketchbook back into the vent, slide the pencil behind the baseboard, and pull on my oversized sweater.

The sleeves hide everything that matters.

I slip out, barefoot. The floorboards creak beneath me.

I’ll have to wash them again after morning prayers, there’s grit under my toes, but I glide forward anyway.

Each step is a quiet rebellion. The portrait helped ease the itch under my skin…

but he still calls to me. I find my cheeks heat at the thought of him.

If art is a sin, what would Father say about someone like him?

His entire body—adorned in sin. What is this ache in my stomach?

This curiosity at the thought of his inked skin?

The rain continues its gentle percussion against the roof.

Water clings to the windows, washing over the stained glass.

Maybe if I take a stroll in the rain, it’ll wash away the guilt. Or drown me in it.

The chapel is quiet. Except for the soft hiss of candle flames and the rain whispering overhead.

I see him. Trey. He’s at the back of the room, hunched over a pew, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

His leather jacket clings to him, darkening the ink spiraling down his arms and throat.

He hasn’t noticed me yet. One foot taps restlessly against the floor, like he’s trying to shake something off.

But it’s still with him. Whatever followed him out of the dark.

I stay in the shadows a moment longer, studying him. The curve of his spine. The tension in his jaw. He looks like he’s unravelling—silently. Beautifully.

God help me—I want to draw him like this.

Torn.

Vulnerable.

A penitent man, leaning over an old pew.

Waiting for someone to save him.

The scent of frankincense still lingers, mingling with the citrusy notes from the wax and wicks. I lit it earlier, when the air turned too heavy to breathe. But now… it feels like it’s for him. For whatever clings to him.

I step forward. The floor creaks and his head lifts sharply. His eyes find mine instantly—green and wild, rimmed with exhaustion and something raw.

“You waited,” I whisper.

He smirks, faint but real. “Figured if I’m gonna be saved, might as well commit.”

I shake my head, smiling just a little. I nod toward the altar. “Come here.”

Trey rises slowly, stretching his long frame as he approaches. Water drips from his sleeves onto the stone floor. He smells like rain and smoke. I hold his gaze as I move behind the altar, rustling around until I find what I need.

“On your knees,” I say softly.

His brows lifts. “Usually, it’s the other way around.”

My lips twitch, but I ignore him. “Trey.”

His eyes drop briefly. Then he kneels.

There’s something reverent about the way he does it.

Like this isn’t a joke anymore. Like part of him believes this might actually help.

That maybe I can take some of it away. I circle him slowly.

This shouldn’t be my place. I should sit with him.

Read scripture. But the words swell on my tongue, and I’m not sure if it’ the prayers I resist, or the man I call Father who cursed me with them.

I open the ampule and dip my thumb in. Trey shivers.

“This isn’t an exorcism,” I murmur, “It’s a cleansing. Do you know of Psalm 23?” Trey shakes his head.

“Not much of a bible-er.” His honesty catches me off guard, and I nearly laugh.

“So, you’ve never read it?” I ask.

“If I say no, will you forgive me?” Then he pauses. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to joke.”

“What part?” I ask, curious.

“Oh, you know. The whole Christian thing… What are you going to do—forgive me?”

This time a smile curls my lips. I move in front of him and press my oil-dipped thumb to his forehead.

“Maybe some,” I whisper. “Anyway, this is holy oil. Consecrated. Think of it as a way to push out anything that might’ve tried to stay with you. Anything dark. Anything broken.”

“Too late,” he murmurs. “It’s already in me.”

“No,” I whisper. “Not all of it. Not yet.”

He looks up at me, and for a moment, there’s nothing between us but silence, smoke and the ache of thing’s we’ll never say out loud.

I raise my free hand and make the sign of the cross above his bowed head.

I want to offer a prayer… but honestly, if Father knew I used his oil on a stranger—meeting with a man in the middle of the night—the thrashing I’d receive.

The words won’t come. Not Psalm 23. Not Psalm 91.

Not Ephesians 6:10–18. I can’t ask for protection when I’ve seen how mercy gets twisted in the hands of those meant to deliver it.

“So…I’m good now, right? No demon possession?” Trey sniffs, poking at his forehead, then sniffs his fingers.

“It that olive oil?”

“Consecrated oil.” I say.

“So… If I had a salad with it, would that be blasphemy?”

I try not to laugh. I really do. But it bubbles out—soft at first, then louder, until I'm shaking. Giggles turn to tears, and suddenly I’m crying.

Hard. Stomach clenching. Shoulders trembling.

When I realize the noise, I stop cold. I strain to listen—nothing from upstairs.

No creak of the floorboards. No slam of a door.

I exhale, slow and careful, then lower to my knees beside him.

For a second, we’re not a priest’s daughter and a lost sinner.

We’re not bruised or broken. We’re just two people, trying to feel whole.

I don’t mean to touch him. But as I set the bottle down, my fingers graze his.

The heat of it. The jolt. Like a thread pulled taunt between us—tight, trembling, impossible to ignore.

His finger twitches. Then he wraps it around mine, gentle.

I should flinch. Pull away. Say something sharp enough to cut through the strange softness unfurling in my chest. But I don’t.

I stay right here—still, breath shallow, skin to skin with a stranger.

Trey watches me like he sees too much. Like he sees more than I want him to.

“You don’t have to tell me,’’ he says softly, “but… if you ever need help—real help—I know people. A place.” He shifts, reaching into his jacket.

The leather creaks, damp and slow, as he pulls out a small square of paper, worn and soft at the edges.

He presses it into my palm. I glance down.

An address. Portland. Not a shelter. Not a church.

“If you go there,” he says, “give them my name. They’ll take care of you. No questions. No judgment.”

My brows pull together. “Why?”

His voice drops. “Braden. He did it for me. Now I’m paying it forward. You matter, Seraphina. Let me help you.”

I look back at the paper in my hand. My throat tightens.

“I don’t deserve this,” I whisper.

Trey meets my gaze, his eyes fierce in the candlelight. “You don’t get to decide that.”

His voice softens, like he’s trying not to scare me. “I don’t know what you’re going through, Sera. But fate doesn’t screw around. I ended up here tonight for a reason. Something wanted me to find you.”

I want to believe him.

That the universe didn’t just spit me out into the path of another man who’ll take more than he gives. That maybe… maybe this one’s different. I don’t let go of the paper.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Trey nods, solemn. “You helped me. Let me return the favour.”

Just like that, he stands, brushing ash from his knees. I don’t move until he does. His shadow stretches long across the stone floor as he backs away from the altar. Hands in his jacket pockets. Eyes still on mine like he wants to say more—but knows better.

The candles crackle. The church groans. My heart ticks too loudly in my chest.

“I should go,” he says, voice rough. “It’s late. Or early. One of those.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t forget the address.”

I lift the folded paper in my hand. “I won’t.”

He lingers for a second longer, then nods—slow, like sealing a silent promise—and turns toward the heavy doors.

Boots scuff against stone. The echo feels too loud in the hollow stillness.

At the threshold, moonlight spills across his face.

He looks otherworldly in it. Half-etched between sinner and saint—beautiful in a way that aches.

His hand touches the door. “Be safe, Seraphina.”

The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine.

Then he’s gone. Swallowed by the shadows.

I stay kneeling, the scent of Frankincense thick in the air, the faint warmth of his touch lingering on my skin.

The door groans shut behind him, and silence settles again.

Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks.

I close my fingers around the paper, slip it into the folds of my dress, and walk away from the altar with the ghost of his touch burned into memory.

I shouldn’t trust him.

I know better.

But for one quiet second… I did. I think that might be the most dangerous thing of all.