Chapter 17: Seraphina

He told me the truth.

And now I can't breathe.

Not because I didn't already suspect the betrayal. Not because I'm surprised. But because the confirmation carves deeper than any blade ever has.

I wasn't sent to kill him.

I was given to him.

I was a bargaining chip—stripped of purpose, loyalty, and choice. Traded like currency for power between men who sit in dark rooms and speak in whispers they never expect the weapons they've built to hear.

I was never supposed to leave his bed.

Just bleed into it.

Rafael's voice still echoes in my skull, low and steady and far too calm when he told me. "They came. They offered me your death. In exchange for information."

He didn't say he refused them because he cares.

He didn't say it because he wants me safe.

He said it because I'm his now.

I pace the room, the rage inside me mounting with each step. I can feel it under my skin—liquid fury, tainted lust, betrayal spiked with heat that has nowhere to go.

I was trained to kill with precision. Without hesitation.

But no one trained me for this kind of wound.

The door creaks open behind me, and I don't have to look to know it's him.

"I'm not in the mood," I say, venom in my voice.

"Too bad," he replies. "Because I'm not leaving."

I turn on him like a storm. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner?"

He stands there—casual, dangerous, quiet. All dark jeans, bare forearms, and that unshakable confidence that makes me want to hate him more than I already hate myself.

"I needed to be sure," he says. "Sure you weren't still loyal to them. Sure you wouldn't slit my throat while I slept."

I stalk toward him slowly, eyes blazing. "And now you're sure?"

His gaze doesn't flinch. "I'm sure you hate them more than you hate me."

He's not wrong.

But it doesn't matter.

I get close enough that my breath brushes his lips, and I watch the flare of heat in his eyes. It should scare me. It doesn't. It excites me. Because now, the leash is off.

Now, I'm not theirs. I'm not his.

I'm mine.

"You should've let me kill you when I had the chance," I whisper.

"You should've tried harder," he murmurs back.

And the tension between us snaps like a taut wire.

He pushes me against the wall—rough, fast, needy. But I meet him halfway, gripping his shirt, yanking it over his head. He kisses me like he's starving, like I'm the weapon that will destroy him and he wants to feel every sharp edge.

His hand fists in my hair, my thighs wrapped around his hips, and it's not soft—it's not romantic. It's war.

A collision of anger and desire, lust and pain, betrayal and need.

He bites down on my lip, and I moan into his mouth like I hate him for making me want more.

"You want to hurt them?" he growls into my skin.

"Yes."

"Then stay. Fight with me."

My nails rake down his back. "I'm not yours to keep."

He grabs my jaw, forces me to look at him. "Then why the fuck do you keep coming back to me?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't know.

Because maybe, somewhere in this depraved, fucked-up connection we have, we both found something neither of us ever expected—a reflection.

We're both broken.

Both betrayed.

And we're both ready to burn the world down.

Together.