Serafina's POV
The chanting woke me before dawn.
I sat up in Lorenzo's bed—our bed now, I suppose, though we still danced around what that actually meant—and listened to the distant rumble of voices. Angry voices. Many of them.
Lorenzo was already awake, standing at the window with his phone pressed to his ear. His bare back was rigid with tension, muscles coiled like he was preparing for a fight. He'd thrown on pants but nothing else, and even through my concern, I noticed the way the early light caught the scars that mapped his skin like a history of violence.
"How many?" he asked whoever was on the other end. A pause. "And the media?"
My stomach dropped. The media meant this wasn't just a threat. It was a theater.
He hung up and turned to face me. His expression was carved from ic
