Page 107 of Scarred in Silence
“I never claimed to be your savior.”
“No,” I say, “but you wanted me to believe you were.”
The truth lands between us like a gun. Neither of us reaches for it.
He lowers himself to the bed beside me, and for once, he doesn’t try to touch me. “You think I regret it?” he murmurs. “You think I’d take any of it back?”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m not sure which would be worse: if he did… or if he didn’t.
He sighs, looking older than I’ve ever seen him.
“You could’ve walked away after Victor. You didn’t. You could’ve stayed upstairs while Miles begged. But you watched.”
“Because I had to.”
“No, Astra. You stayed because there’s a part of you that wantedit. Just like there’s a part of you that wantsme—even now.”
He’s not wrong.
And that’s what scares me the most.
Lucien turns his gaze back to me, eyes glassy but fierce.
“I won’t apologize for loving you in the only way I know how. But if you ever want out…”
He reaches beneath the mattress, pulls out the same gun he gave me days ago. The same one I held in my mouth while locked in his room.
“This time,” he says, offering it to me with the barrel pointed away, “it’s loaded.”
My fingers shake as I take it. It’s heavier than I remember. Colder.
“Oh, and here is your phone. I charged it for you.” He tosses my phone onto the bed beside me as he stands to leave.
He stands, pacing toward the door without looking back. “I’ll be in the cellar,” he mutters. “Silas is expecting me.”
I stare at the gun in my lap long after he’s gone. My reflection warps in the brushed metal, broken and blurred. A question echoes in my head like a heartbeat:
If he’s not my monster… does that make me my own?
I lie back down slowly, pulling the blanket to my chin, cradling the gun on my chest like a newborn sin.
There is no clean here.
Only survival.
And silence.
Always silence.
* **
The silence that follows Lucien’s departure is deafening.
Not the kind of silence that brings peace—this one snakes around my throat, thick and stale, threatening to strangle me. The gun still rests on my chest, a quiet threat or a promise—I’m not sure which.
I should put it away. But I don’t.
