Page 133 of Scarred in Silence
Dinner turns into dessert. Dessert turns into Dante trying to teach Lucien how to make brownies. I lean back in my chair,sipping wine, letting it all wash over me.
It’s chaotic. Loud. Messy.
And for the first time in a long time… it feels like home.
47
Lucien
3 Months Later
She’s twenty feet ahead of me and not slowing down.
“You know,” I call up the trail, panting louder than I’d like to admit, “for someone who nearly died six times this year, you have a concerning amount of energy.”
Astra glances over her shoulder, grinning like she knows exactly how feral she looks with wind-tangled platinum hair and dirt smudged on her cheek. “Maybe you’re just getting old.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Exactly.”
I growl under my breath and pick up the pace. The narrow trail snakes along the edge of the mountain, pine needles crunching beneath our boots, the sky above so painfully blue it feels like a setup.
She’s wearing all black, of course—leggings, tank top, even a windbreaker tied at the waist like a goddamn temptress pretending she’s not leading me to my death.
Icatch up to her, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her into me. She laughs, but it’s breathless, pupils blown wide with altitude and adrenaline.
“You really think I’m getting old?” I murmur, brushing my nose against hers.
She smirks. “Prove me wrong.”
I lift her off the ground, toss her over my shoulder like I’m carrying her out of a fire instead of up a mountain. She shrieks—loud and unhinged—and beats her fists against my back, laughing so hard she hiccups.
“You asshole—put me down!”
“Say I’m not old.”
“Never.”
I smack her ass once for good measure, and she squeals, biting down on a laugh.
When I set her back down, she turns and shoves me with both palms. “You’re lucky I like psychos.”
“You say that like I didn’t stalk you through five states,” I shoot back sarcastically.
She flips me off and keeps walking, the bounce in her step betraying just how much she’s enjoying this.
We keep climbing. No destination. No mission. Just space and silence and the slow, unspoken promise that we’ll never let anyone chain us again.
The trees thin as we crest a ridge, and then we’re standing on a granite outcrop that overlooks the entire valley. Wind cuts through our clothes, but we don’t move. She’s quiet now—hands on hips, chest rising and falling.
“I used to dream of this,” she says finally.
“The view?”
“No. Just… being able to breathe.”
Iwatch her profile—sharp jawline, bruised lips, lashes catching the sun. “You are.”
