Page 80 of Scarred in Silence
I stare at him for a long time. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. His head jerks back, then drops. Blood splatters the wall.
One down.
I turn back to Nicolette. She’s sobbing now, finally grasping her fate.
“Please…” she begs. “Lucien, don’t.”
I walk up close, palm her jaw. “This is for Astra. For every girl you led to a cage.”
Then I fire.
Her body goes limp. Chains creak as she sags against them. Dante walks forward and unclips her wrists.
The bodies slump near Victor’s. Three monsters. Three endings.
But the real Devil is still out there.
Lurking.
31
Astra
The front door clicks shut at 6:17 a.m.
I know the exact time because I’ve been staring at the dim red digits on Lucien’s bedside clock for hours, watching minutes crawl by. I should be asleep, but sleep isn’t a thing that happens in this house unless my insides stop screaming. And even then, it’s fragile, like ice on a pond you’re not sure will hold your weight. The sleep is broken, interrupted. I’ve only slept well once in the past few weeks.
Tonight, the ice has cracked.
I lie on my side, facing the bedroom door, blanket pulled to my chin, though the room is warm. I listen to the hush of the floor beneath his boots, the soft closing of drawers in the kitchen, the sudden rush of water at the sink that always sounds suspiciously like someone rinsing blood off their hands.
A hush follows.
Then the refrigerator door squeaks. Bottles clink. He’s moving more slowly than usual, but not because he’s tired—because he’s measuring each motion, like he’s afraid any sharp sound might shatter whatever fragile thing he’s carrying inside him.
I’d rather he slammed a door. I’d rather he cursed at a wall. I understand anger. I can brace for anger. But this silence—this strange, eerily quiet—terrifies me.
When the soft footsteps reach the bedroom door, I close my eyes the way a child might, though I’m no child and the monsters I fear have his face. The door clicks open; light from the hall knifes across the floor, slicing the darkness in two.
Lucien’s silhouette fills the threshold. The body casts a shadow that can be seen behind closed lids. He lingers there a heartbeat, maybe deciding who he needs to be before he crosses over.
Then he steps in and eases the door shut behind him, sealing us in the dark.
I don’t open my eyes. Not yet.
He sheds his shoes first—one heel, then the other. He slides his shirt off, cloth rustling, a low exhale that feels like it’s being dragged out of him.
I can’t pretend anymore. My eyes open.
He’s a shadow at the foot of the bed, shirt off, shoulders gleaming with sweat. Even in the dark, I can see how tight his muscles are pulled, as though his own skin is a straitjacket.
“Lucien,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He drops the shirt to the floor, lifts a hand to his chest, pauses midway, looking at his own palm as though it’s foreign. Early morning light from the sheer curtains lands across his knuckles. His skin is stained. In this pale glow, the color looks black, but my mind fills in the truth: blood.
He swallows hard, as if tasting copper on his tongue.
“Lucien,” I say again, sitting up. “Talk to me.”
