Page 84 of Scarred in Silence
“I’m not leaving,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, but his breathing stumbles—like my words pierced a taut wire inside him.
The gun gleams in the soft light on the nightstand.
Today will start. Answers will come. Blood will be shed.
For now, there is only this room, this sorrow, and a choice waiting in cold steel.
I stare at Lucien, and something feral in him stares back at me. I know that look all too well. If there is one thing we do best, it’s make-up sex.
32
Lucien
22 Years Old
A storm swirls in the Nashville sky, Astra drags me—half laughing, half breathless—into a half-renovated boutique hotel near Broadway. The sign outside still flickers vacancy; everything about the building says “don’t trust me”. But that’s exactly the tone of the evening.
We’re young, drunk from a faculty gala we slipped into. They hold it for the university in a different city every year. I can’t remember the last coherent word I said that wasn’t her name.
The lobby is empty. Water stains the ceiling, and a chandelier’s missing half its crystals. Perfect. I slam a black Amex on the counter—courtesy of my father—and demand the top-floor corner suite. The night clerk doesn’t ask for ID; he’s too busy trying not to stare at Astra’s legs. One look from me, and he decides wallpaper is fascinating.
The elevator groans to the twelfth floor. We step into a hall that smells of rain-soaked carpet and old bourbon. Astra spinsonce, arms out, jersey hem flashing thigh. Lightning pops against the stained-glass windows; thunder follows like a threat I intend to keep.
Inside the room is a king bed that sits along the back wall, half-painted walls, no art, and no minibar. The power flickers, then steadies. There’s only one lamp—a bare bulb, no shade.
I lock the door, flip the iron latch, and pocket the key card. We are sealed in. My pulse thrums against my ribs as if it is too tight for air.
She senses it, because she always does.
“Color?” she breathes.
“Green,” I answer, thumb stroking her throat where her pulse beats frantically. The fact that she trusts me with the most fragile part of her body takes my pulse higher.
“Color?” I ask.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
“Green,” she breathes.
I stare at her pouty lips. Fuck.
“You promised,” she whispers, voice a dare.
I did. I promised that if she saidgreentonight, I’d give her exactly what she needs. She needs to be controlled.
* * *
Lightning stutters white across the room as I walk her backward to the bed. The mattress catching her calves. I sink to my knees in front of her, palms sliding up the outside of her thighs—so fucking soft—and under the hem of the jersey. She isn’t wearing anything underneath; I suspected as much at the gala when she danced too freely for panties. But touching proof burns hotter than the theory.
Ipress a kiss to the inside of her knee. She trembles. Another kiss higher, over her old scars. Every inch upward, her hands tighten in my hair until the jersey bunches at her hips.
I pause, looking up at her from my knees. “Take it off.”
She lifts the jersey over her head. It hits the floor with a wet slap from rainwater. We got soaked running across campus.
She stands nude except for the black choker I buckled on her a month ago, so she doesn’t forget who owns her voice. She hasn’t forgotten; she just uses it smarter.
