Page 89 of Scarred in Silence
An hour later, sunlight shifts, spotlighting dust motes over the bed. She drifts toward sleep. I stay awake, listening to the quiet—and to the door buzz down the hall.
Dante’s voice filters through the intercom.“Lucien. Need a word.”
I untangle gently, pull on jeans, and open the door a crack.
Dante stands, phone in hand, expression grave. “Evelyn wants to see Astra—today.”
My jaw tightens. “She’s not ready.”
“She is.” His gaze flicks to the bedroom behind me. “And Evelyn’s freaking the fuck out. Give them fifteen minutes in your office. Neutral ground.”
Astra’s sleepy voice floats from the bed. “Let her come.”
I sigh, rubbing my eyes gritty from violence and sex. “Fine. Two o’clock. Supervised.”
Dante nods. “I’ll bring her.”
As he turns, he adds quietly, “And Miles is slipping south. Clock’s ticking.”
I close the door, lean my forehead against the wood. The monster inside me claws, hungry for blood. But I will cage it for my little Siren. Then?
Then I feed the demons inside of me, the one and only—Miles Holloway.
I crawl back into bed. Astra stirs, lashes flutter. My hand inches toward the gun on the nightstand—reassurance and damnation in equal measure.
For now, the weapon stays cold.
For now, she stays.
For now, I breathe.
34
Astra
Lucien’s study reeks of love and paranoia.
The shelves climb twelve feet, stuffed with books older than God. The rug is a slab of Persian red, thick enough to muffle a murder. His desk—a large, walnut altar—dominating the room. It is bare except for a single black fountain pen and a crystal paperweight that looks like a frozen tear.
Outside, late-afternoon sun presses pale ribbons of light through half-closed drapes, but the air hangs heavy, dim, as though daylight itself signed an NDA before coming in.
Lucien insisted on supervision.
Fifteen minutes, he said, as if that amount of time could let whatever damage Evelyn and I might hash out might bleed on the rug. He’s leaning against the door frame now—ink-black shirt, darker stare. His arms folded, closing him off further, jaw ticking once per heartbeat.
Dante hovers behind Evelyn, tension coiled up his spine. If Lucien is the blade, Dante is the stone that keeps him terrifyingly sharp.
Evelyn steps farther into the room, clutching a canvas tote to herchest. The pineapple fragrance that drifts off her hair dredges up a memory I didn’t authorize—freshman year in the dorm hallway, us shot-gunning cheap alcohol from plastic flutes and plotting to conquer the world. That memory bursts like a bubble—gone before it feels real.
Lucien’s eyes never leave my face.
“Fifteen minutes,” he reminds, voice shaved to a razor. Then—shockingly—he steels himself, turns, and drags Dante out into the hall, the door closing behind them with a soft, final click. The latch engages. They’re still there; I can feel their shadows through the wood.
Silence booms, monstrously loud.
Evelyn sinks onto the tufted leather chair across from me. She looks like she hasn’t slept since April. Mascara smudges beneath her eyes; the bruise on her jaw is almost, almost invisible under foundation. Dante’s thumbprint. We exchange brittle smiles—the kind women wear when they’re comparing fractures.
“How are you?” she asks.
