Page 97 of Scarred in Silence
She nods, satisfied or numb—I can’t read which. Then she rises, taking off her leggings, shrugging her hoodie, stripping innocence leaf by leaf. She stands naked but for the gun in her fist and the war in her eyes.
“Kill Miles first,” she orders. “Then Damien. Then maybe you.”
My pulse howls.
“Agreed.”
She climbs onto the bed, knees spreading sheets. “Show me loyalty.”
I obey. She always has fallen back on sex when her trauma is too much for her to bear.
Clothes peel away. Knees sink mattress. She presses the barrel to my temple—metal kiss, loaded verdict. The slide is warm from her palm, the smell of solvent mixing with skin.
“Move,” she commands.
I thrust slowly, deliberately, worshiping the bruise-laced expanse of her thighs. My eyes skim over her brand, which is slowly healing.
She keeps the barrel steady, fingers curling gently over the trigger. Power arcs between us. Her breath hitches on every drive.Mine stutters when safety clacks under her fingertip, off, on, off again—metronome of mortal trust.
“Eyes,” she pants. I lock gaze. Storm meets storm.
“Lie once and I paint the headboard.”
“I’ll never lie again.” The truth slices me open.
She rides harder, hips snapping, sweat glistening. The gun never wavers. In her stare, I see a covenant—bullet or forgiveness, she gets to decide.
The thrill is intense.
When she clenches, shudders, and moans, I spill inside her with a groan that tastes of forgiveness.
Silence crashes after, broken only by our ragged breathing and the softclickas she engages the safety. She lowers the weapon, sets it barrel-down between us like a peace treaty signed in heat.
“Find Miles,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Bring me his screams.”
“I swear.”
She slides off, walking silently to the bathroom. I dress fast—mission settling over lust like armor. Before leaving, I pick up the live-loaded glock, wipe smudged prints, and place it on her nightstand within reach.
“Two bullets remain,” I tell the half-open door. “One for him, and one for Damien. If you need one for me— I’ll gladly give you a fresh mag…if you decide I’m past saving.”
The water shuts off. Her voice floats out steamy and sure: “Don’t miss.”
I descend the stairs, tasting blood and purpose.
Miles Holloway won’t see sunrise.
Behind me, the house exhales—violence, passion, and revenge fill every beam. Reassuring me that there is hope.
Hope that my wife will one day forgive me.
37
Lucien
2 Months After Dante’s Wedding
Chapter 1
