Page 131 of Scarred in Silence

He doesn’t waste time. His mouth finds my thigh first, right over my brand, then higher. His stubble scrapes against my bare flesh, his teeth sink in just enough to make me flinch, and I gasp, fingers digging into the sheets.

“You want it rough?” he asks, voice husky as he kisses over the spot he just bit. “You want to be reminded who you belong to?”

I nod. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

He groans—deep and guttural—like he’s just been given permission to unleash the parts of himself he usually chains up for my sake.

“Good,” he says, lining up.

“Because I don’t want you to forget.”

The first thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.

It’s vicious. Deliberate. Every inch of him slams into me like it’s a claim. A brutal one.

My nails rake down his back, and he hisses, but he doesn’t stop. His hand wraps around my throat—enough to choke, just enough to control. His eyes lock with mine, burning with something wild and possessive.

“This isn’t about love,” he grits out between thrusts.

“It’s about loyalty.”

“I know,” I whisper, dizzy from the pressure, the pace, the way he’s splitting me apart and putting me back together with everythrust.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip, dragging it down.

“You walked into that house today and didn’t flinch. I’ve never seen anything more dangerous than you, Astra.”

“My perfect. Little. Siren,” he groans, his words matching his pace.

My heart stutters, but my body is too far gone to process anything but him—his hands, his cock, the filthy words he whispers as he fucks me like I’m the last bit of salvation he’ll ever touch. I’m his savior, and he is my sentence. My sentence of life.

When I come, it’s not as graceful as usual.

It’s violent. Loud. My legs shake, and my vision goes white as he curses and follows, his grip bruising my hips, holding me still while he finishes deep inside me.

We collapse together, tangled in sweat and breathlessness.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Then he turns his face to mine, eyes still dark, voice soft.

“You’ll choose who you see from now on. I’m not your captor, but I will keep you safe. If I think it’s dangerous, I need you to trust me. Don’t fucking run.”

I nod, throat tight.

Because that’s the difference between surviving and living.

And tonight, I finally feel like I’m doing the latter.

He loves me. I love him. I will forever be the storm, and he will be my storm chaser.

* * *

The clink of forks on china is oddly comforting.

Not the noise itself, but what it means—normalcy. Or something close to it. We’re all sitting at Lucien’s long, heavy oak table like we’re not a walking collection of secrets and scars.

Dante pours another glass of wine, arm draped lazily over the back of Evelyn’s chair. She looks like the queen of her dark little empire, barefoot and smug in one of his black button-ups that nearly swallows her.