Page 135 of Scarred in Silence

The box opens between us. A ring as sharp and cold as everything we survived, resting on a silver bullet. A pure diamond. Our sins, forged into something beautiful.

“I want to give you a wedding, Astra. I want you in white, walking toward me like the world never got its claws in you.”

A sob catches in her throat.

“I want to be your husband—not your warden.”

She throws herself into my arms, burying her face in my neck, shaking from the inside out. Her yes comes out as a whisper, then a cry, then a broken, frantic kiss that tastes like absolution.

“Yes,” she says again. “God, yes.”

And somewhere between the mountain and the sky, we fall apart in each other’s arms—finally free.

Finally home.

48

Astra

The ring’s cold on my finger. His warmth is everywhere else.

Lucien’s breath is uneven against my neck as we sit pressed against each other on the rocky edge. The sun is dipping low, bleeding into the sky like it knows what we just promised. The mountain air is crisp, but his hands are fire—sprawled across my waist, branding me through my thin shirt.

I tilt my head and catch his gaze.

It’s never just a look with him.

It’s a possession. A plea. A question.

And tonight, an answer.

I kiss him first—slow and certain. I want to remember this exact moment, the way his lips tremble before they crash into mine, how his hand fists my hair like he’s trying to anchor himself. The way he groans into my mouth like he’s starved and I’m the only thing left on earth.

The wind howls through the trees, but he’s louder.

His shirt is the first to go. Then mine. We collapse into each other on the blanket he packed, our bodies tangled between pine needles and promises. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in every careful touch.

“I won’t break,” I whisper into his throat.

He swears under his breath. “You’re the only thing I’ve never been able to break.”

His hands are everywhere—rough from violence, trembling from something deeper. He pushes into me, lustful and reckless. I arch beneath him, not because I want to—because I need to.

Because this is the first time I’m not surviving him.

I’m choosing him.

His name tumbles from my lips like ritual and threat all in one. He groans against my collarbone, and I feel him shudder as he pushes deeper into the moment—into me.

Every movement is a vow. Every gasp, a confession.

The mountain doesn’t care that we’re ruining each other in front of it. The world doesn’t either. But up here, we’re untouchable. Filthy and free.

I feel him release inside of me, and I shudder beneath him. It feels right. He feels right.

When it’s over, I’m wrapped in his arms, breathing him in like the air might thin without him.

“I don’t want to go down,” I say.