Page 81 of Scarred in Silence

I half-expect the usual command—Lie back, little Siren. Go to sleep, it’s nothing you need to carry—but instead he drifts around the end of the bed and sinks onto the mattress beside me, elbows on knees, head bowed. He smells like rain-wet asphalt, gunpowder, and the faint antiseptic tang of bleach. He always scrubs his hands raw before touching me, as if that could wash away whatever violence he’s done. As if sin doesn’t cling beneath fingernails.

I touch his shoulder. His skin is hot. His pulse hammers.

He flinches—not from the touch, but from something inside him. Then he exhales my name like it’s both a prayer and an apology.

“Astra.”

The single word is gravel. Like shaken rocks. I lace my fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

“You’re safe,” I whisper, though I’m lying to both of us. “You’re home.”

Another shuddered breath. Neither of us is safe.

“Home.” He tests the word like it might explode.

“Tell me what you need.”

A silence so heavy it forces the room smaller. Swallowing us whole.

“I need… for you not to look at me.”

The plea slices something inside me. Because the truth is, I’ve seen him at his worst. I’ve tasted it. Survived it. But whatever he’s done tonight, whatever he’s brought back on his skin, feels so much heavier.

Without arguing, I shift behind him and wrap my arms around his torso, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. His back rises and falls with ragged breaths. I can feel his heartpounding under his ribs like a fist against a locked door.

I wait. The minutes feel like hours. The mattress chills with sweat from his skin. My brand aches from where it presses against the sheets, but I don’t move.

When he finally speaks, the words are bitter.

“I broke something that was already broken,” he says. “And then I broke the pieces.”

My throat thickens. “Was it necessary?”

“Everything’s necessary.” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“That’s the lie I tell myself.”

He reaches for my hands around his chest, rubs his thumb over the scar at my wrist where restraints once bit deep. Guilt crackles off him like static.

“You’ve never asked me for absolution,” I say.

“Because I don’t deserve it.”

The simplicity of the statement guts me. There’s no anger in it—only bleak acceptance.

I shift until we’re side by side, backs against the headboard. I take his left hand between mine, tilting his palm to the moonlight. The dried darkness smears—blood, yes, but there are flecks of something else: black paint? oil? I can’t tell.

I pull a pack of wipes from the nightstand drawer. He stares at the ceiling while I clean away the stains. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t help. Just lets me erase what I can.

Seconds pass, maybe minutes. I finish and toss the reddened cloth into the bin.

“Who did you hurt?” I finally ask.

“The people who sold you,” he answers, voice equal parts steel and sand. “The chain starts with Nicolette. It ends with Miles. But there are links between. Tonight we cut them.”

My stomach knots. “Are they dead?”

“Nicolette. Varek. Others.” He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. The air tastes like finality.