Page 82 of Scarred in Silence

“And Silas?”

“Alive. For now.”

That, for now, ricochets in my chest. I force myself to breathe.

I lift his hand again. The knuckles tremble.

“You think killing them will fix me,” I say, not as an accusation, but as a fact.

“It’s the only justice I still believe in.” His head falls back, throat exposed to the moonlight. “When I saw the photo of you with that number pinned to your slip… something in me split.”

“Number?” My voice cracks.

He flinches like he’s realized he said too much. “Later.”

“No.” I press. “Tell me.”

He runs a hand over his mouth. “They called you Lot Forty-Seven. They took pictures before the auction.”

Heat floods my face—shame, rage, disbelief. They must have done it while I was drugged. “Was I unconscious?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do?”

“What I always do—became worse than the people who hurt you.”

Silence returns, thicker than ever. He’s trembling now, though he tries to hide it. I swallow tears and force my voice to be steady.

“I’m alive,” I remind him. “You brought me home.”

He shakes his head. “I brought you to another cage.”

“It’s not a cage if I choose to stay.”

His eyes find mine. The light of dawn turns them silver and storm.He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingers on my cheek.

“You’re choosing to stay with a monster,” he says, voice nearly breaking.

“I’m choosing to stay with the man who kills monsters.”

A long exhale. He leans forward, forehead resting against mine. His breath fans my lips—absinthe and mint. We sit like that, two statues carved from guilt and longing.

I think he might kiss me, but instead, he stands and walks to the closet. There’s a safe embedded in the wall, hidden behind rows of his clothing. He steps over mounds of clothes I rummaged through looking for my phone… That was nowhere to be found.

He taps a code. The steel door hisses open.

Cold dread slithers down my spine.

He returns with a small, black object wrapped in a microfiber cloth. Sits on the edge of the bed. Unwraps it. Fear hammers in my chest. No.

* * *

A gun.

Matte black, compact, the kind sized for a lady’s purse.

My heart stutters. “Lucien—”