Page 98 of Scarred in Silence

She’s going to die in this fucking trailer.

I kick in the rotted door and storm into the stench of mildew and despair. The music’s still playing—Pink Floyd, of all things—floating through the air like a funeral hymn. Her body’s sprawled across the couch, needle still dangling from her arm like a sick accessory.

For a second, I freeze. Then something inside me detonates.

“Astra! Stop! Right fucking now!” I rush beside her, slapping her cheek. Her eyes closed. Her lips are pale. Her skin is so cold, I think she’s gone too far.

No. No. She doesn’t get to leave like this. Not without seeing what I’ve done. Not without hearing everything I haven’t said. Not without hating me for the truth.

I rip the syringe from her arm and toss it. My hands move faster than my thoughts—checking her pulse, her breath. Barely there. Barely anything.

I’ve brought Narcan. I’ve been carrying it for months, waiting for this moment like some sick prophecy.

I jab it into her thigh.

And I wait.

I fucking wait.

She convulses—once, then again. A violent shudder rolls through her. Her eyes flutter. Her breathing staggers.

She’s alive.

A strangled breath escapes me, part relief, part rage.

“My stupid little Siren.”

I cradle her to my chest, lifting her off the couch. She’s soaked in sweat, her lips cracked. She smells like death. I carry her out of the trailer and into the night, her weight light enough to haunt me.

She doesn’t wake up during the drive.

I bring her to Christian’s house—one of the few people I still trust. He owes me from back when I put a bullet through a man who tried to sell his little sister. He doesn’t ask questions when I tell him I need a room. Doesn’t even blink when I carry her inside.

“She OD?” he asks quietly.

I nod. “I need her safe. Keep her inside. Do not touch her.”

Christian holds up both hands. “I’m not suicidal, Lucien.”

“Good.” I lay her on the bed in the back room, adjusting the red silk sheets beneath her limbs. She doesn’t stir, but her breathing is stronger now. Her skin’s warming up. I press a hand to her forehead—still clammy. Still mine.

I sit there beside her for hours.

She doesn’t wake, but at one point, she whimpers. She whispers something that guts me.

“I still hear Lucien yelling at me.”

Myhand clenches into a fist.

I was yelling at you. I was there. I’ve always fucking been there.

Even when she ran, even when she ghosted Evelyn, even when moved away and changed her name—thinking I wouldn’t find her. Thinking I’d let her die without watching.

No.

I watched her dance at that club. I watched her go home with men who didn’t know her name. I watched her overdose because she thought she was disposable.

And I still saved her.