Page 32 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Astra

I know the exact time because I’ve been staring at the dim red digits on Lucien’s bedside clock for hours, watching minutes crawl by.

I should be asleep, but sleep isn’t a thing that happens in this house unless my insides stop screaming.

And even then, it’s fragile, like ice on a pond you’re not sure will hold your weight.

The sleep is broken, interrupted. I’ve only slept well once in the past few weeks.

Tonight, the ice has cracked.

I lie on my side, facing the bedroom door, blanket pulled to my chin, though the room is warm.

I listen to the hush of the floor beneath his boots, the soft closing of drawers in the kitchen, the sudden rush of water at the sink that always sounds suspiciously like someone rinsing blood off their hands.

A hush follows.

Then the refrigerator door squeaks. Bottles clink. He’s moving more slowly than usual, but not because he’s tired—because he’s measuring each motion, like he’s afraid any sharp sound might shatter whatev er fragile thing he’s carrying inside him.

I’d rather he slammed a door. I’d rather he cursed at a wall. I understand anger. I can brace for anger. But this silence—this strange, eerily quiet—terrifies me.

When the soft footsteps reach the bedroom door, I close my eyes the way a child might, though I’m no child and the monsters I fear have his face. The door clicks open; light from the hall knifes across the floor, slicing the darkness in two.

Lucien’s silhouette fills the threshold. The body casts a shadow that can be seen behind closed lids. He lingers there a heartbeat, maybe deciding who he needs to be before he crosses over.

Then he steps in and eases the door shut behind him, sealing us in the dark.

I don’t open my eyes. Not yet.

He sheds his shoes first—one heel, then the other. He slides his shirt off, cloth rustling, a low exhale that feels like it’s being dragged out of him.

I can’t pretend anymore. My eyes open.

He’s a shadow at the foot of the bed, shirt off, shoulders gleaming with sweat. Even in the dark, I can see how tight his muscles are pulled, as though his own skin is a straitjacket.

“Lucien,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. He drops the shirt to the floor, lifts a hand to his chest, pauses midway, looking at his own palm as though it’s foreign.

Early morning light from the sheer curtains lands across his knuckles.

His skin is stained. In this pale glow, the color looks black, but my mind fills in the truth: blood.

He swallows hard, as if tasting copper on his tongue.

“Lucien,” I say again, sitting up. “Talk to me.”

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 heart pounding 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.

“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—”

“If you ever want a way out,” he says quietly, sliding the gun toward me, “take it.”

I stare at the weapon. Moonlight glances off the slide. My reflection looks back at me—pale, hollow-eyed, not the girl I remember. I lift trembling fingers, hesitating.

“I tried to leave once,” I whisper.

Memories of the drug houses, of cold forest air, of Miles’s black eyes flash through my skull.

“It nearly killed me.”

“This is different.” His voice is calm now—too calm.

“If you choose to point that at me, I won’t stop you. And if you choose to turn it on yourself, I beg you—let me go first.”

“Why would I—” My throat locks around the words. “Lucien, I don’t want to die.”

“Good.” A fragile smile. “Then use it on me.”

He pushes the gun closer— “One in the chamber, safety here. Simple.”

My vision blurs. “Don’t do this.”

“I need you free,” he says—like it’s a fact, not a plea. “Free to hate me, free to leave, free to end me if I become what they are.”

Tears prick at my eyes. The gun feels heavier than metal as I pick it up. I turn it in my hands, palms slippery with sweat.

“You already are what they are,” I say, voice breaking, “but you’re also the only one who ever handed me a weapon.”

He flinches. That soft ache behind the brutality.

“Because I trust you more than I trust myself.”

I thumb the safety, not disengaging it—just feeling the mechanism. Cold steel. Real. Final.

Our eyes lock—mine wet, his wild. The guilt is a storm cloud behind his pupils. I wonder if he’s begging for forgiveness or begging for an executioner.

I lay the gun on my lap, barrel pointing away, hands folded over it.

“I’m not ready to choose,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to.” His shoulders drop, like the weight of all his sins finally punishes his spine. “Keep it. Sleep with it under your pillow if it helps.”

“Will it help you?” I ask.

He opens his mouth, closes it. Finally nods once. “Yes.”

A bitter laugh slips from me. “Then I’ll keep it.”

I slide the magazine into the gun with a soft click, but don’t chamber the first round. Safety on. I set it on the nightstand, inches from my pillow.

Lucien watches. A single tear escapes down his cheek—he wipes it away like it never existed.

Then he climbs into bed, clothes still on, and collapses onto his side facing the wall. His back is to me. It’s not rejection; it’s self-imposed exile.

I lie beside him, eyes on the ceiling, hand inches from the gun.

Silence swells between us—violent, necessary, unspoken.

In my peripheral vision, his shoulders shake once. A silent sob swallowed by pride. I reach out, fingertips hovering above his arm, unsure if touch is comfort or cruelty tonight.

“I’m not leaving,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his breathing stumbles—like my words pierced a taut wire inside him.

The gun gleams in the soft light on the nightstand.

Today will start. Answers will come. Blood will be shed.

For now, there is only this room, this sorrow, and a choice waiting in cold steel.

I stare at Lucien, and something feral in him stares back at me. I know that look all too well. If there is one thing we do best, it’s make-up sex.