Page 33 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Lucien

A storm swirls in the Nashville sky, Astra drags me—half laughing, half breathless—into a half-renovated boutique hotel near Broadway. The sign outside still flickers vacancy; everything about the building says “don’t trust me”. But that’s exactly the tone of the evening.

We’re young, drunk from a faculty gala we slipped into. They hold it for the university in a different city every year. I can’t remember the last coherent word I said that wasn’t her name.

The lobby is empty. Water stains the ceiling, and a chandelier’s missing half its crystals.

Perfect. I slam a black Amex on the counter—courtesy of my father—and demand the top-floor corner suite.

The night clerk doesn’t ask for ID; he’s too busy trying not to stare at Astra’s legs.

One look from me, and he decides wallpaper is fascinating.

The elevator groans to the twelfth floor. We step into a hall that smells of rain-soaked carpet and old bourbon. Astra spins once, arms out, jersey hem flashing thigh. Lightning pops against the stained-glass windows; thunder follows like a threat I intend to keep.

Inside the room is a king bed that sits along the back wall, half-painted walls, no art, and no minibar. The power flickers, then steadies. There’s only one lamp—a bare bulb, no shade.

I lock the door, flip the iron latch, and pocket the key card. We are sealed in. My pulse thrums against my ribs as if it is too tight for air.

She senses it, because she always does.

“Color?” she breathes.

“Green,” I answer, thumb stroking her throat where her pulse beats frantically. The fact that she trusts me with the most fragile part of her body takes my pulse higher.

“Color?” I ask.

Her gaze drops to my mouth.

“Green,” she breathes.

I stare at her pouty lips. Fuck.

“You promised,” she whispers, voice a dare.

I did. I promised that if she said green tonight, I’d give her exactly what she needs. She needs to be controlled.

* * *

Lightning stutters white across the room as I walk her backward to the bed.

The mattress catching her calves. I sink to my knees in front of her, palms sliding up the outside of her thighs—so fucking soft—and under the hem of the jersey.

She isn’t wearing anything underneath; I suspected as much at the gala when she danced too freely for panties.

But touching proof burns hotter than the theory.

I press a kiss to the inside of her knee. She trembles. Another kiss higher, over her old scars. Every inch upward, her hands tighten in my hair until the jersey bunches at her hips.

I pause, looking up at her from my knees. “Take it off.”

She lifts the jersey over her head. It hits the floor with a wet slap from rainwater. We got soaked running across campus.

She stands nude except for the black choker I buckled on her a month ago, so she doesn’t forget who owns her voice. She hasn’t forgotten; she just uses it smarter.

Astra’s breathing turns shallow when my palms frame her hips. The storm presses its face to the window, wind rattling the glass. I think about all of the things I’ve dreamed of doing to her, but that’ll have to wait.

Tonight is about breath.

I nip the front of her hip, tongue softening the bruise. She whimpers, knees wobbling. I grip harder, leaving finger indents on perfect skin. A throaty “please” escapes her before she can bite it back.

“Patience,” I say in a low tone, but my own nails dig marks on to her ass.

I rise, towering over her. She tips her chin to keep eye contact—if devotion could kill, I’d be ashes on the ground. I cup her jaw, thumb sliding to the divot beneath her bottom lip. Her breath leaves a condensation halo on my skin.

“One command,” I murmur.

“Yes, Lucien.”

“You keep eye contact. Always.”

Lightning flashes. In its afterglow, I see her pupils widen—fear or adrenaline, both are worship, stroking my ego. She is the only woman who can do that so perfectly.

I back her farther until she sinks to the firm mattress. It releases a thud like a body bag. I wonder if she notices the implication. Judging by her shiver, she does.

I strip my suit, skin prickling as humid air licks fresh scratches from last week’s sparing with Dante. She studies each mark with hungry eyes. Not fear—intrigue.

Rain crescendos overhead as if the gods were playing “How the Gods Kill” by Danzig.

I climb onto the bed, knees straddling her hips. The bed rustles beneath 200 pounds of intent. The bulb sways slightly, casting war-movie shadows across our skin.

“Hands above the pillow,” I order. She obeys, wrists crossing like she expects rope. Not tonight. Rope’s a promise of safety; breath play is pure trust.

I slide palms up her wrists, over forearms, into interlaced fingers—locking her own arms as a bar across the headboard. Then with one palm I smooth hair away to bare her throat.

Her breathing hitches—visible pulse. Her eye contact never wavers. Good girl.

I lean until my lips graze the shell of her ear. “Last chance,” I murmur.

“Green,” she rasps. “Always green with you.”

It’s enough. My hand spreads across her neck, thumb to pulse, middle finger beneath jaw hinge, resting my pinky along delicate tendon. Pressure light—just a cradle. Her breath becomes a hush between parted lips, eyes blown glassy but sure.

I flatten my chest to hers, cock teasing her wet entrance, holding still. I watch her breathe under my palm. One inhale. Another. I squeeze—firmly. Her eyes flare, but she nods once. Green. Permission.

I push inside slowly. The slide steals my sanity. She’s so warm, I swear the dopamine hits before the nerve endings. Halfway in, I ease pressure off her throat; she gasps. Oxygen floods, mixes with endorphins, and pupils dilate further. I bottom out. She clenches, moans shredded.

“Color?” I demand.

“Hah— green.” Ragged, but there.

I start to move in a punishing grind meant to blur pleasure and proof. Every thrust drags breath from her lungs; each retreat lets her suck air. My hand modulates that supply—tightening, loosening, playing her like a pipe organ.

Storms crackle overhead, thunder rattles headboard bolts. I thrust harder, pace turning feral. The sheet beneath her sticks to sweaty skin. She tries to arch; my free hand pins her hip. Control reigns over everything.

Her lashes flutter. I release pressure—she inhales sharply, struck by a wave of euphoria. A swirl of color flushes her cheeks.

“Lucien—” she breathes, barely audible.

“What do you need?”

“More. Harder.”

I rock into her so deep her toes curl. My hand tightens fractionally. Her lips part on a silent vowel. I hold that line as she floats near the edge of black, eyes glossy, yet still anchored. My name becomes a choked mantra. Her only mantra.

When her body shakes—once, twice—I release her throat completely. Oxygen floods, and with it, unraveling ecstasy. So fucking hot.

She splinters around me, nails carving my shoulders, a howling cry swallowed by thunder. I flip her over, thrust turning brutal, climax creeping up and down my limbs, white flashi ng behind my eyes. I empty inside her with a groan that scrapes my vocal cords raw.

We freeze, breathing a shared storm. My palm still cups her throat, protective now, feeling her heartbeat gallop wild. I lower my forehead to hers. Her eyes refocus, hazy but alert. Air fills the room with a slow pace.

“Color?” I ask.

She smiles softly, exhaustion-sweet. “Green,” she croaks, voice rough from strain. Pride consumes me from the fact that I controlled her most delicate element—air—and she loved it.

I stroke my thumb beneath her chin, soothing her pulse, then slip free from her body, collapsing beside. The rain’s slowed to a hush.

The minutes tick by. Panting steadies. I gather her into my chest, spine curved, absorbing her aftershocks. She buries her nose into my collarbone. My heart still hammers; hers too, syncing.

“Too much?” I breathe.

“Not enough,” she counters, voice scratchy. She peeks up. “Next time, rope?”

Greedy Siren. I press my lips to her sweaty hairline. “Next time, rope and a gag.”

She shivers in delighted horror.

She hums in satisfaction. Thunder rolls in the distance, like applause fading.

I glance at naked windows.

“We missed the after-party.”

She stretches catlike. “Worth it.”

I vow to buy this bed on the spot, if only to chain memories here. Buy the whole damn floor. But reality intrudes: midter ms, family obligations, and work.

I collect our clothes, toss her my jersey.

As she slips it on, lightning paints her silhouette like cracked porcelain—stronger where broken.

I’m struck breathless by what we are. Monsters in training, lovers by accident, destined to bleed for each other long after this hotel rots.

Even if I do cheat on her, I do it for the release. She is the only one I would bleed for.

She peeks at my face, sees the storm in my skull. “What?”

“I love you.”

Her smile curves wickedly soft. “I love you, too.”

We leave the room at dawn holding hands, smelling of rain and something darker. The clerk pretends he doesn’t notice the bruises. I tip him enough to forget.

Outside, the storm’s broken. The moon glares through the clouds. She looks at the ethereal light like it’s a dare to remake her. I pull her into my side; she tucks sweetly, trusting a demon’s protection.

Inside me, a vow forms; whatever the fuck hunts her, I’ll hunt it back, worse. And if I ever become that Hell, I’ll give her the bullet to stop me.

However, that part of the story awaits another night.

For now, we’re college kids with secrets scalded into skin, stepping into the moonlight, laughing at thunder’s retreat—two sinners certain the world won’t dare catch them.

We have already caught each other.