Page 34 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Lucien

I wake to the taste of gunmetal on the back of my tongue.

For a moment, I’m not in my bed—I’m on a warehouse floor, knuckles split, Nicolette’s blood drying between my fingers, Varek’s accusation ringing in my skull: Damien is alive. The memory burns so bright it blinds me.

Then a weight shifts against my chest—warm, breathing, fragile—and the nightmare recedes.

Astra.

She’s curled into me, knees tucked, one hand resting peacefully on my chest, as if she fell asleep mid-climb up my body.

Sunlight enters through the curtains, gilding the dust in the air.

The bedside clock blinks 12:03 p.m. Late, even for a man who prowled half the city last night.

My body feels heavy, but my mind is buzzing like a hive of bees, restless beneath the calm.

I try to slip away without waking her, but the moment my shoulder leaves the pillow, her eyes open wide, alert, no fog of sleep. Survivors wake fast; I forget that sometimes.

She assesses me with that quiet, feral vigilance I both adore and de spise. I brace for the question— Where all did you go last night? Why did you give me a gun? —but she whispers something that guts me instead…

“You’re bleeding.”

I glance down. Dried crimson smudges my forearm, a faint track along my collar where Varek’s blood splattered onto me.

“It’s not mine.”

She reaches for her wipes and cleans me. The intimacy of it steals my breath. There’s more blood beneath her fingernails than mine; she clawed at me when I sank inside her hours ago, half-mad with remorse. I should feel shame. Instead, I feel victorious.

“Did you sleep?” I ask.

“A little.”

“Nightmares?”

“Not mine.” She swallows. “You were thrashing.”

I remember flashes—Victor’s missing arms, Nicolette gurgling, Damien laughing from a shadowed doorway. I taste copper.

“Lucien.” Her voice is a fragile tether. “Look at me.”

I do. She touches the scar on my chest—earned the first night we met, when I saved her from death. Now she traces it like a seam that holds me together.

“I’m still here,” she says.

Three words. Salvation disguised as fact. I need reminding.

I kiss her—soft at first, but hunger sparks like a match to gasoline. She answers with hesitant pressure, as if gauging the temperature of my soul before diving in. She knows how hot and cold I can be, but today, I’m hot.

When her hands slide up my chest, I freeze, then I melt. The tremor in my chest loosens its grip.

“Let me see you,” I murmur. My voice is raw.

Color climbs her cheeks, but she lifts the hem of the oversized tee—my tee—slides it over her head, and drops it.

Natural light spills across her skin, pale and marked: a fading bruise where Miles once gripped her, a healing bite at her hip from my own teeth, freckles on shoulders I’ve mapped in bleeding starlight.

Heat roars through me.

I grip her ankle, draw her leg over my hip, and settle myself between her thighs. I kick the sheet away. She parts for me without shame, trust shining through wariness. It slices me open like a razor.

“You still want me?” she asks, voice trembling from the weight of everything we’re not saying.

“Always.”

Even though I fucked her last night, she knew that was because I was tired of feeling. I needed her touch. Today, she questions my decision. I don’t regret it.

She skates her palms down my chest, fingertips brushing the healed wound. I suck in a breath. Pain mixes with want until they’re indistinguishable. It pains me how much I fucking need her.

“Show me,” she whispers.

Permission detonates restraint. I pull her down, her neck craned to the side, giving me easy access.

My tongue sweeps the pulse hammering beneath her delicate skin.

She arches, breath hitching. I trail kisses down her neck, linger at a scar I never gave her.

Rage flickers, but she slips fingers into my hair and tugs, grounding me here, now.

I close my mouth around her nipple—warm, soft, pebbled. She ga sps, thighs tightening around my ribs. I suck, swirl, nip until she whimpers..

Between her legs, she’s already wet—evidence of trust, of need that has nothing to do with fear.

I drag my fingers through her slick, slow.

She jerks, moans, tries to press up; I pin her hips like prey, savoring the tremor that races through her.

Circles, strokes, soft suction until her thighs tremble.

“Lucien—”

I glance up. Her eyes are the brightest of blue. Her fingers twist the sheet. Her body begs for me.

“More,” she whispers.

I sink two fingers inside. She’s tight, hot; she clamps around me and cries out.

I curl, find that spot, and stroke in rhythm.

Her breath fractures—short, choked, building.

I feel her crest coming: muscles coil, back bows, a sob of my name.

She shatters, pulses around my fingers, mouth parted in a silent scream.

I don’t let her down gently. I bring my fingers to my mouth and lick her arousal from my fingers. She looks at me with a hungry gaze. My slick mouth crashes to hers, devouring her. She tastes herself on my tongue and moans.

“On your knees,” I order, voice gravel.

She rolls to her knees, face in pillows, ass lifted—submission that feels more like power. I fist my cock, stroke once, and line up. She glances over her shoulder, hair wild, cheeks flushed.

“I want to see you,” she says.

So I roll her onto her back, fingers trailing down her sternum. She reaches between us, not shy, slides me to her entrance, and I sink into her inch by inch until breath leaves us both. I fit like a blade in its sheath.

I grip her hip, thumb stroking bruises into bone, as I prop myself up on my other arm. I rock slowly, testing angles, her pupils blown. Every ripple of heat squeezes guilt out of me; every gasp she spills pours absolution back. She braces her hands on my chest, nails digging into my flesh.

“Faster,” she begs. I set the pace—I glide in and out of her smoothly, effortlessly. Wet silk claws me, milks me. I thrust in our bodies, clapping, heartbeat drumming in my ears. Her breasts bounce; I catch one in my mouth, bite gently—her nails rake my chest.

Pressure builds—tight, electric, coiled behind my spine. She’s close too; I feel it in the way her walls flutter, in the broken whimpers.

“Touch yourself,” I rasp.

She slips fingers between us, rubs small, quick circles. Her head falls back, throat offered. I latch teeth to her pulse. She spasms, cries out, and clenches hard. Pleasure detonates behind my eyes; I spill inside her with a guttural groan, hips grinding as aftershocks wrack us both.

We collapse, tangled, hearts sprinting.

Minutes trickle. Our breathing sinks from ragged to quiet. Sweat cools. She lifts her head, hair plastered to her cheek.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers.

Adrenaline. Remorse. Need to confess. I roll, pulling her beside me, chest to chest. The tremor in my hands threatens to reveal secrets I can’t hide.

“What is it?” she asks.

I reach to the nightstand, retrieving the gun she placed there—compact, safety engaged. Her eyes widen.

“If I ever cross a line you can’t forgive,” I say, voice raw, “point this at me. Pull the trigger.”

Fear flickers across her face. “Lucien —”

“Promise me.”

Her throat works. She disengages the safety, just feeling the click, then re-engages. “I promise.”

Relief and terror flood me in equal measure. She sets the gun on her chest like a vow, fingers stroking the slide.

“Will you trust me the same?” she asks.

“Always.”

She places the pistol on the nightstand, kisses my knuckles, then rolls onto her side, back to me. I curl around her. For the first time in months, my heartbeat finds rhythm.

An hour later, sunlight shifts, spotlighting dust motes over the bed. She drifts toward sleep. I stay awake, listening to the quiet—and to the door buzz down the hall.

Dante’s voice filters through the intercom. “Lucien. Need a word.”

I untangle gently, pull on jeans, and open the door a crack.

Dante stands, phone in hand, expression grave. “Evelyn wants to see Astra—today.”

My jaw tightens. “She’s not ready.”

“She is.” His gaze flicks to the bedroom behind me. “And Evelyn’s freaking the fuck out. Give them fifteen minutes in your office. Neutral ground.”

Astra’s sleepy voice floats from the bed. “Let her come.”

I sigh, rubbing my eyes gritty from violence and sex. “Fine. Two o’clock. Supervised.”

Dante nods. “I’ll bring her.”

As he turns, he adds quietly, “And Miles is slipping south. Clock’s ticking.”

I close the door, lean my forehead against the wood. The monster inside me claws, hungry for blood. But I will cage it for my little Siren. Then?

Th en I feed the demons inside of me, the one and only—Miles Holloway.

I crawl back into bed. Astra stirs, lashes flutter. My hand inches toward the gun on the nightstand—reassurance and damnation in equal measure.

For now, the weapon stays cold.

For now, she stays.

For now, I breathe.