Page 35 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Astra

Lucien’s study reeks of love and paranoia.

The shelves climb twelve feet, stuffed with books older than God. The rug is a slab of Persian red, thick enough to muffle a murder. His desk—a large, walnut altar—dominating the room. It is bare except for a single black fountain pen and a crystal paperweight that looks like a frozen tear.

Outside, late-afternoon sun presses pale ribbons of light through half-closed drapes, but the air hangs heavy, dim, as though daylight itself signed an NDA before coming in.

Lucien insisted on supervision.

Fifteen minutes, he said, as if that amount of time could let whatever damage Evelyn and I might hash out might bleed on the rug. He’s leaning against the door frame now—ink-black shirt, darker stare. His arms folded, closing him off further, jaw ticking once per heartbeat.

Dante hovers behind Evelyn, tension coiled up his spine. If Lucien is the blade, Dante is the stone that keeps him terrifyingly sharp.

Evelyn steps farther into the room, clutching a canvas tote to her chest. The pineapple fragrance that drifts off her hair dredges up a memory I didn’t authorize—freshman year in the dorm hallway, us shot-gunning cheap alcohol from plastic flutes and plotting to conquer the world.

That memory bursts like a bubble—gone before it feels real.

Lucien’s eyes never leave my face.

“Fifteen minutes,” he reminds, voice shaved to a razor. Then—shockingly—he steels himself, turns, and drags Dante out into the hall, the door closing behind them with a soft, final click. The latch engages. They’re still there; I can feel their shadows through the wood.

Silence booms, monstrously loud.

Evelyn sinks onto the tufted leather chair across from me.

She looks like she hasn’t slept since April.

Mascara smudges beneath her eyes; the bruise on her jaw is almost, almost invisible under foundation.

Dante’s thumbprint. We exchange brittle smiles—the kind women wear when they’re comparing fractures.

“How are you?” she asks.

I pick at a loose thread in the blanket draped over my chair.

“I’m breathing.”

“Low bar.” She forces a laugh.

“But I’ll take it.”

We lapse back into quiet. The grandfather clock on the wall ticks like a bomb. Evelyn squeezes the tote strap until it chokes the canvas. Finally, she exhales, unzips the bag, and slides a dog-eared paperback onto the coffee table.

Jane Eyre.

Our copy. Margin notes in neon gel ink and coffee stains from finals week. The sight of it knocks the air from my lungs.

“I found it in a storage box,” she murmurs. “Figured you deserved something that’s still yours.”

I trace the ragged spine, swallow the boulder wedged in my throat.

“Thank you.”

She nods—but her eyes flick to the door, then back to me. Whatever she’s here for, the book was just the crystal ball. The fortune isn’t spoken for yet.

I break first. “Say it.”

Her shoulders hitch. “Dante told me something. Last night.” She licks dry lips.

“He said Lucien… orchestrated your kidnapping.”

The sentence slides across the desk and thuds into my chest. I blink stupidly.

“He—what?”

Her breath trembles. “He planned it, Astra. Bought guards, timed the auction. All so he could be the hero who ‘saved’ you.”

“No.” My voice is a rasp. “He wouldn’t.”

“He did,” she insists, eyes shining. “Dante’s furious. He said Lucien admitted it like it was just a slight risk—something calculated. A contingency plan.”

“I… no.” Heat floods my face, then drains. But my brain is already splicing memories: Lucien’s flawless timing, the fact that Varek was my new captor, the way Lucien came as soon as I called him. A fissure splinters down my spine.

Evelyn leans forward. “Harmony tried to warn me. Before she went MIA a couple of weeks ago, after Lucien refused to let us see you.”

My heart aches.

“Harmony? She tried to see me?”

“Yeah. The last text I got from her was ‘He’s not who you think.’ Then silence. Dante claims she’s off-grid for her own reasons, but I see how he stiffens when I mention her name—like he knows more.”

A memory forced me to remember; Harmony walking with me months ago, looking over her shoulder. We all knew she was being followed, blackmailed. But by who? Uneasiness settles low in my stomach. A pit is forming.

“Why tell me now?” I croak.

“Because you can’t fight an enemy you’re still fucking,” she says. Tears brim. “He loves you, God help him, but love doesn’t excuse the bomb he dropped on you. It just makes the explosion worse.”

I stare at the book in my lap. My pulse is a snare drum. “I need proof.”

“I have Dante’s audio.” She taps her tote. “He ranted for an hour. I recorded it. Oh, and Damien is still alive…”

My breath hitches. Proof. Tangible treason. The thought galvanizes something primal and mean inside me. And what did she just say? Damien… Alive???

The door creaks.

Lucien slips back in, gaze sweeping the room like a scanner. “Time.”

Evelyn straightens, but her eyes stay on me.

“She knows.”

Lucien’s attention swivels, unleashing winter.

“What, exactly, does she know?”

Evelyn opens her mouth, but I stand. “Enough.”

Lucien’s nostrils flare. He addresses Dante—materializing behind his wife like the grim reaper.

“Control her.”

Da nte’s jaw flexes. He closes a hand around Evelyn’s elbow. She flinches, but her stare remains locked on me.

“Remember what I said,” she pleads. “Don’t let him rewrite the story.”

Lucien’s eyes flick to me. Something volatile flickers—hurt or fury or both. He steps aside as Dante escorts Evelyn out of the room. She pulls free long enough to press a small flash drive into my palm. Our fingers brush. The weight of it feels nuclear.

Then she’s gone. Door slams. Lock clicks.

Silence.

Lucien’s gaze drops to my fist around the drive. “What’s that?”

“Insurance.” I pocket it.

“Astra—”

“Did you do it?” I whisper.

He doesn’t ask what . He knows.

He exhales. “I set contingencies. Money in the right hands. Eyes diverted. I intended to intervene before harm came to you.”

“But harm did come.” My voice climbs. “They drugged me, Lucien. Miles touched me. Nicolette changed me. I was fucking sold like cattle. You call that controlled?”

His jaw clenches. “They escalated faster than expected. Victor was never supposed to buy you.”

“So you expected some torture? Who the fuck was supposed to buy me?”

“I expected bruises that would heal. Not bones. Varek was supposed to win. Victor outbid him. Varek never even tried.” He drags a hand through his hair, desperate. “I miscalculated. One misstep, and you paid the price. I have lived every second since in Hell.”

“Your Hell is optional.” I laugh, brittle. “Mine is a tattoo.”

He steps closer, reaching his hand out. “Let me—”

I backpedal. My shoulder brushes a side table; the lamp rattles. The flash drive burns in my pocket. “Harmony, where is she?” I hiss. “Where is she?”

He freezes. “I’m sure she is safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Off-grid.”

“Off grid or you don’t know?”

Pain flashes across his face like lightning. “I don’t know…. but I do know I love you.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t.”

The gun—his gun—suddenly my mind is searching for a way out.

“I need the gun.”

He sees my demeanor change.

“You’ll always be my little Siren.”

His posture doesn’t change. He simply absorbs the sight of me shaking with heartbreak. “If you need to hate me, do it. If you need to kill me—” He spreads his hands. “I’m yours to end.”

Tears blur my vision. “Why didn’t you trust me to choose you willingly?”

“Because I don’t deserve your choice.” His voice shreds. “The world isn’t fair, Astra. I tried to rewire it. I failed.”

Footsteps drum outside—Dante again. He bursts in, breath tight. “Lucien—Miles is moving. The Utah safe house just pinged. Damien might be with him.”

Lucien’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Handle it.”

Da nte glances between me and his best friend. “Now?”

“Now.”

Dante withdraws, leaving the door cracked. Somewhere down the hall, Evelyn’s voice rises in protest, then cuts off. Silence floods back.

Lucien lowers to his knees. “I’ll be here if you need to kill me. As long as it saves you from me.”

My arms tremble at my sides. I can’t tell if I’m ice or fire.

“Get out.”

“Astra—”

“Go.”

He rises, devastated.

“I’ll be outside.”

He leaves.

I rush out of the study, pushing past him as I pocket the flash drive, and sprint upstairs—two steps at a time—heart thrashing. Lucien’s master bedroom draws me in like a spell. I slam the door, throw the bolt. The smell of honey and cologne is everywhere; it makes my stomach flip.

I pace. Thought scrapes bone: Harmony’s laugh, Harmony’s watching over her shoulder, Harmony ghosting. Did Lucien keep her silent too?

I pop the flash drive into Lucien’s laptop. A single audio file loads: crowe_contingency.mp3. Dante’s voice crackles, half-drunk fury.

“You engineered her auction like a fucking business dinner, Lucien… Guards on payroll, you staged your cousin as a fake bidder ready to pull her at the last minute—except Nicolette jumped the gun and Miles got handsy… Oh, and Varek fucking failed you. You g ambled her body for a hero narrative—”

I rip the drive free, bile rising. Proof.

I stumble to the bed. The gun lies on the nightstand, black and pitiless. I sit, feeling a migraine blossoming behind my eyes.

I laugh, a haunting laugh. How poetic.

I pick up the gun.

The cold slide. The smell of gun oil. Lucien’s fingerprints still ghost the grip. I remember the night he pressed it into my palm: If I ever cross a line you can’t forgive—

I rack the slide, chamber a round. The metallic snap pierces the muted room.

Then I open my mouth.

Steel meets tongue, teeth, soft palate. Heavy.

Certain. My finger finds the curve of the trigger, rests.

The barrel chills the back of my throat.

I imagine Harmony somewhere in a warehouse, rope-burned, whispering my name.

I imagine Lucien downstairs, planning to paint the world red because he can’t bear my bruises.

I inhale metal. Salty tears spill.

Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock in the office echoes from down the hallway through the silence as if it were counting my heartbeats. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I close my eyes.

Click.