Page 37 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Lucien

I feel the gunshot before I hear it—a thud that rattles the chandelier in the foyer and yanks every demon in the house to attention.

My heart lunges. One heartbeat later, I’m sprinting. I kick in the master-suite door like it’s drywall, the door splinters, and pain erupts up my leg, but that doesn’t stop me.

Astra stands at the far edge of the bed, bare feet on the hardwood, hair a dark storm around her shoulders.

The glock’s barrel still kisses her lips, smoke curling from the muzzle like a whispered dare.

She doesn’t flinch when the door explodes; she doesn’t even blink.

Her ocean eyes turned to midnight, locking in on mine with a challenge so violent.

Click. She pulls the trigger again.

The blank snaps again.

I swallow the roar hammering my ribs and raise both hands, palms forward. “Baby,” I say, voice raw gravel. “It’s a blank.”

She lowers the gun a fraction, eyes flicking to the slide, then to me. “You gave me a toy,” she whispers. Contempt drips from every syllable. “Figures.”

“Safety measure,” I say, stepping into the room, shutting the mangled door behind me. “I never handed you a weapon I hadn’t disarmed.”

“Hilarious.” She laughs—shards of glass over concrete. Like the mirrors that are destroyed all over my fucking house.

“Manipulation even in mercy.”

She throws the pistol. It arcs, lands on the duvet with a dull thud. My gaze tracks it until I’m sure she’s unarmed. Then her hand whips across my face. The crack bounces off the tall ceiling. Blood blooms warm on my lip; I taste iron. I swallow it. I welcome it.

“Again,” I offer.

She balls her fist but lets it drop. “Talk.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. She wants to end it all, but I’ll never let her. She should know better.

I exhale through torn skin. “A month ago—New Mexico.” My voice catches. “You remember being taken from the trailer, waking up in a stranger’s house?”

Her stare is ice. “Of course I remember… well… I remember waking up…”

“That stranger was my friend. Ex-medic, no record, owed me favors. I paid him to save you after I got you out of that filthy trailer. He never touched you, Astra. He lied to scare you, lied because I told him to keep you afraid and safe.”

Her shoulders flinch. Pain, memory, maybe betrayal. “Safe?” she spits. “I woke up in a room, half-naked, with a man bragging about how badly I wanted him.”

“I salvaged you from worse,” I say, throat tightening.

“Not redemption, but reality.”

“Reality?” Her laugh cracks.

“Reality is that I was prey, and you tracked me like it was your j ob.”

“I tracked you until you ran to California. Then I needed help.” My words tumble, unable to stop now.

“I followed every bus ticket, every motel. Not to cage you—yes, partly to cage you—but mostly to keep you from hurting yourself. You are beautiful. You are strong. You are heard…”

She crosses her arms, nails digging skin. “No… I’ve been continuously silenced, Lucien. Can’t you see that? I am a puppet in everyone else’s game. When do I get to decide what I want to do with my life?”

She breaks down in front of me. Sobbing recklessly.

I breathe it. “I orchestrated the kidnapping, yes. Victor and Nicolette were never in the plan. Miles was never supposed to get close. Varek was set to intercept after the auction floor. Fuck. The auction was supposed to be staged, not even fucking real. It was all supposed to be done at Varek’s house.

Victor jumped the timeline after he fucked up; Nicolette drugged you after you were actually kidnapped.

Everything went to ash in the span of twenty-four hours.

” I rub temple-pulse. “I’ve replayed those hours every night since. ”

She steps forward, pupils blown. “Then why the blank? Why fake a bullet tonight?”

“Because a live round in that moment would have painted these walls with regret.” I point at the discarded glock.

“I knew your pain would aim that gun at me, then maybe at yourself. A blank stops the impulse before it’s permanent.”

Her lips tremble. “You think I won’t finish the job?”

I kneel, keeping stare level. “Load it and find out.”

The air between us thrums. She kneels too, grabs the pistol, and racks the slide open. Sees the crimped brass. Eyes lift—black comets.

“You control every variable.”

“Not every.” I reach into my waistband, pull a fresh magazine—live rounds. I hand it to her. “Choice is a variable. I can’t stomach it anymore. Take it.”

She accepts the clip, a weighty promise. A slow, deliberate click.

She chambers truth. Then she cocks her head. “If I shoot you, who hunts Miles?”

A spark—the angle I prayed for.

“I do. We do—together. I’ll put his jaw on your nightstand.”

“You expect trust?”

“No. Only acceptance that my violence serves you.”

She studies my face—minute fractures, healed scars, blood drying on my lip. Something shifts behind her eyes—rage cooling into calculation.

“First,” she says, voice low, “I need confession. All of it. No omissions, no riddles.”

I nod once. Confession is easier than breathing.

I tell her…

How I hacked campus security cameras sophomore year.

How I paid a New Mexico sheriff to bury a statement after someone reported her selling herself for sex.

How I gave her fake bullets.

How I branded her because I needed her to only want me.

How I need her.

How every mile she traveled, I bought the room next door. I had someone following her.

How the kidnapping should have been a three-day scared straight mission—until Victor sold intel and Miles went rogue.

How her father handed her over to me.

I tell her everything that I ever did to change the course of her life. I think all of those things were for the better.

Astra listens without blinking. By the time the words dry up, the lamp throws prison-bar shadows across her face.

“And Damien?” she says at last. “You shot him. Left him. Thought he died.”

“I know.” The admission punches me in the gut.

“I aimed for his heart. I watched it stop. Somehow, he kept breathing in the dark.” My jaw grinds.

“I’ll finish him too.”

She nods, satisfied or numb—I can’t read which. Then she rises, taking off her leggings, shrugging her hoodie, stripping innocence leaf by leaf. She stands naked but for the gun in her fist and the war in her eyes.

“Kill Miles first,” she orders. “Then Damien. Then maybe you.”

My pulse howls.

“Agreed.”

She climbs onto the bed, knees spreading sheets. “Show me loyalty.”

I obey. She always has fallen back on sex when her trauma is too much for her to bear.

Clothes peel away. Knees sink mattress. She presses the barrel to my temple—metal kiss, loaded verdict. The slide is warm from her palm, the smell of solvent mixing with skin.

“Move,” she commands.

I thrust slowly, deliberately, worshiping the bruise-laced expanse of her thighs. My eyes skim over her brand, which is slowly healing.

She keeps the barrel steady, fingers curling gently over the trigger. Power arcs between us. Her breath hitches on every drive. Mine stutters when safety clacks under her fingertip, off, on, off again—metronome of mortal trust.

“Eyes,” she pants. I lock gaze. Storm meets storm.

“Lie once and I paint the headboard.”

“I’ll never lie again.” The truth slices me open.

She rides harder, hips snapping, sweat glistening. The gun never wavers. In her stare, I see a covenant—bullet or forgiveness, she gets to decide.

The thrill is intense.

When she clenches, shudders, and moans, I spill inside her with a groan that tastes of forgiveness.

Silence crashes after, broken only by our ragged breathing and the soft click as she engages the safety. She lowers the weapon, sets it barrel-down between us like a peace treaty signed in heat.

“Find Miles,” she whispers, voice trembling. “Bring me his screams.”

“I swear.”

She slides off, walking silently to the bathroom. I dress fast—mission settling over lust like armor. Before leaving, I pick up the live-loaded glock, wipe smudged prints, and place it on her nightstand within reach.

“Two bullets remain,” I tell the half-open door. “One for him, and one for Damien. If you need one for me— I’ll gladly give you a fresh mag…if you decide I’m past saving.”

The water shuts off. Her voice floats out steamy and sure: “Don’t miss.”

I descend the stairs, tasting blood and purpose.

Miles Holloway won’t see sunrise.

Behind me, the house exhales—violence, passion, and revenge fill every beam. Reassuring me that there is hope.

Hope that my wife will one day forgive me.