Page 43 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Astra

We shouldn’t be here.

Lucien hasn’t said it, but I can feel the tension pouring off him like gasoline, waiting for a match.

The blacked-out SUV we rented is parked two blocks away—hidden beneath the cloak of night and our own shared obsession. He’s at my side, dressed down in dark jeans and a charcoal hoodie. I wear a cropped jacket zipped to my neck and aviators even though the sun set hours ago.

This part of Utah doesn’t sleep. Neon drips down buildings like spilled paint, glowing against glass windows that hide sins no one’s supposed to see.

Club Muse looks precisely the same.

Sleek. Polished. Dangerous.

I used to think it was glamorous.

Now I know better.

The music thumps through the pavement beneath my boots. Bass and bodies, synthetic perfume and secrets. I inhale deeply, preparing myself to walk into the past that rewired everything I knew about love, power, and survival.

Lu cien reaches for my hand, but I step forward first.

No turning back.

We don’t go through the front door. That would be suicide. We cut down the alley, the same one I used the night I escaped with Victor. My stomach turns at the thought.

It smells of stale wine and piss, but the memories hit harder than any stench.

“You sure about this?” Lucien murmurs, one hand hovering near the gun strapped under his hoodie.

I nod. “I need you to see it.”

A back door. A keypad that still uses a code. Fuck. He enters four-eight-zero-six. It opens. How did he know the code?

We slip in.

The hallway beyond is dim and quiet. A sharp contrast to the pounding music coming from the main floor. The walls are still that disgusting soft pink, like the inside of someone’s mouth. I hate it.

I lead Lucien past the staff rooms, through a hallway that smells like sweat and bleach, up a hidden stairwell that overlooks the showroom floor.

Below us, girls in glittering cages twirl for rich men in custom suits. Some of the girls smile like they mean it. Others smile like they were told to.

Lucien’s jaw flexes as he watches. His eyes are hollow. Dangerous.

I keep walking.

Down another hallway. Past the manager’s office. Around the corner.

Then we stop.

The door in front of us is solid black, with no handle on the outsid e. You only get in if someone wants you to.

But I remember the trick. A small panel along the frame, hidden by the shadow of the molding. I press my palm flat against it, and the door hisses open.

The room is empty.

Lucien follows me in, his footsteps careful, like he’s expecting ghosts.

They’re already here.

“This is where they auctioned me,” I say, voice like cracked porcelain.

“I stood on that platform. Naked. Drugged. Afraid.”

Lucien doesn’t speak. He just stares at the spot I pointed to—center of the room. A circle of velvet flooring. Above it, a chandelier shaped like a spiderweb.

I walk toward the mirrored wall, touching my reflection like it might tell me I’m someone else.

“This is where Nicolette told them what I was worth. This is where I stopped being Astra.”

Lucien steps behind me. His reflection towers over mine. His hand comes to rest on my hip, grounding me.

“I wish I had killed him slower,” he says, voice low and venomous.

I don’t tell him that I do too.

I let my head fall back against his shoulder. “They called me an addict, but pretty enough to fix…”

“How long were you here?”

“Three nights, I think… Long enough.”

We stand in silence. Breathing together. Remembering things we didn’t live together, but still survived.

Then, we hear footsteps.

Lucien stiffens.

He yanks me behind a pillar just as two men enter the room. My pulse flatlines. The first man walks with a limp. He is too tall. Too lean.

The second?

I freeze.

Damien.

His hair’s longer now. His coat designer. He’s laughing at something the other man said, like he doesn’t have blood on his hands. Like he didn’t sell his brother’s soul and set fire to mine.

Lucien’s hand tightens around my wrist.

We don’t move.

They don’t see us. They’re too busy talking. Too full of their own power. They exit through the side door, leaving the hallway open behind them.

When it’s quiet again, Lucien breathes out, slow and measured.

“That was him,” I whisper. “Damien.”

“I know my own fucking brother,” He snaps.

I turn to face him, heart beating so fast it hurts. “We should go.”

“Yeah. But next time…” His voice is steel. “I won’t let him walk away.”

We slip out the back the same way we came. Neither of us speaks until we’re back in the SUV.

When we finally sit in silence, Lucien turns to me.

“You okay?”

“No,” I whisper. “But I will be.”

He starts the engine, pulling us into the night.

The velvet shadows of Club Muse fade in the rear view mirror—but I know we’re not done with them.

Not even close.