Page 45 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Astra

Lucien’s house is too quiet when Evelyn’s not talking.

She’s in the kitchen now, yelling at the espresso machine like it personally offended her. Something about the beans being too oily. I’m on the couch, knees tucked under me, watching steam rise from the mug in my hands. It smells like cinnamon and guilt.

“I swear this thing is possessed,” Evelyn calls, banging something metallic. “Do you have to sacrifice a goat to get it to make a latte around here?”

“Try hitting it harder,” I say dryly, sipping my tea.

Lucien’s house feels like a glass box today—crystal-clear light pouring through the tall windows, dust dancing like they’re trying to distract me from the fact that in three days, I’ll be sitting across from Gideon and Verona fucking Monroe, pretending I’m not shattered.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to them.

What do you say to the people who sent you away like a broken doll and expected someone else to fix you?

“Seriously,” Evelyn mutters, coming into the living room with a half-functioning latte. “This machine is a war crime.”

She flops onto the couch beside me and kicks her feet up on Lucien’s marble coffee table like she owns the place. Her black thigh-highs are covered in faint glitter, and I’m 90% sure she’s wearing Dante’s T-shirt.

I narrow my eyes. “Are those… cupcakes on your socks?”

“They’re ironic,” she deadpans. “Obviously.”

I smile. I hate that I smile, but she makes it impossible not to.

For a while, we sit there—she’s scrolling. I’m overthinking. The tea goes lukewarm in my hands. I let it.

“You look like you’re about to fake your own death again,” Evelyn says, not looking up from her phone.

I grunt. “I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m debating it.”

She pauses, glancing at me. “You’re scared.”

I shrug. “I don’t know what I am. Nervous? Angry? A little homicidal?”

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

She leans back against the cushions and tosses her phone aside. “Then wear something amazing. Nothing says ‘fuck you’ like looking hotter than your mother.”

It reminds me of my hair. I need to make an appointment to get it back to blonde. I feel wrong as a brunette.

“She always hated when I wore black.”

“Then we’re going full funeral-core.”

There’s a silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the silence I never used to know how to sit in—the kind that comes with someone you trust. Evelyn isn’t perfect, but she’s still here.

I glance over at her. “Did you ever feel like you were someone else’s burden?”

She thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Only every Tuesday and whenever I look at a group chat.”

I roll my eyes.

But then she says, quieter, “I did. For a long time. Especially after my mom died. I thought if I just… behaved, if I made myself smaller, they’d stop looking at me like I was the problem.”

Her voice doesn’t break, but mine almost does. “Did it work?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. But eventually I stopped caring.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“Lucien cares,” she adds. “Even if he’s a psycho half the time.”

“More than half.”

“Okay, like 70/30. But he loves you.”

I look away. “That doesn’t fix me.”

“He doesn’t want to fix you,” she says gently. “He just doesn’t want to lose you.”

I blink fast. My throat feels tight.

The door creaks somewhere, and I hear the familiar rhythm of Lucien’s boots on the floorboards. I glance up as he appears at the threshold of the living room, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, jaw dark with stubble.

God, he’s a walking contradiction.

He pauses when he sees us. “Did you kill each other yet?”

“Almost,” Evelyn replies cheerfully. “But I promised her a makeover first.”

He snorts, coming down the stairs slowly. His eyes stay on me. I can tell he knows. I can tell he feels the dread curling inside me like smoke in a locked room.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, even though I’m not.

He sits beside me, close enough for my skin to remember his touch.

Evelyn stands up and stretches. “I’m gonna give you two space before I start gagging.”

She heads toward the door, but not before pointing at me. “Wear the black boots. And call me if your dad tries to start a cult meeting again.”

I manage a small smile. “Thanks, Ev.”

She winks. “Burn it all down, babe.”

And just like that, it’s me and Lucien.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me. Waits.

“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.

He nods once. “Good. That means you still give a damn.”

“I don’t know how to be in the same room with them.”

“Then don’t be,” he says simply. “Be in the room with yourself. With who you’ve become.”

I rest my head against his shoulder. The warmth seeps into me slowly, like sunlight through a crack.

“They don’t deserve to see me like this,” I murmur.

“No,” he agrees. “But you do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s full of everything we’ve survived.

Everything we’re about to face.

And for now… it’s enough.

“Can I get my hair changed?” I ask quietly. I never asked him how he felt about it, but I don’t care. I hate it.

“Of course, baby. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

He places a gentle kiss on my forehead and leaves the room.

I really did get lucky, didn’t I?

* * *

The scent of bleach hits before the door even closes behind us.

It’s sharp and familiar like a warning, or a memory with teeth.

The salon is minimalist, featuring white tile, black chairs, and clean lines. No soft pastels or Instagram walls. Just mirrors that force you to look at yourself, whether you want to or not.

I stare at mine now, unsure who the fuck is staring back.

The girl in the reflection has brown, muted hair, flipped up at the ends, tangled from sleep and sex and everything in between. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles. Her mouth is a silent dare. She doesn’t look like someone who was meant to survive.

But I did. Somehow.

Lucien brushes a hand down my spine. “You sure?”

I nod, even though I’m not. “I want to be blonde again.”

I need to feel like I’ve made a choice. Like this, this body is still mine.

The stylist—a man with silver rings and a practiced indifference—greets us and gestures to the chair.

Lucien doesn’t sit. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I’m something fragile that learned how to bite.

“I’ll leave it a little rooted,” the stylist says, running his hands throug h my hair. “Keep the edge?”

I nod. “Make it cold. Platinum. No warmth.”

He lifts a brow but doesn’t argue. Just gets to work, parting and painting, tucking foil after foil like secrets under metal.

Lucien’s eyes never leave me.

“You’re quiet,” I say to him between sections.

He shrugs. “Watching.”

“You always are.”

“Better me than someone else.”

That used to piss me off. Now, I’m not sure. Maybe I like being watched if it means someone notices when I start to sink.

The stylist hums softly under his breath as he works. I think it’s “Material Girl” by Madonna. I laugh internally. The foils crinkle. Time stretches.

It’s strange—how something as mundane as a salon chair can feel like a battlefield. This place is sterile, but I feel everything. Every choice. Every time I dyed my hair to be someone else. To disappear. To provoke. To forget.

And now?

Now I just want to feel like me. Even if I’m still not sure who that is.

“I used to do this alone,” I murmur.

Lucien’s gaze sharpens. “You’re not alone anymore.”

I exhale. “I know.”

Another beat of silence.

“I need them to see me like this,” I say quietly. “Not broken. Not bruised. Not brunette.”

His jaw ticks. “They’ll see.”

I glance at him in the mirror. He looks tired. Haunted. Like someone who’s lived a hundred lives in silence and survived every one of them through sheer violence and obsession.

Maybe we’re not so different.

The bleach starts to sting. I close my eyes and let it.

Thirty minutes pass in soft whispers and the hum of the overhead fan. The stylist checks the foils, nods to himself, and leads me to the bowl. The rinse is warm. Comforting. The toner burns a little. I don’t flinch.

When I’m back in the chair, he blow-dries it smooth, section by section, until it gleams like ice under the lights.

It’s jarring.

Seeing myself like this again.

I look… dangerous.

Like a ghost that crawled out of her grave and decided she was prettier this way.

Lucien moves behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders. I see our reflection—him in black, me in white.

A study in ruin.

“You look like vengeance,” he murmurs.

“Good,” I whisper back.

“That’s what I’m bringing.”

The stylist spins me around. “You’re done.”

No. I’m just beginning.

Lucien pays—and we step back into the parking lot, the sky clouded over, the air thick with the promise of rain.

He opens the passenger door for me. I pause before getting in.

“Thanks,” I say.

His eyes search mine. “For what?”

“For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say anything. Just shuts the door gently and walks around to the driver’s side.

We drive off into the dark, the blonde swats softly against my collarbone, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m running away.

I feel like I’m on my way back.

I’m alive. I’m heard.