Page 47 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Astra

The bedroom door closes behind us, and I grab him.

My fingers twist into his shirt, yanking him down until our mouths crash together—hard, brutal, messy.

I taste fury and pride and the twisted satisfaction that I finally said everything I needed to say to the people who never deserved to be called my parents.

Lucien’s hands slide under my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My back slams against the nearest wall, and I don’t care that it might bruise. I hope it bruises. I want to carry the aftermath like a trophy.

“You were perfect,” he growls against my throat, voice all gravel and reverence. “Fucking perfect.”

I yank his belt free, impatient, drunk on the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the goddamn war he’s been training his whole life for.

“Prove it,” I whisper.

“Show me I’m not just your good little project. Show me that I’m your Siren.”

That’s all it takes.

He spins, drops me on the bed, and yanks his shirt off like it’s choking him.

“I’m not fucking you soft tonight,” he warns, dragging my leggings off in one brutal pull. “This is reward and punishment.”

I smirk. “Earned both.”

“Damn right you did.”

He doesn’t waste time. His mouth finds my thigh first, right over my brand, then higher. His stubble scrapes against my bare flesh, his teeth sink in just enough to make me flinch, and I gasp, fingers digging into the sheets.

“You want it rough?” he asks, voice husky as he kisses over the spot he just bit. “You want to be reminded who you belong to?”

I nod. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

He groans—deep and guttural—like he’s just been given permission to unleash the parts of himself he usually chains up for my sake.

“Good,” he says, lining up.

“Because I don’t want you to forget.”

The first thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.

It’s vicious. Deliberate. Every inch of him slams into me like it’s a claim. A brutal one.

My nails rake down his back, and he hisses, but he doesn’t stop. His hand wraps around my throat—enough to choke, just enough to control. His eyes lock with mine, burning with something wild and possessive.

“This isn’t about love,” he grits out between thrusts.

“It’s about loyalty.”

“I know,” I whisper, dizzy from the pressure, the pace, the way he’s splitting me apart and putting me back together with every thrust.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip, dragging it down.

“You walked into that house today and didn’t flinch. I’ve never seen anything more dangerous than you, Astra.”

“My perfect. Little. Siren,” he groans, his words matching his pace.

My heart stutters, but my body is too far gone to process anything but him—his hands, his cock, the filthy words he whispers as he fucks me like I’m the last bit of salvation he’ll ever touch. I’m his savior, and he is my sentence. My sentence of life.

When I come, it’s not as graceful as usual.

It’s violent. Loud. My legs shake, and my vision goes white as he curses and follows, his grip bruising my hips, holding me still while he finishes deep inside me.

We collapse together, tangled in sweat and breathlessness.

He doesn’t move for a long time.

Then he turns his face to mine, eyes still dark, voice soft.

“You’ll choose who you see from now on. I’m not your captor, but I will keep you safe. If I think it’s dangerous, I need you to trust me. Don’t fucking run.”

I nod, throat tight.

Because that’s the difference between surviving and living.

And tonight, I finally feel like I’m doing the latter.

He loves me. I love him. I will forever be the storm, and he will be my storm chaser.

* * *

The clink of forks on china is oddly comforting.

Not the noise itself, but what it means—normalcy. Or someth ing close to it. We’re all sitting at Lucien’s long, heavy oak table like we’re not a walking collection of secrets and scars.

Dante pours another glass of wine, arm draped lazily over the back of Evelyn’s chair. She looks like the queen of her dark little empire, barefoot and smug in one of his black button-ups that nearly swallows her.

“You should’ve seen their faces,” Lucien says, smirking into his glass. “Verona’s lips were pressed so tight, I thought she was going to have a heart attack.”

“Oh, I bet,” Evelyn says, turning to me. “Did she do that thing where she wrinkles her nose like she smells rotting trash?”

I nod. “It’s her signature look. That, or pretending she’s about to faint at the mention of therapy.”

Dante snorts. “You mean your entire childhood?”

Lucien stiffens slightly beside me. I nudge his thigh with mine—subtle, just a reminder.

“She was the same,” I say, twirling my fork. “Said that I was screaming for attention.”

“Well, to be fair,” Evelyn says, raising an eyebrow. “You were wearing all black, with hair so pale you looked like the girl from The Ring on her revenge arc.”

“That’s the vibe,” I smirk.

Lucien kisses my temple like he’s proud of it. “She didn’t flinch. Not once.”

Dante finally speaks, low and amused.

“I still can’t believe you let him in the house like that. The last time Verona saw Lucien, she literally slapped a priest to get an exorcism scheduled.”

Evelyn bursts out laughing.

“No, no—remember the voicemail she left? ‘If you really loved your sister, you’d go to church to ask for forgiveness.’”

I cover my face with my hands, half-laughing, half-groaning. “Jesus Christ, you guys.”

Lucien grins like he’s enjoying every second of this.

“You did good,” Evelyn says seriously, her tone softening. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but that kind of confrontation—it’s not for them. It’s for you. And I’m proud of you.”

Something tightens in my chest. I shoot her a small smile. “Thanks. I actually feel lighter. Like I left something there.”

“Probably generational trauma,” Dante deadpans.

Lucien snorts into his wine.

“Honestly?” I say.

“It felt like slamming a door on a burning house. I don’t even care what burns with it.”

“You’re better off,” Lucien says quietly.

Evelyn leans her chin on her palm, watching me. “You seem more… I don’t know. Here. Like you’re finally in your own skin.”

“Because she is,” Lucien answers for me. “And she’s not running anymore.”

Dante raises his glass.

“To Astra. For putting bloodline narcissists in their place.”

I laugh and clink my glass against his.

“To finally saying ‘fuck you’ and meaning it.”

“To finally being free,” Evelyn adds, raising her own.

Lucien’s arm curls around my waist beneath the table. His fingers tap against my ribs like Morse code—some language only we speak.

Dinner turns into dessert. Dessert turns into Dante trying to teach Lucien how to make brownies. I lean back in my chair, sipping wine, letting it all wash over me.

It’s chaotic. Loud. Messy.

And for the first time in a long time… it feels like home.