31. Lucien
Lucien
“One hundred fifty-five thousand.”
The number rolls off my tongue with a calm I don’t feel. Inside, every nerve is taut. Every heartbeat, a countdown.
The host blinks—just once—then slams the gavel.
“Sold.”
I don’t move right away. That’s how you get caught.
I sit still, spine straight beneath the crisp black suit I borrowed from a corpse two cities over.
I feel the weight of the gun holstered beneath my jacket, the outline of the forged ID in my breast pocket, and the heat of a hundred eyes I refuse to meet.
No one knows it’s me.
Not yet.
The girl—Brooke—doesn’t look up as she’s escorted from the stage by one of the guards I paid off. I recognize the slight nod he gives. It’s done. We have five minutes.
Five. Maybe six if God’s feeling generous tonight.
I rise from my seat and button my jacket with surgical precision. My boots echo across the polished floor as I step into the aisle. Calm. Silent. Predator posing as prey.
I slip into the rear corridor, following the girl’s handler at a calculated distance. No one stops me. Not yet.
Then I see her.
Brooke.
She’s in front of the south exit, flanked by two guards I don’t recognize. The handler is speaking to them, gesturing toward a waiting black vehicle idling outside. The plan. Stick to the plan.
But something’s wrong.
The guard on the left leans in. He’s frowning.
Don’t fucking question it. Just move.
I close the distance, fast enough to draw attention but not alarm. I flash the ID badge—real name scrubbed, barcode active, Damien’s clearance signature perfectly forged.
“She’s mine,” I say coolly, just loud enough to command.
The handler nods. The suspicious guard doesn’t.
“What’s your verification code?” he asks.
“G7-92-LA. Issued this morning,” I reply without hesitation. It’s a bluff—one I know only three people can confirm.
But two of them are dead.
The guard narrows his eyes.
Then shrugs. “Fine. Take her.”
I almost don’t believe it.
But then he’s stepping aside.
Brooke follows, silent, barefoot on the concrete. Her hair is still curled. Her lips, red. Her eyes flick to mine once—barely a glance—but it’s enough.
She knows she’s not going where she was supposed to.
Good.
We reach the car. The door swings open. I shove her inside, slide in behind her, and shut it fast.
“Drive,” I snap to the man behind the wheel.
He peels out of the lot without a word.
We hit the tree line in less than thirty seconds. My heart doesn’t slow. It pounds harder, faster. I yank the blazer off, toss it into the backseat, and lean forward to unlock the glovebox.
Inside: burner phone, cash, adrenaline injector, and a second weapon.
I glance at the side mirror.
No headlights.
Yet.
“Lucien?” Brooke finally whispers, voice raw.
“You’re safe,” I say, eyes locked on the mirror. “But we’re not out yet.”
She nods like she wants to believe me. Like she needs it to be true.
We take a hard left onto the old access road. Gravel flies. The tires groan. The silence grows thick.
Then—
Headlights.
Far behind us. Gaining.
“Shit.”
I grab the walkie. “Now.”
The trees ahead of us split open as the second car barrels onto the road, cutting behind us to form a staggered escape pattern. Just like we planned.
If Damien’s people are chasing us, they’ll have to guess which car she’s in.
“Don’t look back,” I tell her.
But I do.
And the lights veer toward the decoy.
They’re taking the bait.
For now.
We hit the old maintenance tunnel in under four minutes. Concrete and ov ergrowth. No cameras.
The car slows just enough to turn in—then darkness.
Cold, thick, suffocating.
Brooke shudders.
“We’re okay,” I say again, this time softer. “We just have to sit tight for thirty minutes. Then we’ll meet the convoy.”
She doesn’t speak.
She just leans against the window, tears slipping down her painted cheeks.
I turn my head, giving her space.
Because for now, she’s safe. But Damien will know soon.
And when he does?
He’ll burn the world to the ground to get her back.
Let him try.
Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t just steal a girl.
I stole his control.
And Damien doesn’t survive without control.
* * *
The tunnel breathes around us, cold and damp. Silent too, except for the sound of Brooke’s teeth clicking softly against one another.
I check my watch again.
7:12.
We’ve been parked in the darkness for nearly an hour. No cell service. No GPS. Just dead air and the faint hum of the engine.
She hasn’t said a word since we pulled in.
Not even when I offered her my jacket.
Not even when I said her name.
And I don’t push.
Because I know what silence sounds like when it’s covering a scream .
Finally, the second phone buzzes once.
The code’s clear: GO.
I shift into gear and pull out of the tunnel, like a ghost rising from a grave, headlights off until we hit the main road.
The convoy meets us two miles down—an old transport truck already loaded with supplies, medical kits, and false license plates. Our men are inside. Ronan, one of them, hops out and nods when he sees Brooke.
Then his eyes meet mine.
“Everything go smooth?”
“Not even a little,” I say. “But she’s ours.”
He opens the back panel. “You want her here?”
I shake my head. “No. She rides with me.”
Ronan doesn’t question it.
Smart.
I open the passenger side again. “Come on,” I tell her. “We’re not far.”
She moves like her limbs don’t belong to her anymore. One heel is gone. The other dangles from her fingers. Her hair’s a mess. Her lipstick is smeared. But she’s walking. Barely.
It’s enough.
We drive for another twenty minutes before turning off onto a forgotten road leading to my abandoned house on my property—acres of rot and brush in the middle of nowhere, punctuated by a crumbling farmhouse and a rusted swing-set that creaks even when there’s no wind.
I kill the lights.
Drive around the back.
Park beneath the overgrown trees.
Brooke doesn’t ask where we are.
Sh e just stares at the broken shutters and warped siding like she’s waiting to be hurt again.
I grab the flashlight, exit the car, and round to her side.
“This way.”
We cut across the overgrown yard. I step into the house. The smell of mildew greets me like a slap in the face. I haven’t been inside of here since I took Astra. I walk over to the door on the floor.
I kneel and pull it open, the hinges groaning like something dying.
Beneath it—darkness.
A concrete hole with only one way down. I grab the ladder and unfold it. Dropping it down into the cell.
Then I look at her.
“I kept someone here once,” I say softly. “She was worse off than you.”
Brooke’s lip quivers. “What happened to her?”
“She lived.”
I don’t add barely .
She steps forward, peers down into the hollow silence, then back at me.
“Is it locked from the outside?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a light?”
I nod. “One.”
She doesn’t hesitate.
She climbs down slowly, step by step, until her white dress disappears into the dark.
I follow after her and shut the trap door above us.
The light flickers on.
Dim. Yellow. Faintly buzzing.
Inside is a bed with fresh sheets, a crate with water bottles and protein bars, and a stack of clothes folded neatly beside a wool blanket. The ai r smells stale, and a mix of survival.
I crouch beside her.
“There are no cameras. No chains. No rules here.”
I had removed the cameras per Dante’s request.
Her voice is paper-thin. “Why are you helping me?”
I study her face. The bruises beneath make-up. The brand peeking from her collar. The terror still radiated from every inch of her skin.
“Because he doesn’t get to keep what he breaks,” I whisper.
Her eyes fill, but she turns away before they fall.
I let her.
Because tonight, she doesn’t need me to save her.
She just needs me to shut the door—and keep the monsters out.
And that?
That I can do.