35. Lucien
Lucien
One Week Later
I find her in the sunroom, curled up on the couch with one leg tucked beneath her, one bare foot bouncing in rhythm to the song, “Tracks in the Snow” by The Civil Wars, playing from the old speaker on the windowsill.
The late afternoon light cuts through the sheer curtains, painting her in gold.
Her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy buns she does when she’s pretending not to care—but I know she spent at least ten minutes getting it to fall just right.
There’s a coffee mug beside her. Half full. Probably cold.
She doesn’t look up when I enter.
“I know you’re staring,” she says, flipping the page of her book.
“Can you blame me?” I lean against the door frame, arms crossed, letting myself soak it in. “You look like sin in a sunlight filter.”
She snorts. “You’re corny.”
“Never denied it.”
Finally, she glances up—and I swear to God, she smiles. Not the sly, guarded grin she gives most people. This one’s real. It hits me in the gut .
“You packed?” she asks.
I groan. “Unfortunately. Dante insists we need a full twenty-four hours of brotherly bonding before I ruin my life.”
“You mean before you marry me.”
“Same thing.”
She laughs, but it’s warm. Easy. The kind that feels like breathing.
I cross the room and drop beside her, draping my arm over the back of the couch. She leans into me without hesitation, her cheek resting against my shoulder.
“You nervous?” I ask.
Her fingers toy with the hem of my shirt. “About the wedding?”
“About marrying me. ”
She pretends to think, squinting at the ceiling. “Well, you are a reformed control freak with a God complex and a morally gray hobby list—”
“Wow.”
“—but you’re also the only person who’s ever made me feel like surviving wasn’t a punishment.”
My heart stutters.
I reach over and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
She smiles again. “I’m glad you’re going with Dante. He needs you.”
“He pretends he doesn’t.”
“Which means he needs you more.”
We sit in silence for a minute, letting the moment breathe.
Then she says, “You better not get shot.”
“No promises.”
I squeeze her thigh. “Everything’s set?”
“Venue’s prepped. The dress is hidden. Guest list’s locked.” She pauses. “Evelyn’s writing her speech and crying over every word.”
“And you?”
“I’m just trying to make it to tomorrow without accidentally lighting something on fire.”
I grin. “That’s my girl.”
I kiss her temple, lingering just long enough for her to melt a little against me.
Then I stand, stretching. “Alright. Time for me to go pretend Dante and I actually like each other.”
She grabs my wrist. “Lucien.”
I turn.
Her eyes are soft. Serious. “Come back in one piece.”
I crouch in front of her and press our foreheads together.
“I will.”
“Because if you don’t,” she whispers, “I’m still marrying you. But I’ll raise Hell with your corpse.”
I chuckle. “Noted.”
She kisses me once—quick, sweet, grounding.
“Go,” she says. “Before I change my mind and drag you back to bed.”
I smirk. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
And then I walk away with her smile burned into my memory.
The next time I see her, she’ll be walking toward me in white. My Siren.
And for once in my life… I might actually believe I deserve it.
* * *
The fireplace crackles behind us, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The old lake house smells like cedar and old books, just like it did when we were kids. Dante’s pacing, his footsteps echoing against the hardwood like a metronome to his spiraling thoughts.
“I don’t like it,” he says for the third time tonight.
I take another slow sip of absinthe, watching him from the leather chair I’ve claimed as mine. “You’ve said that.”
“Because I mean it.”
I swirl the liquid in my glass. “Say it clearly this time.”
He stops. Turns. Stares.
“There’s too much we don’t know, Lucien. Damien’s silent. Too silent.”
“Because he’s bleeding. We took Brooke. We dismantled his last auction. He’s scrambling.”
Dante shakes his head. “That’s what we think . But what if we didn’t hurt him? What if we played into his hands? You ever think about that?”
“I think about everything,” I answer calmly, eyes steady. “That’s why there are three different fail-safes. That’s why Astra and Evelyn are under watch. That’s why I had the entire venue scrubbed and rebuilt off-grid. No records. No leaks.”
“And yet,” he says, voice sharp, “we are still questioning his next move.”
I don’t respond.
Because he’s right.
It’s the one thing about my brother I admire— his unpredictability.
Dante runs a hand down his face. “This wedding—your wedding—is a target.”
I set the glass down. Lean forward. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re pretending it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters more than anything,” I say, voice low now. “Which is why I’ve made sure he doesn’t know where it is.”
A beat.
“Are you sure?” Dante presses.
“Yes.”
He studie s me.
I know that look. It’s the one he gives people before they die. Or before they’re proven right.
I lean back again. “No one’s spoken to Damien. No one outside our circle has the location. Even the guests don’t get the address until tomorrow morning. Private texts. One-time encryption.”
“Brooke?”
“Hasn’t spoken a word since we moved her. Still sleeping in the cell beneath the house.”
“And Harmony?”
I pause.
“She’s trying to survive…. or sold… or dead… I haven’t been able to breach his new camera system yet.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Dante exhales hard and sinks into the chair across from me. For a moment, we sit in silence, the firelight dancing across our skin like the ghosts of choices we can’t take back.
“What if he shows?” Dante asks finally.
I meet his eyes.
“Then I kill him.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It will be.”
“But it won’t be clean.”
I nod once. “No. It won’t.”
The flames crackle louder between us. Somewhere outside, a branch snaps in the wind, and both of us look toward the sound.
Dante rubs his jaw. “We’re missing something.”
“Probably.”
“I hate that.”
“Me too.”
We lapse into another stretch of quiet. Only this one feels heavier. Tighte r.
Because we’ve both felt it. The shift.
The air is too still.
The silence is too deep.
And Damien, for all his chaos, has never been this quiet for this long.
It’s not a retreat.
It’s a rehearsal.
And tomorrow?
The curtain lifts.