Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Lucian practically shoved me into the backseat of the SUV, sliding in next to me, and slammed the door.
Lachlan hit the gas before my seatbelt clicked.
Chelsea vanished behind us—one hard turn and the Lincoln Tunnel swallowed us whole, then daylight again on the other side.
We were on the run from someone; that much was clear.
My brain kept replaying Lucian’s face when he’d said we were leaving.
The way he’d bolted back out of the guest suite told me something had gone sideways—because men like Lucian didn’t move like that unless something was very wrong.
Lucian sat beside me, one arm braced along the seatback, shoulders tight, his gaze locked forward. The tension radiating off him was coiled tight, seconds from blowing apart.
That crease between his brows was deeper than I’d ever seen.
Not just rage.
Focus.
The kind that didn’t allow room for questions.
This wasn’t about me being dramatic or difficult. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
I glanced at him, then away again, studying my hands just to keep from staring. He hadn’t looked at me once since we’d left the garage.
“Where are we going?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
I was right. There was no response, not even a twitch.
Lucian’s silence set my nerves on edge. He wasn’t trying to scare me—he was trying to think. But whatever he was thinking about had him wound tight, which only made me more stressed.
If this were just about my father being pissed, he wouldn’t look like this.
The SUV shot east, tires humming, the skyline shrinking behind us.
Lucian finally shifted, his knee brushing mine as he leaned forward slightly. “We’re almost there.”
Almost where? I wanted to ask again, but I didn’t.
For the first time since all of this started, I had the unmistakable sense that I wasn’t the problem in this equation.
I was the reason.
The SUV turned off the main road into a quiet neighborhood. Split-levels. Minivans. Holiday wreaths still hanging on doors. The kind of place where people raised kids and never learned their neighbors’ last names.
Lachlan slowed near a brick-and-siding house on Terrace Avenue.
Nothing about it screamed danger. Nothing stood out.
Thick hedges ran the length of the property—junipers packed so dense they formed a wall. A long driveway stretched past the house, leading to a garage tucked out back.
Lach checked the rearview, then the side mirrors. He cracked the window, listened, then did it again, slower. “Clear.”
A man standing off to the side of the drive—someone I hadn’t noticed until now—nodded once and stepped aside. The SUV rolled in and continued toward the back of the house.
Lach killed the engine. He and Lucian were out before I could move.
Lucian yanked my door open. “Come on.”
Lach swung open the trunk and hauled out his and Lucian’s bags.
I slid out, and Lucian’s hand settled on my back, steering me toward the rear steps.
I counted four men spread across the yard and driveway, covering every angle. Rifles angled down but ready. Heads on a constant swivel.
This wasn’t NYPD energy.
This wasn’t private security cosplay.
These were professionals who expected trouble and didn’t plan to die surprised.
One of them nodded respectfully to Lucian.
“Perimeter’s green,” the man said. His gaze flicked over my shoulder toward the street. “For now.”
“For now,” Lucian echoed flatly. He didn’t like the words any more than I did.
We climbed the back steps in silence.
I forced my feet to keep pace, but my brain kept tripping over where we were—a perfectly ordinary, middle-class neighborhood.
Lucian Byrnes bringing me here made no sense.
He shoved the back door open and pulled me inside.
Silence pressed in, unnatural in its completeness. No hum from outside. No distant traffic. No airport roar.
It was fully soundproofed.
My pulse shot up.
We stood in the open stretch between the kitchen and the living room, framed by matte charcoal walls and silent floors that didn’t creak under boots. The place was reinforced and immaculate, expensive in a way that didn’t beg for attention.
I kept my mouth shut and let my eyes assess my surroundings.
White marble countertops surrounded the kitchen.
Deep leather couches sat in the living room, the kind you could sink into and forget the world existed.
A glass door down one hallway glowed faintly with artificial light—an operations room, I guessed.
A nerve center hidden behind suburban camouflage.
A fortress in plain sight.
Lucian’s hand stayed on my back until he guided me toward the living room.
“This is one of DarkMatter’s safe houses,” he said. “It has what we need to keep you safe.”
Me safe?
I angled my head. “Safe from what?”
Lucian’s gaze stayed on what was happening around us, not on me.
“My father would never hurt me,” I said.
I hated how automatic that sounded, even after everything, but I honestly couldn’t imagine why he’d harm me just because he was angry.
“He might try to arrest you. He might throw you in jail. But this—” I gestured at the armed men and the bunker disguised as a home.
“Is this really necessary? Why are you so freaked out?”
Lucian finally looked at me.
His expression didn’t soften.
“Like I said, Scar, your situation after The Ledger became complicated. But we’re on top of it. We’ll make sure your father doesn’t get his hands on you.”
My throat tightened, and a prickling unease crept along my arms.
He didn’t sound like a man doing his job. He sounded like a man drawing a line around me. There was ownership in it. The way he spoke made it clear I wasn’t expendable. I wasn’t just a problem he was handling anymore—I was someone he meant to keep.
He pointed to the couch. “Sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
His eyes narrowed. Not angry, but assessing. Measuring how far he could push me.
I crossed my arms and stayed where I was. I was too nervous to sit, and I wanted to stay close to him to learn more about what was really going on.
If this were just about my father’s PR mess, we wouldn’t be here.
Lucian nodded once. “Fix yourself something to drink and eat if you want,” he said. “I need to speak with the others.”
He turned and walked down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
I didn’t follow.
Not noticeably.
I drifted toward the window instead, keeping my movements casual, the way people did in movies. Only this wasn’t a movie. This was my life, and I didn’t trust anyone enough to pretend ignorance was safer than information. The house wasn’t large, so hopefully, I could eavesdrop on their discussion.
So far, I’d counted six armed men in addition to Lucian and Lach. All moving with practiced efficiency. These were definitely not rent-a-cops.
Lucian stood with two men near the kitchen entrance, half-turned toward the hall.
One of them was tall, broad, and older than the rest. He carried himself with a rigid posture and a controlled expression.
He nodded to Lucian. “You look like shit.” His accent was unmistakably French.
“Good morning to you too, Henri,” Lucian muttered.
The man’s mouth lifted. “It’s afternoon.”
Lucian pulled a gun from beneath his jacket and checked the magazine.
Henri glanced toward me. His eyes swept over me head to toe—fast and clinical—then away again, as if cataloging and dismissing me in the same breath.
“House locked down?” Lucian asked.
“Locked,” the man said. “But not invincible.”
Lucian’s phone buzzed.
He answered immediately. “Nik.”
He hit the speaker button before the first word had finished leaving his mouth.
I recognized the name. He’d called him his boss when he took the call, just before he rushed us out the door and brought us here.
“We’re on speaker,” Lucian said. “Henri’s with me.”
“Good,” Nik’s voice filled the room.
“Boss,” Henri acknowledged.
Nik didn’t waste time. “NYPD forced entry into your penthouse.”
Lucian grunted. “How?”
“Hydraulic spreader,” Nik said. “Jaws of Life. They didn’t bother pretending it was routine. There’s nothing left of your door.”
Henri let out a quiet whistle. “Subtle.”
Lucian’s gaze flicked to me, and I quickly looked away—to the street beyond the glass, then back again—hoping he hadn’t noticed me watching him.
“They searched the place,” Nik continued.
Lucian’s voice stayed even. “There’s nothing there unless they can hack your systems, which is doubtful.”
“They found the clothing Aria delivered,” Nik said. “They assumed it was meant for Miss Hayes.”
My stomach tightened.
“They didn’t stay long, though,” Nik added. “They stopped in their tracks and left.”
Lucian’s jaw flexed. “That’s odd.”
“It is,” Nik agreed. “They’re up to something. Don’t worry. I’m on it. I’ll update you soon.”
“You always say that right before everything catches fire,” Henri quipped.
Nik’s laugh was humorless. “Everything is already on fire.”
The call ended.
Lucian stared at his phone for half a second, then slid it into his pocket.
Henri leaned back, crossing his arms. “You and Miss Hayes may want to get comfortable,” he said. “Looks like you’ll be staying for a while.”
I kept my posture loose, my expression bored.
Inside, my thoughts spun anyway.
NYPD at Lucian’s penthouse. A door ripped apart. A search that ended too fast. This was trouble.
Lucian joined me at the window but didn’t speak. We stood there in silence, staring at nothing.
I broke first.
“Why put yourself and your men in danger over me?” I said quietly. My voice stayed steady despite my heart hammering against my ribs. “Just drop me somewhere and let them have me. What’s the worst they can do?”
Lucian’s head snapped around, his gaze locked on mine.
I kept going. “I could run away. No one will ever know where I went. I’m not fragile, Lucian. I’ll figure it out.”
His jaw flexed once.
“They’ll find you,” he said with absolute certainty. “And Scarlett—there are worse things than being locked in a convent.”
The room seemed to close in.