Chapter 17 Celeste
Celeste
Before I know it, flashing lights paint the campsite in red and blue, washing over the wreckage like a warning that came too late. Officers move around us with clipboards and radios, asking the same questions in different orders.
Every question they ask only sharpens the truth I’ve already accepted: this wasn’t random. This wasn’t about me. This was James sending a message to Korbyn, and I was the closest surface he could carve it into.
Lucian’s hand rests at the small of my back, steady and warm, guiding me toward the SUV once they finally release us. I climb in, but I’m already pulling out my phone.
Me: Are you okay, Little Crow?
Lucian drives with one hand on the wheel, the other braced on the console like he’s ready to steady me if I tip. I start to look around the cab when I notice something small and important is missing.
“Where is Sir Sassafrass?” I could really use some good snuggles from him right now.
“Rowan took him to his hotel. Korbyn needed him, and thankfully, James didn’t go into my room and hurt him.”
The image of Lucian offering up his emotional support cat like a peace offering softens something inside me. “You just let Rowan take him?” I tease.
“No. I offered for him to take Sir Sass,” Lucian says, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“Korbyn needed the comfort more than I did. Sir Sass is a professional at being dramatic and soothing at the same time. He’ll be back later, probably furious that I abandoned him,” he says.
“With the concert this weekend, every hotel is booked solid. We had to split everyone up.”
I look over at him. “Split up how?”
“Rowan and Korbyn are at the same hotel. Shiloh and Linkin ended up at the same hotel in the French Quarter. You and I got a place a few blocks from them, it was the only room left in a thirty-mile radius.”
“Is Korbyn really okay?” I ask, staring down at my phone, waiting for the typing bubbles that still haven’t appeared.
“Rowan said she’s shaken,” Lucian admits. “Between him and her security detail, nothing will happen to her.”
I nod, swallowing the knot in my throat. James used my rig, my books, my space as a weapon to hurt someone I care about. The anger sits hot and steady beneath my ribs.
The SUV slows, turning into a small hotel lot tucked between two narrow buildings. Warm light spills from the lobby windows, soft and golden, a stark contrast to the flashing red and blue still burned into my vision.
Lucian grabs my bag from the backseat before I can reach for it. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you inside.”
I follow him toward the entrance, expecting the world to feel sharp and hostile after everything that happened, but the moment the doors slide open, the atmosphere shifts.
The lobby is alive.
Lucian gives me a small nod and steps toward the front desk, leaving me near the center of the lobby. I stay where I am, letting the scene unfold around me like a balm I didn’t know I needed.
Clusters of people in concert outfits fill the space.
They’re laughing, leaning into each other, scrolling through their phones with breathless excitement.
Someone squeals, replaying the moment of the concert that made everyone breathless.
Another group tries to mimic one of my choreo hits, their timing off, but their joy is unmistakable.
For the first time since the break-in, something inside me loosens.
These people came for the music, for the escape, and the version of me that exists under stage lights, not the one who just watched her life get torn apart. Seeing them, flushed with adrenaline, still buzzing from the show, feels like stepping into a pocket of warmth I didn’t know I needed.
For a moment, I just stand there and let myself feel every piece of it. The warmth, the life, and the proof that something I built tonight mattered to someone.
A soft step approaches, as Lucian returns to my side. He doesn’t interrupt the moment; he just waits until my eyes lift to his.
“I have our keys,” he says quietly, holding out one of the keycards. “We can head up whenever you’re ready.”
I take the card, fingers brushing his, and glance once more at the lobby full of people who have no idea what happened tonight, who are still glowing from the music and the lights and the version of me that exists onstage.
“Okay,” I say, exhaling slowly. “I’m ready.”
Lucian nods, falling into step beside me as we move toward the elevators, the laughter and music-buzzed chatter fading behind us like a softer, kinder echo of the night.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and Lucian gestures for me to go inside first. The moment the doors close, the noise of the lobby fades, replaced by a quiet hum and the faint echo of our breathing.
The space feels small in a comforting way, like the world has finally stopped spinning long enough for me to catch up.
Lucian stands beside me, close enough that the heat of him brushes my arm. I didn’t realize how much I missed that steadiness until now, how much I missed him. I greedily fill my lungs with his comforting scent of lavender and leather; it wraps around me in the way I can’t help but wish he would.
He watches the floor numbers climb, jaw set, shoulders broad and protective in the dim elevator light.
I let myself lean a fraction closer, just enough that our arms graze.
He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts almost imperceptibly toward me, like he’s been holding himself back all night and this is the first moment he’s allowed himself to breathe.
When the elevator dings for our floor, he steps out first, scanning the hallway before nodding for me to follow.
He unlocks the room and pushes the door open, letting me step inside ahead of him.
Walking in, I can’t help but be thankful for the dim, warm room. It feels like a cocoon compared to the chaos of the day.
Lucian shrugs out of his leather jacket, draping it over the back of a chair, and then he walks toward me with that steady, quiet purpose that always makes my breath catch.
He doesn’t speak. He just reaches for the zipper of my hoodie, peeling it from my shoulders with slow, deliberate care. His fingers trail down my arms so softly, almost in a reverent way. The contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold.
“You need to warm up,” he murmurs, voice low in a tone that makes me want to do anything he asks of me.
I follow him when he turns, drawn by instinct more than thought. He leads me through a side door, and I blink at the sight of the bathroom. There’s an oversized tub, marble tile from the floor to the ceiling, steam curling into the air as he turns the water on.
He comes back to me, hands steady as he works at the waistband of my pants. I don’t stop him. I’ll never say this out loud, but I don’t want to stop him. The room feels safe. He feels safe.
Before I fully register it, I’m standing in my underwear, skin prickling from the shift in temperature and the intensity of his attention.
Lucian leans in and presses a devastatingly tender kiss to my forehead. Then he starts to turn away, giving me space, giving me choice.
But I reach for him.
“Don’t go.”
He freezes.
“Please,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Just…stay. I need you to hold me.”
That’s when I see the shift. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable. He glances toward the steaming tub, then back at me, something guarded settling behind his expression.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
“Why?” I ask, searching his face.
“I just—” His jaw tics, a tiny, involuntary betrayal of something he’s trying very hard to keep contained. “Please, Celeste. Just turn around.”
There’s a plea in it, quiet and raw, and it’s enough to make me obey without question.
I turn slowly, giving him my back, giving him the dignity of not watching the parts of this that still hurt him. Behind me, fabric rustles.
I listen to the faint scrape of metal against tile, followed by a low grunt as he shifts his balance, steadying himself with the kind of care that tells me he still doesn’t know how to let me see this piece of himself.
It takes everything in me not to look. Not because I’m afraid of what I’ll see, but because I know he needs this moment. He needs to be able to control how much of himself he lets the world witness. Even when the world is just me.
After a few moments of rustling, I hear the sound of water shifting, letting me know he’s lowered himself into the tub.
“Okay,” he says, voice even lower than before, roughened at the edges. “You can turn around, but please turn the light off.”
This time, I’m the one who hesitates as I realize the weight of what he’s asking. He’s not asking for darkness, but for mercy.
I reach for the switch and ease us into a soft, ambient blue glow from the hallway. It’s dim enough to blur the sharp lines of reality, and bright enough to keep the night from swallowing us whole.
I walk toward the tub as he lifts an arm, offering it to guide me in. The gesture is careful, like he’s afraid I might break if he moves too quickly.
I climb in with my back to him, mindful of the water, and of him. The heat wraps around me instantly, soothing, but it’s nothing compared to the moment his arms slide around my waist and pull me back against his chest.
His chin settles lightly atop my head, and the world narrows to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Silence stretches between us, full of everything we’re not saying. Full of everything we’re holding for each other.
Then—
He starts humming.
A low, gentle sound. Familiar in a way that hits me right in the center of my chest. A lullaby. The same one he hummed the day I cried into his shirt after a phone call with my mother’s attorney that left me shaking. The same one he probably thought I’d forgotten.
My heart cracks a little more.
Lucian’s hand rests lightly on my stomach, fingers splayed like he’s anchoring me to something solid. His other hand settles across my ribs, warm and protective, like he’s holding something fragile.
Like I’m something fragile.
Steam curls in lazy ribbons around us. Somewhere between his humming and the steady weight of his chest against my back, the tension finally drains out of me. My muscles loosen, and my breath evens.
Long, tender minutes pass of him humming to me as I soak in his presence.
After a while, Lucian nudges me gently, a sigh brushing the back of my neck. “You’re going to be all pruney if we don’t get out.”
I smile, turning my face so my cheek rests against his chest, eyes still closed. “Then move me.”
I feel the way his body goes still beneath me, the quiet catch of his breath, the way the air around us seems to tighten.
He lets out a low, frustrated groan, heavy with defeat, before he quietly whispers, “I can’t get both of us out of this tub.”
A quiet strain in his voice pulls me back to the surface and cuts through the warmth and steam like a cold hand on my spine.
It carries a vulnerability I’ve never heard from him before, a tremor from a place he hasn’t let me close enough to touch.
Where he still measures himself against the man he was before the bomb took pieces of him, he’s never fully forgiven himself for losing.
“I’m not kidding,” he mutters, voice tight. “You’re basically deadweight. And I’m working with one leg and no traction.”
Something inside me pulls, slow and painful, like a thread catching on bone.
I could never pity him, but there is a soft, aching sadness for how hard he is on himself, how quickly he assumes he’s failing me when he isn’t.
And yet… he hasn’t let go of me. Not even a little.
His arms stay around my waist like he’s holding on to something he’s afraid to lose.
I exhale softly and stretch, shifting forward in the water until the night air brushes my skin with a cool kiss. The separation feels colder than it should.
“You okay?” he asks behind me, his voice gentler now, stripped of the earlier frustration.
“I’m good,” I whisper. “I didn’t realize how tired I was. How long were we in the bath?”
“Long enough,” he murmurs. “If I had to guess, I’d say at least half an hour. Maybe more, it’s hard to tell without a clock.”
I nod and rub my hands over my face. “I don’t know if my arms work anymore. I am physically exhausted.”
“That’s because your adrenaline finally burned out,” he says, voice steady, practical in that way he gets when he’s trying to take care of me without making it obvious.
“You’ve been running on fumes since you finished the show.
Now your body’s cashing the check. We need to get you dressed and in bed before you drop. ”
After everything tonight, after the wreckage and the seething anger I felt towards James, the impromptu tangle of limbs in the tub did something I didn’t expect.
I feel safer now than I did standing in the ruins of my rig.
Like I borrowed strength from him, and he didn’t even flinch under the weight.
I step out of the tub, water dripping down my legs, and glance back.
His arms rest along the rim, broad and steady even in silhouette. His head is tipped back against the cool tile, throat exposed, eyes closed like he’s trying to gather himself before facing the world again.
“Hey,” he murmurs before I can slip out of the bathroom. “Can you turn the light back on? I, uh…”
He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish. I know what he’s asking for. I nod and turn my back to him as I flip the switch back on and leave the bathroom, closing the door gently behind me to give him the privacy I know he needs.
That’s when I see it.
There is only one bed.
One giant, fluffy, and very much not accompanied by a second one, bed.
Either someone made a mistake… or this was the only thing left.
Still, I send a quiet thanks to whoever might be listening. Fate, God, the hotel manager, literally anyone, it doesn’t matter.
Just… thanks.
Because after the day I’ve had, after the wreckage and the fear, after the six months we’ve lost and the walls I keep rebuilding every damn time he looks at me…
The part of me that aches to be close to him again?
Is grateful.