Chapter 25 Lucian
Lucian
The Kansas City heat clings to me the second I step into Celeste’s new rig, thick enough to fog the windows and slick the back of my neck with sweat.
It’s too clean. It’s a blank slate that hasn’t learned a person yet.
The old rig had smelled like mornings and coffee and her, it was an ordinary, lived-in scent that felt louder in its absence than it ever did when it was there.
Now it’s leather and fresh wood and new beginnings that don’t quite know what to do with themselves.
This is our first time in the new rig after her old one was totaled, so I start unpacking the most important items she needs.
I unpack her books. All of them, even the extras she rage-bought after I crossed a line and bought half her Tbr like a man who doesn’t understand boundaries.
I line the duplicates up neatly, spine to spine.
She’ll clock it immediately, knowing her, she’ll pretend not to.
She might even laugh, which feels like a minor miracle and a major win.
I then put away all her favorite snacks and teas before filling up her tiny closet with all of the clothes we bought for her while we were still in New Orleans.
When I sit on my bed after everything is placed where I remember it, I let my hands rest on my knees.
The new rig feels less like a vehicle and more like a promise.
I can’t undo New Orleans or erase the way someone turned her home into a threat, but I can make this place feel similar, make it a quiet that invites breathing instead of fear.
It’s at this moment I wish Sir Sass were here with us.
Orion picked him up from Rowan at the hotel so he could keep him safe until our next stop, a small precaution to keep him safe if James comes back.
The door swings open, and the heat rushes in with them, thick and heavy like the air has been following them all the way from the parking lot.
Celeste climbs in first, her cheeks are pink from the walk, and a few strands of hair have slipped free from her pin and cling to the curve of her neck.
She’s laughing at something Shiloh said, arms full of pastel shopping bags.
Linkin barrels in behind her with the confidence of a man who has never once questioned whether he can carry more than he should.
Sweat glints at his temples as he shifts a pile of department store bags from one arm to the other.
Rowan follows last with a box tucked under one arm, already wearing the expression of someone who knows he’s about to be dragged into something he didn’t sign up for.
Celeste heads straight for the back, toward her room, the bags rustling against her legs as she disappears down the narrow hall.
I follow everyone else into the living room and drop onto the edge of the couch, trying to look casual even though my pulse hasn’t settled since I heard the door open.
Could I have overstepped while stocking her snacks?
A moment later, she comes back out, lighter without the bags, brushing her hands down her shorts like she’s shaking off the heat. She stops at the kitchen island, ready to direct traffic.
“Where do you want everything?” Linkin asks, already halfway to dumping his haul on the counter.
“Just, uh, set it down,” she says, distracted, her eyes flicking over the space like she’s taking inventory without meaning to.
After a few moments, she asks Rowan to put the kitchen box by the sink, then points Linkin toward the corner where she keeps her shoes. She moves through the motions easily, but her attention keeps drifting, first to the snack station stocked the same way she kept it in the old rig.
Her hand lifts, slow and unsure, and she touches the edge of the counter like she’s grounding herself. She’s staring at everything like she doesn’t quite believe it’s there.
Her breath barely catches as she looks at me.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look steady. But the second her eyes meet mine, something in my chest kicks hard enough that I have to swallow against it.
I can see the realization settling over her, and all I can do is hope she understands what I was trying to give back to her and not think I was overstepping again.
“You did this,” she says quietly.
I tilt my head, keeping my voice even. “I thought you’d want it to feel like yours again. I didn’t want you to have to start over with nothing.”
She stares at me for a moment, unreadable, then bends to grab her bags and disappears down the hall before the door softly clicks shut behind her.
The quiet lingers, stretched thin enough that my chest starts to ache with it. I replay every choice, every placement, wondering if I crossed the line again, and if wanting to make it easier turned into deciding for her instead.
Linkin exhales and scrubs a hand down his face, the usual grin nowhere to be found. “That was good,” he says finally. “She needed to walk in here and not have to start from scratch.”
I glance at him, surprised by the care in his tone, like he understands exactly how close this moment came to going the other way.
Shiloh stays where she is, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. Her gaze doesn’t leave the doorway. “She won’t say it, but it matters to her more than you think.”
The words are simple, but they land heavily. Maybe I wasn’t wrong.
Linkin steps in closer, his voice dropping low enough that I know he means every word. “That being said, if you hurt her again—if you even start to undo what you just gave her—”
He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
Rowan nods his head like he agrees with Linkin, and Shiloh doesn’t move other than to slightly tilt her head as she studies me.
The warning settles in my chest, heavy and very obviously a line drawn by people who love her, and expect me to remember exactly where I stand.
Rowan folds his arms, his tone sharp, steady. “You’ll be sleeping with the fishes before you know you’re drowning.”
Shiloh’s silence is louder than words; the look she gives me is enough to make my throat tighten.
I meet each of their stares in turn, holding steady. “I’m not going to hurt her again.”
Linkin narrows his eyes, weighing me like he’s not sure if he wants to believe it.
“I don’t have to prove myself to any of you,” I add, jaw tight. “But I will spend every damn day proving it to her if I have to.”
The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until Shiloh finally exhales, shoulders easing. “Good. Because if you screw this up, Lucian? Your life is forfeit.”
Linkin’s mouth curves, faint and humorless. “Glad we understand each other.”
Rowan gives me one last look before turning away, muttering something about needing alone time after dealing with all the fucking children.
They scatter out of the rig, the air shifting with them, but I stay where I am. My eyes drift toward the back door where Celeste disappeared, fighting the pull to follow her.
The rig goes quiet after they leave, the door shutting with a dull thud that seems to echo through the walls.
I sit there for a long moment, staring down the hall at the closed door to her room.
I can still feel Linkin’s glare, Rowan’s warning, and Shiloh’s silence, still pressing against me.
I meant what I said. I’m going to prove it to her. Maybe that starts now.
I lock the door to the rig before walking to the end of the hallway. I take a deep breath and brace myself before I knock gently against her door. “Celeste?”
There is no answer from the other side of the door.
I hesitate, then press my palm to the wood.
“I’m coming in, okay?” The handle turns easily, and I step inside.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, her shopping bags untouched around her, like she couldn’t even bring herself to unpack.
Her hands are curled in her lap, knuckles pale, and her gaze is locked on the floor.
“Celeste,” I say softly.
Her head lifts, and fuck, it guts me. Her eyes are glassy, her mouth pressed tight like she’s trying to be quiet and hold it all in.
“It’s not mine,” she whispers. I slowly move closer, like she’s a skittish animal that might bolt if I’m too fast.
“What’s not yours?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely around the rig.
“This isn’t my rig. It’s new. It smells new.
It’s just…” Her voice cracks, and she shakes her head, looking away.
“Everything I had, everything I loved, it’s gone.
James destroyed my home to get to Korbyn, Lucian, and now I’m supposed to what… just pretend this is fine?”
I kneel in front of her, close enough that my chest is brushing her knees, but I don’t reach for her. “You don’t have to pretend,” I say.
She lets out a bitter laugh. “You went through all this trouble to make this place feel like my old rig, and I can’t even—”
Her words choke off, and she presses a hand to her mouth, like she’s trying to stop the sob that slips past anyway. That’s enough for me, I can’t sit across from her and listen to her sob and do nothing. I reach for her hand, gently pulling it away from her face.
She doesn’t fight me, just lets me take it, her fingers cold in mine. “Hey,” I murmur. “It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to hate this right now.”
Her breath hitches, her shoulders curling forward. “I keep telling myself it’s just stuff, but—”
“It’s not just stuff,” I interrupt softly. “It was yours. It was a part of you.”
She swallows hard as she blinks fast, refusing to let more tears fall, and I can see how much she’s fighting not to break apart. I shift, standing and slide in behind her, pulling her against my chest so she can feel me.
At first, her body is taut, like she’s bracing for the moment she can push me off, but then the fight drains out of her. She leans back, her head resting against my shoulder, while her hands clutch at my forearm, gripping like she needs something real to keep her from unraveling.