Chapter 31 Lucian
Lucian
Celeste studies the queen-sized bed as if it has committed a small, personal betrayal; her arms are folded, one hip jutted out, the tilt of her head cataloging every indignity the room offers. “We seriously need to stop ending up in places with only one bed,” she says in a dry and amused tone.
A chuckle slips out of me. “At this point, it’s either fate or someone with a twisted sense of humor.”
She lifts a brow. “This time, the blame lies solely with Theo and Selene.”
I nod toward the doorway in the direction of the sad, overstuffed couch that passed for furniture before I offer, “I can take the couch, if you want the bed.”
She glances toward the door, then back at me with a look that’s half horror, half amusement. I can only assume the look on her face is from her picturing me folded into an origami man. “You’d snap it in half, and not in the fun way.”
Her line gets a real laugh from me, the kind that surprises me because it’s so unexpected.
She steps closer, the space between us narrowing in a way that makes the light in the room seem warmer. “It’s fine. We’re consenting adults. We’ve shared a bed before.”
I find myself holding her with my eyes because the quiet makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
“We might be consenting adults, but are you sure this is a step you want to take right now?” I ask, not to test her, but because the question needs asking in the wake of everything that happened yesterday.
She hesitates and tips her head down before nodding.
“I’m still figuring things out, but I think sleeping beside you might be the safest I feel for a while.
” The sentence settles between us like a small truce, and I let the weight of her words sit there, because some things are better held than explained.
I wrap her in a gentle hug and lean down to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll take the side closest to the door.”
“You always do.” She nuzzles into my neck, and her voice is softer when she answers.
We move through the small rituals without much talk.
While she brushes her teeth, I walk through each room, checking windows and doors with slow, methodical attention in an attempt to stitch normal back over the raw edges of the last days.
The house holds us in a hush: the bed made neat, a lamp on the nightstand, the faint, familiar smell of coffee and cedar that follows me through each room.
By the time we climb into bed, the house is dark except for a thin slice of hallway light cutting across the floorboards; she slips under the covers first and turns onto her side with her back to me, a small, deliberate offering of space.
I hesitate long enough to feel the weight of her permission, then slide in behind her.
I wrap an arm around her waist and let my chest settle against the curve of her spine, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath my ear. She shifts her body into mine as the house narrows to the two of us and the soft, deliberate care as I run my fingers up and down her arm.
I’m not sure how long we let the silence wrap around us before Celeste half turns toward me. When she speaks, there’s a raw edge under the words that makes my chest tighten.
“I’ve never been so scared in my entire life,” she says, and the sentence lands like a stone.
I hold her a little tighter, careful not to speak just yet.
I remember the absurd, useless details that crowded my head on the drive to the park.
She was supposed to be in Linkin’s rig; we’d had an entire discussion about where the band would be safest since all their security would be in a meeting.
The idea that she wasn’t there made the words she’s okay wobble until they meant nothing at all.
Rowan’s clipped delivery should have been a relief.
Instead, it was a trigger, a small, bright panic that lit up every dark corner I had.
That day in the cab of my SUV, I felt my hands go too big for my body.
I remember gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Each red light felt like a test I was failing.
I filled in the blanks with images that had no right to be there.
The not-knowing was worse than any picture.
There’s a quiet fury in her voice. She tips her head up enough for me to catch my eyes in the dim light, the way she sets herself like a thing preparing to be reclaimed.
“I’ve always been so sure of myself; I’ve never felt this…
shaken before. It feels like someone came and picked the confidence out of me and left the shell.
I don’t know how to get it back, Lucian.
I don’t know where to start. Can you teach me how to defend myself?
Please, I don’t want to feel that helpless again.
Can we maybe talk to your physical therapist to get permission for this?
I know there’s a difference between you guarding me and you actually sparring with me, so I don’t want to hurt your recovery while you’re helping mine. ”
The thought of calling my PT tomorrow makes my annoyance sweep through me.
After everything that’s happened the past few days, I don’t have the energy to deal with Kelsey.
But I imagine the drills, the slow repetition that turns panic into reflex, the way confidence grows from doing the same small, hard things until they stop being choices and become instinct.
I want her to be able to experience the unshakeable confidence that can come along with it.
“I’ll call my PT in the morning,” I tell her. “We’ll make sure we do this right. If she gives me any restrictions, I’ll figure out a way to work around them, but I won’t hold back in training. I’ll make sure you learn how to defend yourself confidently.”
She lets out a breath, and the small movement of her shoulders against my chest feels like an answer. I shift, pinning her gently beneath me, not to trap her, but to make sure she knows I’m here. My hands rest at her sides, careful and steady, and the weight of me is an unspoken promise.
“I’m glad you trust me with this,” I say, softer now, because the gratitude in my voice is real. “It means more to me than you could ever know.”
Her fingers find the edge of my waistband beneath the covers, a small, familiar anchor, and the hush of the house shifts around us, no longer an empty silence but a room that feels like a plan waiting to be filled.
I roll onto my back and draw her closer, and already my mind is mapping the first lessons: stance, weight, the way a voice can become a line of defense.
I let my palm travel down her spine, grounding us both while my thoughts begin to circle the practicalities.
I’ve come a long way since surgery, but I’m still in recovery; I know the limits of my own body well enough to respect them.
If I’m going to teach her the way I want to, then I have to do it right.
I can’t do anything in half measures or improvise around things that could get us hurt.
Training Celeste the way I want to is not something I’m willing to half-ass.
If I do this, I need to do it right. For her.
So I promise myself the small, sensible steps: call my PT at first light, explain what we’re planning, and get the green light or the adjustments we need.
We’ll build a program that’s progressive and safe, that turns fear into habit and habit into confidence.
She deserves more than my good intentions; she deserves the version of me who knows the boundaries and won’t pretend otherwise.
When I feel her breathing slow, the steady rhythm of sleep finally coming, I press my forehead to the crown of her head and whisper the thing she didn’t ask for but needs to hear. “No one will ever touch you like that again. I’ll make sure you have every tool you need to take your life back.”
* * *
The machine glares at me like a small, smug opponent.
All the chrome and buttons and constellation of blinking lights that belong in a cockpit, not a fucking kitchen.
I press what I think is the start button for the third time, and it hisses, offended, as if I’ve insulted its dignity.
Theo’s coffee maker could probably launch a satellite; it will not, however, make me a decent cappuccino.
Would he get upset if I launch it into space, where it belongs?
Probably. I don’t want to be around him more than I absolutely have to, so I just need to walk away.
I wanted to surprise Celeste this morning, trying to use Theo’s espresso machine, but he only gave me instructions for the French press I don’t need.
Celeste likes the foamy stuff that comes with a little art on top.
I pictured a steaming cup waiting for her when she woke, the small, domestic thing that says I was thinking of you.
Instead, I turn off the machine—maybe—and fill a glass with cold water.
We’ll hit Bear & Brew when she’s up. It’s not the cinematic good morning I was hoping for, but at least I won’t hand her a mug of burnt sludge and call it romantic.
Glass in hand, I brace my hip against the counter and stare at my phone like it’s a detonator.
I haven’t had caffeine yet, so I can’t even pretend I’m awake.
Calling my PT’s office and having to speak to Kelsey before coffee is like willingly stepping into a tornado made of glitter and unsolicited pep talks.
It barely rings once before Kelsey’s voice explodes through the speaker, bright enough to make my eyes twitch. “Lucian! Oh my gosh—hi! This is totally unexpected. I literally just walked up to the front desk, and you called. This is kismet! How’s my favorite patient?”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead like I can press the volume down. “I’m calling to speak to the doctor.”
“He’s busy, but I can talk to you. What’s up?”
Give me strength. “Okay, then I need to ask you something.”
“You want to ask me something? Yes, of course, anything!”