Chapter 37 Celeste
Celeste
Itug at the collar of Lucian’s favorite band tee, the cotton worn thin and buttery-soft from a hundred washings, sighing at the scent that clings to everything he owns.
I french-tuck it into the high-waisted black leather skirt I bought online the last time I was with my sister.
I pull the scuffed combat boots over my matching socks.
Selene swears these boots make her invincible; the whole ensemble feels like a private alchemy.
My matching sets are my language of control: coordinated colors, crisp lines, the quiet announcement that I am composed and therefore safe.
I wear them because they keep questions at bay.
But this looseness feels like permission.
These boots have stories scuffed into the leather by someone that I love, a man’s shirt that hangs like a secret.
It’s reckless in the best way. It’s messy in a way I’ve been afraid to be.
I study my reflection and smirk.
Not bad.
And still, it isn’t the leather or the cotton that has my pulse doing cartwheels. It’s Lucian. Of course, it’s Lucian.
It’s been a few weeks since we arrived in Shadow Grove, and we’ve settled into a steady rhythm; tonight, he has something up his sleeve. He planned whatever this is, and somehow it involves lists and timing and a stubborn attention to detail that makes my stomach flip.
The floorboards protest beneath my boots as I descend the final steps, my fingertips grazing the smooth, worn banister.
I immediately spot him, his dark silhouette against the kitchen tiles, broad shoulders hunched forward, muscled forearms braced against the granite countertop.
His hair falls across his forehead as he glowers at his phone, that signature scowl etched into his features like it was carved there, the one that makes even the bravest souls step aside in hallways.
But the moment his eyes find me, that hardened mask fractures. The tight line of his jaw softens, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breathing, those gunmetal-gray eyes flashing silver like storm clouds illuminated from within.
“Jesus, Celeste.” His voice scrapes low, rough velvet over gravel. This is different. This is liquid heat pooling in the syllables of my name.
I smooth the leather skirt with my palm, feigning nonchalance while my pulse hammers against my throat like a caged bird. “You said nice but comfortable.”
The corner of his mouth barely lifts. That ghost of a smile no one else is permitted to witness. “I didn’t think you’d interpret that as pillaging my wardrobe.”
I offer a one-shouldered shrug, though heat blooms across my cheekbones under the weight of his gaze. “I wanted to try something new.”
Lucian pushes away from the counter, crossing the tiles in three deliberate strides that somehow make the room feel half its size. His calloused fingertips brush the frayed hem of his shirt where it is tucked into my skirt, sending electricity crackling through the threadbare cotton.
His eyes capture mine. “You look good wrapped in me,” his voice pitched so low it’s almost a physical touch against my skin. After a weighted pause, his mouth curves into that wicked half-smile that sends butterflies rioting in my stomach. “Hell, I know you look even better wrapped around me, too.”
He lets his hand linger a beat longer than necessary before he pulls away, his fingers reluctant, his eyes even more so.
I watch the way he watches me, like he’s cataloging the small things.
My chest does that stupid, traitorous flutter.
“And all night,” he says, voice low and rough in a way that lands somewhere between warning and worship, “I’ll be thinking about getting you back in bed and finding out what you’re wearing under that skirt. ”
The words hang there, heavy between us, and exactly the kind of thing that makes my brain short-circuit. I lean in, close enough that my lips ghost the shell of his ear. “That might be tricky. I forgot to tell you, I’m not wearing anything under this skirt.”
A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Celeste,” he warns, gravel and heat braided together.
I laugh and brush past him, feeling like I just sprinted a mile.
Of course, I haven’t gotten far before his hand shoots out and catches my wrist, tugging me back with a gentle force that turns me around and puts me back in his arms. He doesn’t kiss me like I expect him to.
Instead, he presses something small and velvet into my palm.
“Before you drive me insane, I have something for you.”
Curiosity cuts through the heat, and I flip the lid. Nestled on black velvet is a delicate chain: a diamond-covered L and a flat circular charm that glints like a promise.
He clears his throat, awkward in that rare, gentle way I’ve come to love.
“It’s not just jewelry,” he murmurs. “If you feel anxious, or god forbid something happens, you can click that charm twice, and it’ll ping me, Orion, and Rowan, immediately.
I synced it to your phone when I got it.
Only you can activate it, and once it’s on, we’ll see your location until we call the company and shut it down. ”
I stare at the gift, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. The metal feels surprisingly cool in my hot palm, yet warmth blooms in my chest, as if his protection has already settled there.
“Lucian…” My voice comes out in a whisper.
His eyes soften, their usual steel edge blunted by something tender, and though his tone remains low and gruff, I hear the care behind it. “I can’t be everywhere. But this way, you’ll never be alone.”
I trace the circular charm with my thumb, my pulse tightening. It’s not just clever or safe, but I love the fact that he thought of it, and he wants to keep me safe even when he can’t be here.
I look up, and the dangerous smirk I know so well melts into something quiet and almost shy and makes it hard to breathe. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
His lips tilt in that crooked half-smile that makes my knees go weak. “Not when it comes to you.”
He steps behind me, the cool chain brushing the nape of my neck. His movements, otherwise so sure and sharp, become almost reverent.
“Hold still,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly. The gentle rub of his knuckle against my skin sends a shiver racing down my spine. When the chain finally clicks into place, it settles against my collarbone.
I press a finger to the pendant, studying how it sits.
It might be a pretty trinket to any passerby, but to me it feels like an anchor.
This is Lucian in essence: practical, protective, and undeniably possessive.
My lips curve into a smile as I lean back against him, letting his chin rest against the top of my head.
Before I can say thank you, a knock thunders on the front door, rattling the windows.
Lucian’s hand slides away from my waist, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s wearing the infuriating smirk that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Go on, it’s for you, I’ll go start my SUV.”
My heart lurches with fresh curiosity as I pad across the hardwood floor, the soft scrape of my boots the only sound punctuating the hush. I reach for the doorknob, pull it open—
And then I freeze.
Shiloh fills the doorway first, with Linkin clinging to her back like a mischievous shadow in piggyback style, with his chin tucked over her shoulder.
Her hair is twisted into tight space buns, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face; she’s wearing a cropped tank that shows the faint line of a sunburn and her signature high-waisted plaid pants.
There’s a grin on her face that says she’s just as excited to see me as I am to see her.
Linkin looks like he wandered off a magazine shoot and into a punk rock afterparty, his hair artfully messy, a button-down half undone to reveal his chest, and a pair of trousers that somehow make him look both dangerously casual and absurdly put together.
They both glow with excitement that’s loud without making a sound; seeing them there feels like being surprised by sunlight.
His grin flips into a mock-apology the second he sees me.
“Ope—sorry, ma’am, we have the wrong house,” he says, voice syrupy and delighted.
He mock whispers in Shiloh’s ear, loud enough for me to hear, adds, “Shi—turn around, I’m scared.
This isn’t our fearless leader, the one who only wears matching sets and has never owned a band tee or a leather skirt in her life. ”
Shiloh shrugs him off her back and shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half exasperation. “She looks like Celeste to me,” she says, grin wide. “Just… softer.”
Linkin flails a little, scandalized at the implication. “What kind of ‘softer version’ wears band tees, leather skirts, and combat boots? This has to be ‘Leste 2.0.”
“Then I guess that means we found her,” Shiloh declares, and before I can process it, she launches herself at me. I catch her as we spin, breathless and laughing, perfect chaos of hugs and ridiculousness.
Linkin barrels forward before I can finish the laugh, his arms wide.
He scoops Shiloh and me up in one ridiculous, perfect bear hug, spinning us until the room tilts and the world is nothing but our laughter.
For a second, we’re a tangle of limbs and giggles; Linkin sets us down, and I glance over and see Lucian leaning on the doorway with a small, content smile on his face.
“How did this even happen?” I ask, breathless, still half-laughing, half-in shock.
Shiloh exhales like she’s about to deliver a plot twist. “I swear, it’s like something out of a telenovela, Celeste—”
Shiloh pats Linkin’s shoulder without looking at him. “He was apparently feeling lonely—”
“No, I needed to get away from my cousin,” he corrects.
Shiloh nods, patient as a saint. “Right. So he was lonely, and he flew to Miami because he missed me—”
“I only did that because when I asked Korbyn if she wanted my help moving, all I got was a ‘No,’ and Rowan told me to go bother someone else.” Linkin interrupts again, scandalized. “So I took his advice and bothered Shiloh.”
Shiloh gives him a look that says you’re not helping your case, then turns back to me, steady and warm. “Anyway. He shows up at my house with flowers, because he’s fucking dramatic, and my family sees him on the porch and immediately decides we’re secretly dating.”
“They even made a Pinterest board for our wedding,” Linkin mutters, pretending to be traumatized.
Shiloh nods solemnly. “A goth one, and honestly, I might steal some of those ideas for when I do find the person I want to marry.”
I choke on a laugh. “Oh, my God.”
“So,” Shiloh continues, calm as ever, “we did the only reasonable thing we could.”
“We ran away,” Linkin says, throwing his hands up. “In the middle of the night, like the fugitives we are. Or, you know… people who don’t want to get married.”
Shiloh shrugs, soft and matter-of-fact. “I texted Lucian to ask if we could come hide out. He said yes, and now here we are.”
Linkin gives me jazz hands as he beams at me like this is all perfectly normal. “Surprise.”
“Now that introductions are done, we need to head out. We’re running behind,” Lucian says, the words soft enough not to scold but sharp enough to move us.
Linkin snaps into a salute as he and Shiloh shuffle past him toward the driveway.
I stay behind as Lucian locks up, the click of the deadbolt sounding final in the quiet. He turns toward me, leans down, and presses a kiss to my forehead. Lucian’s hand finds my waist as he pulls me into a quick hug before guiding me toward the SUV with his palm resting at the small of my back.
The night outside is soft and cool, and the early-evening air smells faintly of pine and distant woodsmoke. Crickets hum in the grass, and porch light spills across the driveway in a warm gold wash, catching on the hood of the SUV.
Lucian opens the passenger door for me, his fingers brushing my elbow as I climb in.
As I settle into the seat, excitement blooms low and fizzy in my chest at the promise of a night with my chaotic friends.
I wish my sister and Theo could be here too, folded into this ridiculous, perfect mess.
But they’re on the other side of the world tonight, having their own adventure. The thought brings an ache to my chest.
Tonight should’ve been the first night of our international tour.
If it wasn’t canceled, I’d be backstage in a few short hours, adrenaline humming, waiting for the lights to rise.
Part of me aches for that stage so sharply it feels like a bruise.
But the person who attacked me is still out there, and stepping into a spotlight would be like daring them to try again.
The engine rumbles as we pull away. I curl my fingers around the seatbelt, grounding myself in the motion, the warmth, the people, and the laughter.
I’m not on a stage tonight. I’m not where I thought I’d be.
But for now, choosing safety has to be enough.