Chapter 38 Lucian
Lucian
The hum of the road settles into the SUV like it’s syncing itself to the rhythm sitting under my ribs.
My hand rests loose on the wheel, the other stretched across the console just far enough that my fingers brush Celeste’s thigh every time the road curves.
Not that she notices, she’s twisted halfway around in her seat, hair spilling over her shoulder, fully absorbed in whatever disaster Linkin and Shiloh are cooking up in the back.
Linkin is in full, indignant storyteller mode. “We went out to the pier for a run to get away from her family,” he says, voice pitched between complaint and disbelief. “We were gone maybe ninety minutes tops. Came back and all her family was there celebrating our engagement.”
Shiloh grins and fills in the rest. “We turned it into a race to the end of the pier. I beat him by a step; he ended up tripping on the last board, and I was already celebrating my win. He took his defeat like a man and congratulated me by spinning me around like an idiot. When he set me down, I saw my primo out of the corner of my eye, standing by the railing. He waved, gave us a thumbs up, then bolted off the pier. We walked back thinking it was funny; thirty minutes later, the whole place had candles, and that’s when I found out about the Pinterest board. ”
The tension that’s been coiled tight along my spine starts to unwind.
The cops, the reports, the shadows that have been trailing us, they’re still out there, but right now they feel distant.
Celeste is in her element, surrounded by people who love her, and watching her like this does something to me I don’t have a name for.
I glance over at her, still twisted around like she’s trying to climb into the backseat without actually doing it. “Doesn’t that make you carsick?” I ask.
She turns back toward me just long enough to raise a brow. “Lucian. My brother is Orion; he turns leisure drives into street races. I got an iron stomach years ago.”
Fair point.
Forty minutes slip by. The road stretches ahead in long dark ribbons. I’ve had the destination in the back of my mind all week, Colorado Springs.
I glance over at her, wearing my shirt, and am reminded of how it nearly knocked the breath out of me when she walked downstairs.
She catches me looking, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
She has no idea how much planning went into this night for her.
I want it to hand her back a piece of herself she’s had to tuck away, and give her a moment to stand in that part of herself again, even if only for a moment.
By the time I ease the SUV off the exit, the backseat is still buzzing, Linkin is retelling another story of his time in Miami, and Shiloh is answering in that flat, amused way that makes his exaggerations sound like confessions.
I parallel park into the spot right in front of the building and hold my breath.
I’ve been planning this exact moment all week.
What if she thinks I overstepped again? The engine settles into a low hum, vibrating through the wheel and into my palms. Celeste looks up and freezes when she reads the sidewalk sign.
“Lucian…” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving. “Are we about to do what I think we are?”
I cut the engine, let the quiet settle, and allow myself a small smile. “I told you I had a surprise for you.”
Her eyes shine in the dim glow of the lamp post we parked next to, like I just handed her back a piece of herself she thought she’d lost.
Linkin leans forward from the backseat, wearing a grin so obnoxious it should be illegal. “I call dibs on HOT TO GO!” Linkin whoops as he starts to dance.
“It’s not karaoke, Linkin, it’s open mic night,” I correct, cutting him off. The sidewalk sign has OPEN MIC TONIGHT written in chalked letters.
We spill out of the SUV and fall into step toward the door. Noise pours from the bar before we reach it. Linkin struts ahead like he owns the place, already teasing Shiloh about signing her up to sing. I keep my arm locked around Celeste as I scan the room, looking for anyone out of place.
Celeste has a sparkle in her eyes I haven’t seen before. She’s buzzing, like the world could cave in and she’d still be happy. She walks up to the signup table and comes back with a small, private grin; the table eases into easy chatter while we wait, stories pinging between us like loose change.
Celeste shakes her head, laughing softly at something Linkin said.
She’s glowing, her hair catches in the low lights, a quiet joy rolling off her like waves.
I’ve seen her on a couple of the biggest stages in the States, but this is going to be different.
This is just Celeste, not Ara, unarmored but still fierce.
“Next up, Celeste.” The host calls her name in a casual voice. The words land like a bell, making everything inside me go still.
She slides out of the booth with the calm of someone who has already chosen every step she will take.
She walks to the stage and sits at the piano as if the place has always been hers, then turns her gaze back toward us.
The room hums with ordinary noise, glasses clinking, low conversation, a laugh from the far side of the bar.
For most of the room, it is background noise.
For me, the air around the stage tightens, and I find myself leaning forward without meaning to.
She adjusts the mic, and the casual din softens as people turn to look at the newest musician on stage. She leans into the mic and introduces herself. “Hi. My name is Celeste, and I’m going to play an original tonight.”
Her fingers press into the first chord, and the sound blooms warm and full through the room. My chest tightens at the softness of it.
The room goes quiet the moment she starts to play. It is just her and the piano now; there’s nothing to hide behind, it’s just her voice, her hands, and her truth.
When she finds my eyes, something in her expression opens.
It is not the sharp, reckless spark from that first night we met that felt like we might set the world on fire just by breathing in the same space.
This look is quieter and far more dangerous.
It is the look of someone offering the truth of herself with both hands, steady and unflinching, as if she is placing her heart on the table and waiting to see what I will do with it.
My lungs forget how to work when she begins to sing.
The first line is soft and intimate, a confession wrapped in melody, something about walls and storms. I hear every word, but part of me is still caught in that moment when she looked at me like she was giving me something she would never take back. The lyrics follow in slow, deliberate steps.
I freeze.
This isn’t—is this about us?
The song unfolds like a confession. Each chord feels like a heartbeat. Each line feels like a truth she has never dared to say out loud. My throat goes dry. All the months of second-guessing, all the wondering if I would ever feel like a whole man again, loosen their grip.
She pins me with those electric blue eyes as she sings, “No empty promises, just truth in your eyes. No white flag, just a love that survives.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
She keeps singing, but the only thing I can hear is the way those words hit me square in the chest. Love that survives.
I have spent this past year in survival mode, clawing my way through the wreckage of myself, and now she is up there saying she sees something worth loving again in the middle of it.
My throat tightens, sharp with something I almost don’t recognize. Hope.
I have been hers since the first day she smiled at me, back when I thought I was too much of a mess to deserve anything steady, before I even knew what broken was. Now she is sitting there singing me back to life.
Linkin’s elbow digs into my ribs. “Big guy,” he mutters with a grin, “you’re looking at her like you just got hit by a truck.”
I don’t even blink. “Fuck off.”
Linkin snorts and lets it go, because he can see what everyone else can: I am gone. Completely, stupidly gone.
Every lyric lands like a strike to the ribs, every chord a truth we have never said out loud but somehow always knew.
She loves me.
When the final note settles, the room erupts. She stands, with her shoulders back, chin lifted, owning every bit of the attention she deserves. The confidence rolling off her is its own kind of music, and my heart slams hard against my ribs.
She chose me. That truth hits with the same force as the applause.
Celeste makes her way back to the table, still carrying the gravity of the stage with her. Linkin is practically vibrating. Shiloh gives her a slow, impressed nod.
“That was unreal,” Shiloh says. “We need to get in the studio and record that. I’m not kidding.”
Celeste laughs, and the whole table cracks up with her. Even I manage a low breath of a laugh, though my chest is still too full to hold much else.
She slides into the booth beside me, and the need to be near her takes over. My arm goes around her shoulders, pulling her into my side. She fits there like she was always meant to.
I lean in, voice low enough that only she can hear. “Hell of a way to tell me.”
She tilts her head back, those electric eyes finding mine with absolute certainty. “You deserved a song.”
The music hums in the background, a new guy with a guitar, decent, but the air still hums with the electricity she left behind, and nothing else even comes close.
The waitress slips in beside the booth and sets a sweating glass in front of Celeste. “Someone at the bar wanted to send this over,” she says with a friendly smile. “She said your song wrecked her in the best possible way.”
“Oh wow, that’s really sweet,” Celeste says, a little surprised.
The waitress nods toward the bar. “Red hair, green jacket, she’s at the end of the bar.”
All of us turn, but there’s no redhead—just a bald guy standing awkwardly next to a couple making out. The waitress frowns. “Well, she was there a second ago. She must’ve stepped out.”
Linkin elbows Celeste. “Look at you with your mysterious admirers. Maybe one day you’ll finally make it big and be able to buy your own drinks.”
Celeste smiles as she shoots him a wink. “That’s the dream.”
The waitress walks away, and the table roars back to life.
Before Celeste can lift the glass to her mouth, every instinct I have spikes in me. My hand twitches toward hers before I can stop it, but Linkin catches the movement and groans.
“Lucian, man, relax. Nobody knows we’re here. Let the woman have a drink.”
Shiloh adds, “You’re hovering. It’s cute, but unnecessary.”
Maybe they are right. Everything’s been quiet since we moved to Shadow Grove.
Orion hasn’t seen any signs that the person who destroyed Celeste’s rig and orchestrated her attack ever left Virginia.
There’s no reason anyone would know where we are tonight.
With Celeste leaning into my side, proud of what she just did on stage, I let it go.
Against every protective instinct I have, I let her enjoy the moment.
Celeste laughs at a joke I missed, cheeks flushed from adrenaline. “I kinda missed this. This is how Rowan found me,” she says. “Before Umbra. Just me and a piano.”
I look between her and her friends. “I don’t think I know how Umbra started. Could you tell me the story?”
Celeste leans back, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, and tells the story of Umbra.
“I was in Raleigh,” she says. “I was at a small venue doing covers across everything–Fleetwood Mac, Paramore, some Stone Sour–just whatever fit the night. After my set, Rowan came up and told me that he liked that I didn’t fit the box people expected me to sing in.
And he asked me to help him build something that makes people listen first. He pitched a band under a new label—complete anonymity, no faces, nothing other than the music—and played me a rough loop of what would become our first track. I said yes before he finished.”
Linkin lifts his beer, grin already in place.
“Rowan slid into my DMs with the same pitch—anonymity as part of the sound. My whole online thing was anonymity anyway: masked clips with low angles, just the guitar and my sexy naked skin. I honestly thought it was a prank until he sent a demo. Then I was in.”
Shiloh cuts in. “You two are skipping the real reason Umbra exists. Umbra didn’t start because anonymity was trendy.
It started because of Korbyn. Rowan wanted a band where the music was the map.
Korbyn kept getting passed over for gigs because she didn’t have ‘the look.’ He found us because we all had something people kept missing. We built the band around that pulse.”
Linkin taps his glass. “To Korbyn—the heartbeat.”
The toast lands, and everything about how they found each other snaps into place for me.
It’s something I didn’t think about before, but it makes sense: people pulled from different corners of the country, different scenes, different late-night rooms, with each of them carrying something the others didn’t.
Rowan’s idea wasn’t a recruitment plan so much as a magnet for the kind of talent that kept getting overlooked.
Celeste blinks a second longer than usual when she sets down her drink. Glancing at my watch, I notice it’s getting pretty late, and we have a bit of a drive home. I can’t believe I let time get away from me that easily. Then again, I can get so wrapped up in her that time means nothing.
She leans into my side, giving me most of her weight, unaware of the tension thrumming through my body. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, low and only for her. “Just watching.”
Linkin returns with another round for everyone. The noise dampens the flicker of unease in my chest, but it doesn’t go away.
Not completely.