39. Lucien
Lucien
I don’t even hear the blast.
I feel it.
The pressure wave hits before the sound—like the air is being ripped inside out.
Heat punches my back, flinging me forward.
Astra’s scream barely escapes her throat before we hit the ground.
Evelyn lands hard, face-first into the dirt.
Dante throws himself over both of them, shielding as best he can.
My ears ring.
It’s all I can hear.
The world blinks red.
Smoke curls up from the arbor—what’s left of it. The sky is black where it used to be blue. Shards of white flowers rain down like confetti soaked in blood.
People are screaming.
Not in confusion.
In agony.
I push up from the ground, my arm protesting, skin ripped open from shrapnel I never saw coming. Nothing vital. My suit’s torn. My vision’s blurred.
“Astra—” My voice is a ghost behind the ringing. “Astra!”
“I’m here,” she croaks, dazed but alive.
I crawl to her. Grab her. Pulling her into me like that will somehow undo what just happened.
Evelyn’s crying. Not because she’s hurt—because she’s seeing it. The bodies. The flames. The chaos where celebration once stood.
“Dante!” I shout.
He grits his teeth, pressing a hand against his thigh. “I’m fine. It’s not deep.”
A second explosion goes off farther back—probably the kitchen. This one is smaller, more controlled, but it still knocks the breath from our lungs.
I shove myself upright. My legs are screaming. The smoke is thick, making it hard to breathe.
All around us, it’s blood and lace.
I see what’s left of the cake table, flipped and burning.
A child’s shoe.
A severed hand still wearing a wedding band.
And I know exactly who did this.
Damien.
This wasn’t just a message.
It was a massacre.
A punishment.
A warning.
A fucking declaration of war.
I turn back to Astra. Her cheek is cut, her dress scorched at the hem. But she’s alive. Breathing. Shaking, but not broken.
And that’s when the numbness fades.
That’s when the rage sets in.
“You’re safe,” I whisper to her, even though I’m not sure I believe it. “I’ve got you.”
Be cause I do.
And I’m going to burn Damien’s world for this.
Even if I have to start with my own blood.
“Dante, get them out of here. I need to save the guests.”
He nods, tossing me his gun.
This time.
I won’t fucking miss.
* * *
The smoke is thicker now.
But I go back in anyway.
I’m already running toward the wreckage. Toward what’s left of the reception hall. Toward the blood and fire and silence that follows a scream too loud for the body to sustain.
Bodies litter the grass like fallen leaves.
Some are moving.
Most are not.
I don’t hesitate. I grab the first man I see—a groomsman, a friend from college, unconscious but breathing—and drag him clear of the debris. His leg is twisted at the wrong angle. I don’t have time to fix it. I just keep pulling.
Another woman crawls from the smoking arbor, dress torn, eyes wide. She’s sobbing. Hysterical. But alive.
“Go,” I bark. “That way—there’s help down the hill. Go now!”
She stumbles off as I turn back toward the hellfire.
I find two more.
A man is pinned beneath a broken table, his hands shaking from shock. A young girl with a gash across her forehead, staring up at the sky like she thinks this is how her life ends.
Not today.
I lift. I carry. I drag.
Until my lungs ache.
Until I can’t see through the smoke.
Until my knees buckle and I land hard in the rubble.
Sirens wail in the distance.
Finally.
I stagger up the hill and meet the squad cars halfway. Red and blue lights flicker against the blood on my hands, painting it purple in the haze.
They shout questions.
I give names.
“Lucien Crowe. Groom. Yes, I lived. Yes, I saw. No, I don’t know how many are dead. Yes, the bombs were planted. Yes, I know who did it.”
They ask who.
I give the name like a curse.
“Damien Crowe.”
They look at each other.
“Your brother?”
“He stopped being my brother a long time ago.”
Paramedics flood the scene. I watch them work, watch them count the lost and cradle the barely-living, and I know this will be national news by morning.
A wedding turned mass casualty.
Blood on the veil.
I give my full statement.
I show them the placements, the points of impact, the carnage.
And then I leave.
Because Astra is waiting.
And if I don’t see her tonight—if I don’t hold her—I might not come back from t his.
* * *
The house is quiet when I walk in.
Too quiet.
My suit is in ruins. My hands are filthy. My soul feels cracked.
But she’s there.
In the hallway.
Barefoot. Shaking. Eyes red from crying.
She runs to me, and I catch her, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in like she’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning.
“I thought you died,” she whispers.
“I didn’t.” I pause, stroking her hair.
“I’m here.”
We stood like that for a long time.
No words.
Just survival.
Eventually, I pull back and cup her face in both hands.
“I’m going to end him,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “For what he did. For what he took.”
Her eyes harden.
“So am I.”