What the hell are you doing here, Lucian Sterling?
And why does it still feel like my soul remembers the shape of you?
9
Celeste
Idon’t even remember leaving the arena.
One minute I’m backstage, vibrating with adrenaline and betrayal. Next, I’m storming into the hotel lobby in heels sharp enough to kill a man, wrapped in a fitted pink blouse and a matching skirt that hugs every line of me. My damp hair is still twisted up from my shower, my makeup fresh, and I look like I’m marching to war.
If I’m going to confront Orion about bringing Lucian into my world, intothis, then I’m damn well going to do it in the armor I chose.
The elevator dings, and I stalk down the hallway on instinct alone. My fitted skirt caresses my thighs in crisp, angry rhythm. Every step is a reminder: I didn’t break, I rebuilt.
And now I’m here to tear someone’s face off.
I should’ve walked it off, screamed into a pillow, hit something thatwasn’tmy emotionally stunted brother, but I’mtoo keyed up, I’mlivid. And now I’m standing outside Orion’s hotel room, staring at the keyless lock.
I glance down the hallway, make sure it’s empty, and kneel by the door. I dig a thin pick from my cross-body bag—an old habit I’ll never drop. Being helpless doesn’t suit me.
The lock clicks, and I ease the handle down and open the door, ready to deliver a dramatic monologue about courtesy and common fucking sense.
Cold metal presses against my temple the instant I step into the dark, a hard, clinical weight that makes the air taste thin.
“Move,” a voice growls, low and lethal. “And I will drop you.”
Jesus Christ.
This fucking idiot.
“Really?” I ask, my voice almost unrecognizable from the show I just put my heart and soul into.
He chuckles. “Don’t test me.”
“This is the thanks you give your younger sister after she gets you VIP passes to her sold-out world tour?”
He pulls the weapon back and lets the barrel drop. “Oh, forfuck’ssake. You’ve got to bekiddingme.”
I spin on my heel, duck low, and punch him square in the dick.
“AHHH—DAMN IT, CELESTE—”
He folds like a lawn chair in hurricane season.
While he’s groaning, I snatch the gun from his hand and flick the safety on like muscle memory. “You pull a gun on me again,” I say, tucking the weapon into my cross-body bag, “you’re losing more than your dignity.”
“You BROKE me,” he wheezes, collapsing onto the bed. “You broke my entire soul.”
“You’ll live, Drama Queen.” My heels click lightly against the thin carpet as I turn. “Also, you’re the one who taught me to pick locks. Actions, meet consequences.”
He’s still dying dramatically when I finally really look around the room.
It’s empty of the one person I am absolutely not ready to see.
Lucian isn’t here.
Good.
