Page 41 of Infamous
But now it isn’t a vow. It’s a sentence. A life sentence, pressed down on me until my lungs collapse under the weight.
I jerk awake with a gasp, heart a fist pounding wild inside my chest. Sweat slicks every inch of my skin, my sheets twisted likerestraints around my legs. The room is dark, still, ordinary - but my body refuses to believe it. My pulse riots, screaming that he’s here, that he’s close, that the dream wasn’t just a dream.
I press my palm hard against my sternum, dragging air into my lungs one ragged breath at a time.
It’s been years. Years since I last saw him. Because he sent me away. Because he refused to see me, refused to read my letters or let me play any part in his life.
So I left. As directed, I cut him out of me like a tumor and built something new in the hollow he left behind. Medical school, trauma wards, endless nights covered in other people’s blood, pretending if I could save enough lives, maybe that would compensate for the lives lost at Lucian’s hands.Maybe I could scrub clean what I’d abandoned. I told myself I was fearless. That resilience meant survival. That I’d outrun him.
But tonight proved me wrong. All it took was a dream. His scent curling through the dark. The ghost of his touch searing my skin. And suddenly I rememberexactlywhat kind of love we had. The kind that seared. Consumed. Devoured. The kind that destroyed everything it touched but blazed beautiful while it lasted, like fire dancing on the edge of ruin. The kind you never stop belonging to. The kind of love you never outrun.
And maybe the worst part is the truth that I bury beneath years of excuses, beneath the white coats and the antiseptic smell of the hospital. The truth is that I don’twantto.
I tell myself I stopped trying to see him because it was survival. Because if I stayed, I would’ve gone down with him, and the world would’ve chewed me up too. But that isn’t the whole truth. The truth is uglier. The truth is that walking away was the single most violent thing I’ve ever done to myself. Because leaving him didn’t free me. It only chained me to the ghost of him forever.
Every man I’ve touched since has been a pale imitation,someone that could never measure up. Every kiss has tasted hollow. Every hand on my body has felt wrong, like an intrusion. Like an insult. Because there was only ever one, and he was both the sin and the salvation I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto.
Lucian wasn’t just my love. He was the wound I keep clawing open because some part of me can’t let it scar. And even now, with the whole world telling me he’s dead, burned to nothing in that prison fire, part of me clings to him like oxygen.
Maybe that’s what terrifies me most. Not that he’s gone, but that I’d burn with him if he asked. That if he walked through my door tomorrow, blood still dripping from his hands, I’d let him in. I’d let him ruin me all over again.
Because ruin with him was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home.
25
LUCIAN
Scar Gatti sits at the head of the table, cold as carved ice. Brando paces, restless energy snapping off him in sparks. Kanyan De Scarzi looms silent in the corner, immovable. And Mason Ironside stands apart, arms folded, eyes on me. He’s the reason I’m here - the one who promised I could be trusted, that I could be useful.
I’m not sure which part of that lie they believed, but I’m here nonetheless. And I have a job to do.
The Gattis rebuilt me. New face. New voice. New name. A ghost reborn, repurposed. And now, I owe them.
Scar breaks the silence.
“You want a purpose, Cross?”
Mason cuts in before I can answer. “We’re dropping the name Cross. And Ghost. He’s not that man anymore.”
I huff out a low laugh. “At least until you’re done with me.”
Scar’s mouth twists into a smirk that never reaches his eyes. He glances at Mason. “Please tell me you gave him a beautiful unisex name. Something elegant like Ainsley, maybe?”
Mason rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall as he fishes awallet from his pocket. “You can’t wander around the city without ID.”
He hands it over. I flip it open, pulling out a driver’s license. My new face stares back at me. Familiar in the bones, foreign in the details. There’s a neat stack of credit cards tucked behind it.
“Jude Mercer?” I lift a brow. “That’s what you came up with? Really?”
“It’s normal,” Mason says evenly. “We need you to blend in.”
“Oh, you need me to blend in?” I snort. “With a name like Jude? You should’ve just thrown a ‘y’ on the end, made it Judey. Sounds friendlier.”
“I considered it,” he smirks.
I’m about to reply when Brando slams a folder onto the table, loud enough to snap the air in half. “If you two are finished with your little comedy act,” he says, eyes cutting between me and Mason, “some of us have real work to do.”
I pick up one of the photos scattered across the polished wood, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. I don’t have to wait long because Brando’s already talking, his voice hard and clipped.
