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Vin had come into her room after her Tristan left, a bandage on his cheek where he’d been cut, and Amara had tried to smile for him. And for the first time, she’d seen her friend break down at her feet, hiccupping ‘I’m sorry’ over and over.
Amara had wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he had nothing to be sorry about, but had simply settled for squeezing his hand until he had calmed down and told her she was going to heal if it killed him.
She’d almost smiled at that.
Now, alone in the room since visiting hours were over, Amara stared up at the ceiling and tried not to let memories penetrate her mind. It was hard. So hard. She felt filthy, like her skin wasn’t her own anymore, like the guilt and pain and shame she felt for something that wasn’t her fault would never leave her alone. It was hard to ignore the memories, but she tried. Maybe, the doctor was right. Maybe talking to a therapist could help her keep the demons at bay.
The door to the room opened, and Amara kept staring up, waiting for the medication to lull her back to sleep. It was probably just the nurse coming in to check her vitals as she’d been coming every two hours. After a long minute, when she didn’t hear anything, Amara turned her head to the side.
And felt her heart stop.
Dante Maroni sat on the chair in the room, looking absolutely wrecked. His tie was askew, his shirt crushed, his hair in disarray, and his eyes wild. Her breath caught in her chest. She’d never seen him look like this before.
Her heart started to pound and the monitor beeped, matching its rhythm, embarrassingly telling both of them that she was affected by his presence. She didn’t want him to see her like this, not lying in a hospital bed, wounded and broken and not herself. She didn’t even know who ‘herself’ was anymore. It was probably a good thing she couldn’t talk at the moment. She wouldn’t know what to say. Memories of him over the years threaded with the memories of questions she’d been asked about him, over and over again, questions she had refused to answer.
Him kissing the pink-haired girl – does he have anyone that could be used against him?
Him burying her dead body – should we tell him his little girlfriend is here?
Him standing shirtless early morning at his door – does he talk any business with you?
Him holding her arms, asking her what was wrong – does Dante Maroni have a weakness?
Memories after memories, linking, shifting, changing.
Amara focused on his gaze, trying to root herself in the room so she wouldn’t lose herself in her head.
The storm in his eyes focused on her – not her bandages, not her neck, but on her eyes.
She didn’t know what he was trying to find inside her, what he was seeing in that moment. Her own storm, perhaps. She was a heartbeat away from dispersing into the thin air, pieces of her lost forever on the winds.
“They’re dead.”
His voice jerked her back to the moment.
The words penetrated the space between them.
They were dead.
They. Were. Dead.
Gone.
She didn’t know how. She didn’t know when. She didn’t care.
They had paid.
Her vision blurred.
Something raw, visceral trapped itself in her chest.
They had paid.
Her breathing escalated, lips trembling with a scream lodged in her damaged throat. She wanted to howl in agony, in vindication, so loud everyone in the world would hear her.
They. Had. Paid.
Her hands started to shake.
