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But he kept the paper. And then he intervened before Tristan killed the fucker.
“Roses?” he carried Amara through the woods to the little spot beside the lake where she’d used to sit with her book. It was a beautiful day, and while she wasn’t allowed to put pressure on her feet by walking yet, Dante knew she liked getting out of the house.
His little bundle shook her head, a small smile on her lips.
Dante chuckled, setting her down gently against the tree, taking a seat beside her.
“What woman doesn’t like roses?” Dante huffed, mock-scandalized.
She shrugged, closing her eyes, soaking in the rays of the sun.
Dante looked at her, trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened within the last few weeks. Mostly, he was working and trying to process everything this girl was causing to happen inside him.
Where before he had been a man not appreciating the sun until he went blind, now he was a blind man blessed with vision seeing the sunlight in all its glory. Amara wasn’t sunlight of clear skies; she was the sun hiding behind dark clouds, muted but powerful enough to still light the world.
Beautiful Amara who had begun to heal but still couldn’t speak or walk. That would heal in time. It was her mind that was scaring him if he admitted.
He had made it a point to visit her every day at least once, just to check up on her. At first, she hadn’t really responded to anything, lost inside her own head, but slowly, she had begun to give him small smiles even when her eyes miles away. She fought it, wherever her head was, he could tell. Sometimes, she spaced out in the middle of a sentence he was saying, before shaking herself and coming back. Sometimes, she started to breathe rapidly before he had to call her name and bring her to the present.
The doctor had told him she would more than likely need therapy just to come to terms with her entire experience. Dante was beginning to admit she was right. But until she could talk, he had vowed to himself to be there for her. He felt responsible for her for some reason. Maybe it was the terror he had felt when Vin had called him. Maybe it was the panic he’d felt when he’d run into the garage to see her body so broken. Maybe it was the relief at the sign of life he’d felt when he picked her up in his arms and took her to the hospital. He didn’t know what or why it was, but he was coming to terms with the idea of not knowing. Sometimes, things didn’t really have a reason. Sometimes, they just were.
He had actually started reading up on trauma and torture survivors to understand her psyche better, so he could help her in any way she needed to heal. He was just grateful she hadn’t been violated in any other way. When the doctor had recounted her injuries, Dante remembered holding his breath and nearly collapsing from relief. She was a strong little thing.
“Do you even like flowers?” Dante asked, continuing their conversation, looking up at the sky, letting the sun warm him.
She shrugged again in his peripheral vision, holding up two slender fingers. Two flowers.
“Let me guess,” he looked at her in her purple dress and scarf and boots, trying to imagine what flowers she liked. “Orchids?”
She just gave a small smile. The frustrating girl was deliberately being thick. Dante had gotten used to reading her responses and what they meant in these conversations he had with her.
He rolled his eyes, looking down at her hands. The bandages had been removed a few days ago, the wounds airing out. In the bright sunlight, he could see the gruesome scars that went around her wrists. Black rage filled him as he saw it, the need to raise those fuckers from the grave just to kill them again acute inside him.
He started to touch her hand but stopped himself. Carrying her was one thing, it was necessary to hold her then. But touching her skin like this in the open, where anyone could see was not something she needed.
Taking a deep breath in, he fisted his hand and pulled it back, turning his head up to the sky, and continued their chat as nothing had happened.
“Wildflowers?”
A small smile while her eyes were in a nightmare.
Days passed.
He went to see her every day, just to keep an eye on her, or that’s what he told himself.
He carried her out in the sun when it was out. He stayed in and watched movies with her when it wasn’t.
He took at least two hours every day to spend with her, even though she didn’t talk to him. But she communicated. She communicated with her eyes and her soft smiles and her hands.
Some days, she’d zone out and struggle. Some days, she’d give him her entire attention.
Dante went to see her every day, and after a while, he realized she wanted him to.
Weeks passed.
He saw her every day, and then he skipped.
For four days, he went out of town to see his brother.
