Amara looked down at her wrists and feet, wrapped in white gauze. She was probably on pain killers since she couldn’t feel anything more than a twinge.
“Amara?” the doctor called, calling her attention back to herself, her eyes even more sympathetic. “You cannot use your voice for at least the next month. Your screaming severely damaged your vocal cords, to the point we had to do surgery. It happens in extremely rare cases but I feel your low pain threshold resulted in that.”
Amara swallowed, panic filling her again as she squeezed her mother’s hand.
“It’s okay, baby,” her mother comforted from the side, her tone telling her she already knew all of this.
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“You’ll be able to speak again once it’s all healed, don’t worry,” the doctor reassured her. “But it is more than likely that your pitch range will be limited.”
Amara took a deep breath, taking it all in.
The doctor continued. “We also tested you for sexual assault and filed a report, as we have to in cases like this. Police will want to talk to you once you’re ready. But no one outside your mother knows here. Do you want me to inform anyone else?”
No. No, she absolutely didn’t want anyone to know. The shame curled inside her like a snake, and she shook her head vigorously.
The doctor gave a small smile in understanding. “Okay. But I recommend you talk to a therapist about everything. Your body will heal but your mind needs to as well. You’ve been through something traumatic and therapy can genuinely help you. I’ll leave the contact information for someone who specializes in such cases with your mother. Would you consider that?”
She didn’t know, but she nodded nonetheless. The doctor gave her a soft smile and told her to rest, before leaving her with her mother.
She wondered if her mother had reached out to her father about any of it.
Her mother pushed her hair back from her face in a gesture Amara knew in her bones.
“There were a few people here to see you. Vin was outside too,” her mother told her softly. “Do you want me to tell him anything?”
He would already carry the guilt of the incident on his shoulders. He didn’t need to know she’d been violated as well. She shook her head.
Her mother smiled. “I’ll send him in when he’s back, and then you rest, okay?”
She nodded.
“Don’t lose your heart, my baby,” her mother told her, and Amara felt her eyes burn as the meaning of the words finally dawned upon her.
When the door opened a few minutes later, Amara turned her head expecting to see her friend, and instead found a somber, deadly boy with blue eyes standing there, the boy who had saved her. Tristan.
Swallowing, she watched as he entered the room, closing the door behind him, and went to the wall opposite her, maybe to make her feel not crowded. He should have known that after everything he had done for her, she trusted him with her life.
He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and jeans and as he leaned against the wall, he pushed his hands into the pockets, his eyes considering her quietly.
She wanted to thank him – for coming to look for her, for finding her, for covering her with the jacket off his back, for getting her to safety. She wanted to say so many things to him but couldn’t, so she simply gave him a little smile.
He watched the smile for a moment before speaking, his tone still as gentle as it had been when he found her. “Have the doctors told you what happened?”
That was the most words she’d heard from him. Amara nodded.
“Your mother knows everything?”
She nodded again.
“Are they treating you okay?”
The hospital, he meant. It was almost sweet of him to ask. Amara mutely said yes.
“Good,” he pushed off from the wall, heading to the door.
Amara must have made some kind of noise because he paused with his hand on the knob, and looked at her. She didn’t want anyone to know everything besides her mother. He knew and she pleaded with him silently to reassure her that he’d keep it between them.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he told her softly, before walking out the door.
She trusted that. If he said he would keep her secret, it would go to the grave with him.
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.